*Continued from The Blood Wood, Part I
"You mean the The Blood Wood?" Jesse Hawthorne cocked an eye at Caleb Greene. This was certainly the strangest job interview he's ever had. Probably the only one, really.
"The Blood Wood?" Caleb hadn't heard it called that. Certainly Mort had said nothing. Caleb turned to question the laconic man, but it was clear Mort wasn't going to offer any new information.
"Yeah, that's what the Tlingit call it. I spent some time with them when I was in the Yukon." Jesse pulled out some tobacco and began packing it into a small pipe. "A colored fellow I'd been up there with claimed to have seen it once."
"You know where he is?"
"Nah. I know he spends some time in Texas and Mexico. Does a bit of wandering with the Rangers."
"What's his name?" Caleb asked, pulling out a pencil and a tear of paper.
"Nate... Belcher, I think. Runaway from Alabama or something."
Caleb wrote the name down and before he could fold the paper, Mort reached in and grabbed it. "I will retrieve Mr. Belcher," Mort stated. With that, Mort left the conversation and disappeared from the saloon.
"That's a strange friend you got," Jesse said between drags of his pipe.
"We've just met," Caleb replied as he stared out the door, catching a glimpse of Mort galloping away on his horse. He returned his attention to Jesse. "You know your way around up there?"
Jesse shrugged. "Where you want to go, not especially. But, yeah, I can get around."
Not quite the expert Caleb had been hoping for, he was nevertheless impressed with the man's candor. And he added a piece to the puzzle. That, combined with Jesse's clear skill with a pistol and rifle, was enough for Caleb.
***
"Wolf, what the Hell are you doing?" Caleb's panicked, if only because his friend is.
The Otoe is wild-eyed and muttering unintelligibly. But that's not what's got Caleb twisted up. It's the fact that Wolf-And-Hawk is holding a lit torch in each hand, setting as many trees on fire as he can.
Caleb's still not fully aware of his surroundings, cursing himself for having fallen asleep. He rushes his friend and knocks him to the ground, stepping on one of the torches to extinguish it. Wolf-And-Hawk, supine, throws the other torch into the upper branches of a tree. Caleb backhands the Otoe across the face. Wolf-And-Hawk blinks. Then again.
"She... she took her."
There's no need for questioning. Caleb scans a full circle. Allison is nowhere to be found. Caleb grabs Wolf-And-Hawk by his shirt and pulls him up. Another curse for having fallen asleep.
"Did you see her?"
"She reached for me. I could do nothing."
Caleb shuts off his emotions. "No. The Blood Wood. Did you see her?"
Wolf-And-Hawk glares at Caleb, his wild-eyes somehow widening further. "We are inside of her."
"What?"
"Don't you understand?" Wolf-And-Hawk gestures to their immediate surroundings. "This is her belly."
***
There's blood in her eyes and she can tell she's suffered several lacerations around her scalp. But she's alive. Slowing her breath, trying to control her fear, she thinks she hears whimpering. Human whimpering.
"Hello?" Allison wishes she could open her eyes.
"Shhh! Be quiet." It is a young voice that answers.
Allison can't tell if it's a boy or girl, but heeds the warning. Her curiosity killing her as much as her wounds probably are, she instead returns her concentration to slowing her breathing down. When she's stopped shivering from fear - the cold refuses to relent, however - she risks speaking.
"How many of there are you? I'm here to help."
"No, you're not." An older voice this time, definitely female. "Shut up."
Allison blinks some of the blood out of her eyes, opening them as widely as she can. It's dark and she can't see anything other than crimson-obscured silhouettes of trees. No movement, no light. Nothing.
"What are we fighting?"
"Oh, shit. It's coming."
Turning her head side-to-side out of reflex, Allison tries to scan the environment. She blinks again and again, quickly, slowly, tightly, loosely. Anything to return any modicum of the ability to see. There's a shape. Human? Maybe. The gait seems familiar. It's approaching her.
"Mort?"
She feels the impact and tries to fight the sleep.
***
Wolf-And-Hawk is gone. Not dead. Just... gone. Caleb burrows himself into the hollow of a dying tree and makes sure both his rifle and pistol are cocked and fully-loaded. He can do nothing but wait.
***
The woman approached the horses in a hurry. "Excuse me, are you the party going up north?" She's attractive, bold, and Caleb had no idea who she was.
"I'm sure there are many parties going up north, ma'am."
She coughed into a balled fist, obviously prepared to be patronized. "Into the forest?"
Caleb glanced at the others, the now party of five. Jesse didn't notice as he was too busy ogling the woman. Nathaniel turned away. Wolf-And-Hawk pretended not to see the woman. Mort simply nodded.
"Let me guess. You wanna come along?"
"My sister and niece were abducted that way. I think it's because I've seen her."
"Her?" Caleb tilted his head, then turned toward Mort, who nodded again.
"Yes, her. My sister saw her, too. We were children."
"You Canadian?"
This time, the woman nodded. "My name's Allison. I want to come with you."
***
Wolf-And-Hawk sits alone at a table in the back corner of a saloon. Feelings of guilt surpassed only by the relief of survival. It is an odd choice of saloon. His and Caleb's favorite. But Caleb is certainly long dead. Another absent friend among a myriad of absent friends.
As if on cue, two farmhands familiar to Wolf-And-Hawk enter the saloon, talking about Caleb.
"I heard they found him, dead from exposure."
"Caleb? I don't believe it."
It is enough for Wolf-And-Hawk. He pushes his chair back and stands, reaching for his hat. As he turns to drop money onto the table for his drinks, he can feel the shape approach behind him. It is unmistakable.
"You dreamt of me once."
Wolf-And-Hawk does not turn to face the voice. And he knows that no one else in the saloon will lift a finger to help him.
"You are the only left who knows my name."
The Otoe sighs. "I do not know your name."
"Well..." The pause feels like an eternity. "I shall tell you before you fade."
His eyes close and Wolf-And-Hawk finally summons the courage to face his enemy. Before he can open his eyes, he feels the kiss. It is devoid of human concept. It simply is. It's the last thing Wolf-And-Hawk remembers before he begins his final dreamwalk.
Mother. Her name is Mother.
Showing posts with label Theme Thursday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Theme Thursday. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Blood Wood, Part I
"We should not go out there." Wolf-And-Hawk's tone is grim. He's only grim when he's afraid. And he's rarely afraid.
"Why not?" Caleb Greene has known Wolf-And-Hawk for years and, out of the four other men and one woman present, is the only one who recognizes Wolf-And-Hawk's fear. They are all, however, aware that the horses refuse to move closer to the trees.
"Your devil lives out there."
Caleb stares into the Boreal Forest. He's only been to Canada once before - without Wolf-And-Hawk - and wonders how his friend would know that. Wolf-And-Hawk is Otoe and, outside of traveling with Caleb, doesn't have much of a reputation for being a wanderer. Then again, Caleb's never known why he's called Wolf-And-Hawk. He'd heard a Lipan Apache once refer to Wolf-And-Hawk as a dreamwalker, but his friend refused to elaborate when Caleb asked about it later.
"You don't believe in our devil."
"Sometimes, Greene, that does not matter."
It is hard for Caleb to imagine a tone of voice more grim.
***
The party awakens with a start. Wolf-And-Hawk's demeanor convinced everyone to camp outside of the woods one final night, ostensibly in preparation for the trek. The deception fooled no one, even those willing and wanting to be fooled.
The screaming is inhuman. But they all recognize the voice. Caleb checks his pocket watch. Jesse Hawthorne should be on sentry. He's nowhere to be found. And it's his voice.
Wolf-And-Hawk and Nathaniel Belcher, the negro, are the first to shooting positions. Their identical Winchester rifles point steadfastly at the trees. At nothing in particular. Both men keep both eyes wide open, fearful of missing something. Caleb joins them, quickly followed by Allison Ware and the last man, their mystery companion known only as Mort. Caleb levers his own rifle and hands Mort his revolver, but Mort waves him off. No one's ever seen Mort handle a firearm - he objects to even touching one - but Caleb thought this moment might produce an exception. Instead, Allison grabs the gun. Caleb returns his attention to the wood-line, noting that Mort is the only one standing.
She whispers. "He sounds like... like he's being torn apart."
Nathaniel puts his hand to his mouth in preparation to call out, but Wolf-And-Hawk grabs him. "Do not," the Otoe says, his grimness as evident as earlier.
Caleb, not really sure what to make of it all, replies to Allison. "No man can survive being torn apart for that long." It's a cold, objective statement, he's well aware. It's all he could muster. He takes an improvised measurement, determining the distance to the trees. It's over 100 yards. Caleb didn't know Jesse well, but he couldn't figure why he'd go into the trees alone.
Mort offers the second theory. "Something came out."
The thought sends a shiver down Caleb's spine, though even he doesn't believe that's what happened. Mort's smile sends another shiver.
***
Caleb was groggy when the knocking started. Another night of too much drinking. Not that he was a drunk or an alcoholic, but that everyone seemed to have a reason to celebrate as of late. It was a deputy's birthday the night before and given that the sheriff had let Caleb off on discharging his pistol in town limits, Caleb felt obliged to attend. It never occurred to him not to drink, though Wolf-And-Hawk certainly mentioned it enough.
"Hang on, dammit," Caleb bemoaned as he pulled his trousers on. He didn't remember undressing, but he woke up naked. Probably explained Wolf-And-Hawk's absence, since they usually shared rooms. Caleb trundled to the door and cracked it open. That was the first time he'd seen Mort.
"Caleb Greene." There was no questioning in Mort's tone. And enough forwardness to it that Caleb resisted the typical 'who's asking' response.
"Yeah?"
"Job for you."
"Doing what?" Caleb was always being hired as a gun and he secretly hated it. Tracking was his specialty and his favorite activity. It allowed him to roam, to range. Still, even that usually involved killing someone. Just once, he'd like a job that actually helped somebody without hurting anybody else.
"Finding missing women and kids."
Caleb opened the door, let Mort in, and started gathering his things. They'd pick up Wolf-And-Hawk later.
***
Allison is the first to fire. Nathaniel's body lurches upwards and nerve impulses react with a convulsive flailing that convinces Wolf-And-Hawk that the negro is possessed. The torrent of blood that begins to rain on the three survivors - Mort had disappeared the first day in the forest - freezes each of them in place.
Caleb stays calm, forcing himself to compare the sight to that of canister shot ripping apart his former soldiers. He thinks he sees a mass of long, black locks of hair and fires into it. When the flash from his barrel subsides, he blinks. There's nothing. What he thought might have been hands clearly nothing but gnarled ends of tree limbs. But there's no question something grabbed Nathaniel. Then threw what's left of him onto the ground. Caleb turns, slowly.
"She's moving in the trees."
Allison blinks, her pale face completely covered in Nathaniel's blood. She had been the closest to him when they heard the disgusting tear that couldn't have been anything other than skin and muscle ripping apart.
"No," Wolf-And-Hawk interjects, "she is the trees."
*Continued in The Blood Wood, Part II
"Why not?" Caleb Greene has known Wolf-And-Hawk for years and, out of the four other men and one woman present, is the only one who recognizes Wolf-And-Hawk's fear. They are all, however, aware that the horses refuse to move closer to the trees.
"Your devil lives out there."
Caleb stares into the Boreal Forest. He's only been to Canada once before - without Wolf-And-Hawk - and wonders how his friend would know that. Wolf-And-Hawk is Otoe and, outside of traveling with Caleb, doesn't have much of a reputation for being a wanderer. Then again, Caleb's never known why he's called Wolf-And-Hawk. He'd heard a Lipan Apache once refer to Wolf-And-Hawk as a dreamwalker, but his friend refused to elaborate when Caleb asked about it later.
"You don't believe in our devil."
"Sometimes, Greene, that does not matter."
It is hard for Caleb to imagine a tone of voice more grim.
***
The party awakens with a start. Wolf-And-Hawk's demeanor convinced everyone to camp outside of the woods one final night, ostensibly in preparation for the trek. The deception fooled no one, even those willing and wanting to be fooled.
The screaming is inhuman. But they all recognize the voice. Caleb checks his pocket watch. Jesse Hawthorne should be on sentry. He's nowhere to be found. And it's his voice.
Wolf-And-Hawk and Nathaniel Belcher, the negro, are the first to shooting positions. Their identical Winchester rifles point steadfastly at the trees. At nothing in particular. Both men keep both eyes wide open, fearful of missing something. Caleb joins them, quickly followed by Allison Ware and the last man, their mystery companion known only as Mort. Caleb levers his own rifle and hands Mort his revolver, but Mort waves him off. No one's ever seen Mort handle a firearm - he objects to even touching one - but Caleb thought this moment might produce an exception. Instead, Allison grabs the gun. Caleb returns his attention to the wood-line, noting that Mort is the only one standing.
She whispers. "He sounds like... like he's being torn apart."
Nathaniel puts his hand to his mouth in preparation to call out, but Wolf-And-Hawk grabs him. "Do not," the Otoe says, his grimness as evident as earlier.
Caleb, not really sure what to make of it all, replies to Allison. "No man can survive being torn apart for that long." It's a cold, objective statement, he's well aware. It's all he could muster. He takes an improvised measurement, determining the distance to the trees. It's over 100 yards. Caleb didn't know Jesse well, but he couldn't figure why he'd go into the trees alone.
Mort offers the second theory. "Something came out."
The thought sends a shiver down Caleb's spine, though even he doesn't believe that's what happened. Mort's smile sends another shiver.
***
Caleb was groggy when the knocking started. Another night of too much drinking. Not that he was a drunk or an alcoholic, but that everyone seemed to have a reason to celebrate as of late. It was a deputy's birthday the night before and given that the sheriff had let Caleb off on discharging his pistol in town limits, Caleb felt obliged to attend. It never occurred to him not to drink, though Wolf-And-Hawk certainly mentioned it enough.
"Hang on, dammit," Caleb bemoaned as he pulled his trousers on. He didn't remember undressing, but he woke up naked. Probably explained Wolf-And-Hawk's absence, since they usually shared rooms. Caleb trundled to the door and cracked it open. That was the first time he'd seen Mort.
"Caleb Greene." There was no questioning in Mort's tone. And enough forwardness to it that Caleb resisted the typical 'who's asking' response.
"Yeah?"
"Job for you."
"Doing what?" Caleb was always being hired as a gun and he secretly hated it. Tracking was his specialty and his favorite activity. It allowed him to roam, to range. Still, even that usually involved killing someone. Just once, he'd like a job that actually helped somebody without hurting anybody else.
"Finding missing women and kids."
Caleb opened the door, let Mort in, and started gathering his things. They'd pick up Wolf-And-Hawk later.
***
Allison is the first to fire. Nathaniel's body lurches upwards and nerve impulses react with a convulsive flailing that convinces Wolf-And-Hawk that the negro is possessed. The torrent of blood that begins to rain on the three survivors - Mort had disappeared the first day in the forest - freezes each of them in place.
Caleb stays calm, forcing himself to compare the sight to that of canister shot ripping apart his former soldiers. He thinks he sees a mass of long, black locks of hair and fires into it. When the flash from his barrel subsides, he blinks. There's nothing. What he thought might have been hands clearly nothing but gnarled ends of tree limbs. But there's no question something grabbed Nathaniel. Then threw what's left of him onto the ground. Caleb turns, slowly.
"She's moving in the trees."
Allison blinks, her pale face completely covered in Nathaniel's blood. She had been the closest to him when they heard the disgusting tear that couldn't have been anything other than skin and muscle ripping apart.
"No," Wolf-And-Hawk interjects, "she is the trees."
*Continued in The Blood Wood, Part II
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
When the Clock Strikes Now, It is Then
*a continuation of The Window Blinks When the Mirror Sees and Water Stolen from the Desert Does Not Belong to You
Two BII agents lie dead at the scene, along with dozens of bystanders. There were two bombs. One to cause a spectacle and a second to kill everyone stupid enough to want a better look at it. It's a common trick among terrorists, though this wasn't perpetuated by any normal terrorist. The first bomb, the spectacle, killed the BII agents. In fact, it's quickly dawned on Ervin and Lim that the BII agents were intended to be the spectacle.
Lim's a vet of several combat engagements, having served six years in the Marine Corps, so the sounds of the bullets and their ricochets don't bother him as much as they do Ervin, who's extremely close to freaking out.
"Who's shooting at us? Who the fuck is shooting at us?"
"Probably the bad guys," Lim replies, doing his best to scan the area without exposing himself. The corner coffee shop and most of the rest of the building it was in is pretty much obliterated. People scream and cry from all around and Lim gives up trying to listen for the shooter's location.
Ervin whips out his cell phone and dials 911. Lim hears the tones between the increasingly sporadic gunfire and starts laughing.
"Something funny?"
"Ironic, is all." Lim isn't even sure Brawley has a police department.
***
Jimenez hates being a fifth-wheel - hates it even more when he's stuck with Baldwin, the lazy bastard - but the fact that the Kern County Sheriff's Office is allowing them to observe the interrogation is enough for Jimenez to keep his mouth shut. He knows almost immediately that Joey Gould isn't their guy and, in retrospect, shouldn't even be a suspect. But it is his film set that the two Aston Martins came from, it is his crew that the three dead people were a part of, and it is his bank account that received a huge infusion of cash.
"I'm filming a fucking movie, you idiots," Gould yells at the Kern County detective. "Money comes and goes very quickly."
"Through personal accounts?"
Gould glances at his lawyer, some slick asshole from San Francisco. Maybe a cousin or something. The lawyer nods.
"My personal account? Which bank?"
"CB&T money market."
"I don't have a CB&T money market. I don't even know what the fuck CB&T is."
The taller of the Kern County interrogators shoots Gould a questioning look.
"Okay, that's not true," confesses Gould, "but I don't have an account there."
Jimenez turns to Baldwin to say something sarcastic, but his unfortunate partner is sleeping.
***
She may be a puppet in all of this. Or she may be the marionette that learned to pull its own strings. Or maybe everyone involved is a puppet. And can pull their own strings. Maybe it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. So long as they're afraid.
Her wicked green eyes are terrified.
***
"Brawley PD's on their way," Ervin calls out. Even with Ervin's face buried in the floor, Lim can hear the relief in his partner's voice.
"Guess that answers my question," Lim says to himself aloud.
"What?"
"Nothing." Lim continues to scan, propping up and glancing in a certain direction, then ducking and repeating the process in another direction. Gradually, his scans become longer. "It's quiet. Shooter's probably gone."
"It's too quiet," Ervin pleads, well aware of the cliché. "Shooter wants you to think that."
In the distance, sirens from what sounds like an entire platoon of Brawley PD cruisers crescendo.
"I doubt it. Shooter probably wants to avoid prison."
***
Behind a set of binoculars, there's a grin and a chuckle. Shooter can read lips. The cops will find the rifle and remnants of the explosives. Pieces of a puzzle that, the shooter knows, will build the wrong picture.
This is a game the Devil would love to play. An old-fashioned pocket watch is checked and there's another grin. The Feds will be getting involved today. It's almost time to set up the board.
*To be continued...
Two BII agents lie dead at the scene, along with dozens of bystanders. There were two bombs. One to cause a spectacle and a second to kill everyone stupid enough to want a better look at it. It's a common trick among terrorists, though this wasn't perpetuated by any normal terrorist. The first bomb, the spectacle, killed the BII agents. In fact, it's quickly dawned on Ervin and Lim that the BII agents were intended to be the spectacle.
Lim's a vet of several combat engagements, having served six years in the Marine Corps, so the sounds of the bullets and their ricochets don't bother him as much as they do Ervin, who's extremely close to freaking out.
"Who's shooting at us? Who the fuck is shooting at us?"
"Probably the bad guys," Lim replies, doing his best to scan the area without exposing himself. The corner coffee shop and most of the rest of the building it was in is pretty much obliterated. People scream and cry from all around and Lim gives up trying to listen for the shooter's location.
Ervin whips out his cell phone and dials 911. Lim hears the tones between the increasingly sporadic gunfire and starts laughing.
"Something funny?"
"Ironic, is all." Lim isn't even sure Brawley has a police department.
***
Jimenez hates being a fifth-wheel - hates it even more when he's stuck with Baldwin, the lazy bastard - but the fact that the Kern County Sheriff's Office is allowing them to observe the interrogation is enough for Jimenez to keep his mouth shut. He knows almost immediately that Joey Gould isn't their guy and, in retrospect, shouldn't even be a suspect. But it is his film set that the two Aston Martins came from, it is his crew that the three dead people were a part of, and it is his bank account that received a huge infusion of cash.
"I'm filming a fucking movie, you idiots," Gould yells at the Kern County detective. "Money comes and goes very quickly."
"Through personal accounts?"
Gould glances at his lawyer, some slick asshole from San Francisco. Maybe a cousin or something. The lawyer nods.
"My personal account? Which bank?"
"CB&T money market."
"I don't have a CB&T money market. I don't even know what the fuck CB&T is."
The taller of the Kern County interrogators shoots Gould a questioning look.
"Okay, that's not true," confesses Gould, "but I don't have an account there."
Jimenez turns to Baldwin to say something sarcastic, but his unfortunate partner is sleeping.
***
She may be a puppet in all of this. Or she may be the marionette that learned to pull its own strings. Or maybe everyone involved is a puppet. And can pull their own strings. Maybe it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. So long as they're afraid.
Her wicked green eyes are terrified.
***
"Brawley PD's on their way," Ervin calls out. Even with Ervin's face buried in the floor, Lim can hear the relief in his partner's voice.
"Guess that answers my question," Lim says to himself aloud.
"What?"
"Nothing." Lim continues to scan, propping up and glancing in a certain direction, then ducking and repeating the process in another direction. Gradually, his scans become longer. "It's quiet. Shooter's probably gone."
"It's too quiet," Ervin pleads, well aware of the cliché. "Shooter wants you to think that."
In the distance, sirens from what sounds like an entire platoon of Brawley PD cruisers crescendo.
"I doubt it. Shooter probably wants to avoid prison."
***
Behind a set of binoculars, there's a grin and a chuckle. Shooter can read lips. The cops will find the rifle and remnants of the explosives. Pieces of a puzzle that, the shooter knows, will build the wrong picture.
This is a game the Devil would love to play. An old-fashioned pocket watch is checked and there's another grin. The Feds will be getting involved today. It's almost time to set up the board.
*To be continued...
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Mercury Costs More Than Cyanide
*Part 4 of Merlot & Coffee. Read the first three parts here:
"Truth serum? Come on, Merlot. How amateur is that?" Grayson, tied down to a hospital bed, remains confidently defiant. Though he is a bit confused. Merlot's one of the best in this part of the world - not the best, mind you, for eliminating your best operative is never the wisest thing for a handler to do - and the fact that she's resorting to injecting Grayson with sodium thiopental makes her look like someone who's seen too many movies.
Merlot smiles her luscious smile. Coffee stands in the corner chewing his nails, a habit acquired since he met Merlot.
"You plan on extracting information? How lame are you?" Grayson would laugh, but he's reserving judgment concerning his predicament until he can figure out what's going on.
She leans into Grayson's face, her nose almost touching his, and Grayson can smell her perfume. Damn, she smells good. "No, Grayson. I plan on inducing a coma, then overdosing you."
"Ah, shit," Coffee mutters, not quite inaudibly. "I knew this was coming."
Merlot sticks the needle into the dose and the pulls the syringe back, watching intently as the chemical fills the tube. She wraps her right hand around the top of Grayson's bicep and waits for his vein to distend. Winking at him, she injects the chemical into Grayson's bloodstream.
"By the way, this is generic stuff. Not sure how well it works."
"What a bitch," both Grayson and Coffee say simultaneously, though Coffee's tone has much more humor to it.
***
"Sodium pentathol?" The Fence looked incredulous. This crazy American broad always liked to make things difficult. "The explosives were hard enough. Pharmaceuticals aren't exactly our specialty here." That was a lie, of course. Everything was the Fence's specialty. He was just trying to drive up the price. "What do you need it for? Interrogation?"
Merlot shook her head. "No, just want someone to think they're going to get interrogated. Right before I kill them."
The Fence laughed heartily. "Too bad you're not Muslim. You would make a good wife."
"Yeah, until you pissed her off," Coffee interrupted, feeling a bit defensive of the Fence's attraction to Merlot.
"Oh," replied the Fence, "I'd never let her prepare my food. Or sleep in the same building."
Merlot and Coffee chuckled, both remembering Grayson's car.
"On second thought..." The Fence got the joke.
"We're wasting time," Merlot said, giving the Fence a rather murderous look.
"I'll see what I can do."
***
The Silhouette wrapped his wound - a gunshot in his left forearm... his shooting arm - and yelled into the cell phone. "I don't know where she is. And I don't care. This was supposed to take a week. You want me to stay on this? Pay up. My time is expensive."
The person on the other end of the line clearly said something to Silhouette's liking, causing a smile to intrude on a wince of pain as he finished tying up his pressure dressing.
"Double the rate," Silhouette said as he flipped his phone closed. This Merlot proved to be quite the adversary and that she got the drop on him worried him a bit. How she knew she was being followed was either due to the fact that she was extremely lucky, extremely good, or extremely paranoid. Or maybe all three. Then again, Silhouette had found two wigs in the aftermath and he had to wonder if Coffee had been dressed in drag. That thief, too, was not somebody Silhouette would underestimate again. Merlot was competent enough when it came to disappearing in a crowd, but Coffee could become downright invisible.
No, Silhouette shook his worry from his mind and reanalyzed the situation. He had not, up to that point, known that Coffee was no killer and spent too much effort trying to keep the thief in front of him. That was when Merlot shot him in the arm. It was not a mistake that would happen again.
***
Grayson feels his head starting to spin but maintains his calm. Or the sodium thiopental is maintaining his calm. Either way, he's calm. Good thing, too, because he needs his wits to talk his way out of this one.
"You think I'm at the top of this little pyramid of mystery? Use your head, woman," he says, slurring just a little bit.
"Oh, we already know you're not. Another reason we don't need you." Merlot prepares another dose.
Well, fuck. That didn't work. Grayson starts laughing, which bothers Coffee. Merlot slides up to her partner and gently taps his cheek.
"No worries, you. This is normal."
Coffee stares into Merlot's eyes, entranced by their confidence... and her smell. "Nothing about you is normal."
Merlot whispers into Coffee's ear and places a hand on his thigh - a little too close to home plate. "Oh, I assure you. Quite a lot of me is normal."
All thoughts of murdering a CIA agent flee from Coffee's mind, replaced by images much more enjoyable. Coffee is the marionette to Merlot's Geppetto.
***
"Are we good?" The Fence absentmindedly licked his lips as Merlot checked the merchandise.
Merlot nodded and ignored the Fence's inadvertent forwardness. Something else was on her mind.
"Excellent. You know, you're officially now my best American customer."
"Who says I'm American?" she said as she walked over to a window.
The Fence shrugged. He realized she's distracted and let the attempt at a flirt die. "Anything else I can acquire for you?"
She stared at something in the plaza below intently. "Yes. Do you have any wigs? Something my color."
The Fence wrinkled his face, conducting a quick mental inventory. "There is a wig in Asalah's office. It's brown. I suppose we can dye it."
"I need it," Merlot demanded. "And any women's clothing in his size." She nodded towards Coffee.
Coffee snapped out of his daydream. "What?"
***
The Fence finished dying and the Silhouette wiped his knife clean. He felt better now that he killed somebody pertinent, but the lack of useful information bothered him. Why had Merlot purchased sodium thiopental? Silhouette dialed Grayson. Getting no answer, he gathered materials in preparation to set the Fence's building aflame.
There's nothing like watching something burn to the ground.
***
Sleep is taking over and Grayson knows it's just about over for him. The fat lady sings, but she's a lot skinnier than he figured. And she's a redhead. Although it's clear that the wig is actually brown.
"What are you gonna do now?" Grayson murmurs, unsure if he actually said anything. "You gonna rape me?"
Coffee's expression makes Merlot giggle. Coffee loves her giggle. So much so that he tries to immediately recreate the expression, but she's already turned her attention back to Grayson.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she teases Grayson.
"Oh, yes, please."
"Sorry, babe," she says, rubbing Grayson's forehead, "but I'm going to save that for your little hit man."
Grayson mumbles something and fades into unconsciousness. Realizing that Grayson is finally dead, Coffee returns himself to reality. "Why couldn't you kill him quickly? This was fucked up."
"I know, I know. But it had to be done." She grabs Grayson's cell phone from its hiding spot between Grayson's shoulder blades. It's on an active call. She puts it up to her ear. "You hear that? When I find out who you are, where you are, and what you're up to, it's your turn." Not waiting for a response, she hangs up. She notices a missed call and shows it to Coffee.
"Look."
Coffee sees the call notification and shrugs. "Whose number is that?"
"Ten to one says it's our hit man."
"So we're going to kill him, too?"
Merlot smiles and kisses Coffee on the cheek - an action she's been doing liberally as of late, it seems. "Oh, silly boy. Don't ask stupid questions."
"Will you marry me?" Coffee has no idea how that escaped his mouth.
Merlot simply winks and leaves the room.
"Truth serum? Come on, Merlot. How amateur is that?" Grayson, tied down to a hospital bed, remains confidently defiant. Though he is a bit confused. Merlot's one of the best in this part of the world - not the best, mind you, for eliminating your best operative is never the wisest thing for a handler to do - and the fact that she's resorting to injecting Grayson with sodium thiopental makes her look like someone who's seen too many movies.
Merlot smiles her luscious smile. Coffee stands in the corner chewing his nails, a habit acquired since he met Merlot.
"You plan on extracting information? How lame are you?" Grayson would laugh, but he's reserving judgment concerning his predicament until he can figure out what's going on.
She leans into Grayson's face, her nose almost touching his, and Grayson can smell her perfume. Damn, she smells good. "No, Grayson. I plan on inducing a coma, then overdosing you."
"Ah, shit," Coffee mutters, not quite inaudibly. "I knew this was coming."
Merlot sticks the needle into the dose and the pulls the syringe back, watching intently as the chemical fills the tube. She wraps her right hand around the top of Grayson's bicep and waits for his vein to distend. Winking at him, she injects the chemical into Grayson's bloodstream.
"By the way, this is generic stuff. Not sure how well it works."
"What a bitch," both Grayson and Coffee say simultaneously, though Coffee's tone has much more humor to it.
***
"Sodium pentathol?" The Fence looked incredulous. This crazy American broad always liked to make things difficult. "The explosives were hard enough. Pharmaceuticals aren't exactly our specialty here." That was a lie, of course. Everything was the Fence's specialty. He was just trying to drive up the price. "What do you need it for? Interrogation?"
Merlot shook her head. "No, just want someone to think they're going to get interrogated. Right before I kill them."
The Fence laughed heartily. "Too bad you're not Muslim. You would make a good wife."
"Yeah, until you pissed her off," Coffee interrupted, feeling a bit defensive of the Fence's attraction to Merlot.
"Oh," replied the Fence, "I'd never let her prepare my food. Or sleep in the same building."
Merlot and Coffee chuckled, both remembering Grayson's car.
"On second thought..." The Fence got the joke.
"We're wasting time," Merlot said, giving the Fence a rather murderous look.
"I'll see what I can do."
***
The Silhouette wrapped his wound - a gunshot in his left forearm... his shooting arm - and yelled into the cell phone. "I don't know where she is. And I don't care. This was supposed to take a week. You want me to stay on this? Pay up. My time is expensive."
The person on the other end of the line clearly said something to Silhouette's liking, causing a smile to intrude on a wince of pain as he finished tying up his pressure dressing.
"Double the rate," Silhouette said as he flipped his phone closed. This Merlot proved to be quite the adversary and that she got the drop on him worried him a bit. How she knew she was being followed was either due to the fact that she was extremely lucky, extremely good, or extremely paranoid. Or maybe all three. Then again, Silhouette had found two wigs in the aftermath and he had to wonder if Coffee had been dressed in drag. That thief, too, was not somebody Silhouette would underestimate again. Merlot was competent enough when it came to disappearing in a crowd, but Coffee could become downright invisible.
No, Silhouette shook his worry from his mind and reanalyzed the situation. He had not, up to that point, known that Coffee was no killer and spent too much effort trying to keep the thief in front of him. That was when Merlot shot him in the arm. It was not a mistake that would happen again.
***
Grayson feels his head starting to spin but maintains his calm. Or the sodium thiopental is maintaining his calm. Either way, he's calm. Good thing, too, because he needs his wits to talk his way out of this one.
"You think I'm at the top of this little pyramid of mystery? Use your head, woman," he says, slurring just a little bit.
"Oh, we already know you're not. Another reason we don't need you." Merlot prepares another dose.
Well, fuck. That didn't work. Grayson starts laughing, which bothers Coffee. Merlot slides up to her partner and gently taps his cheek.
"No worries, you. This is normal."
Coffee stares into Merlot's eyes, entranced by their confidence... and her smell. "Nothing about you is normal."
Merlot whispers into Coffee's ear and places a hand on his thigh - a little too close to home plate. "Oh, I assure you. Quite a lot of me is normal."
All thoughts of murdering a CIA agent flee from Coffee's mind, replaced by images much more enjoyable. Coffee is the marionette to Merlot's Geppetto.
***
"Are we good?" The Fence absentmindedly licked his lips as Merlot checked the merchandise.
Merlot nodded and ignored the Fence's inadvertent forwardness. Something else was on her mind.
"Excellent. You know, you're officially now my best American customer."
"Who says I'm American?" she said as she walked over to a window.
The Fence shrugged. He realized she's distracted and let the attempt at a flirt die. "Anything else I can acquire for you?"
She stared at something in the plaza below intently. "Yes. Do you have any wigs? Something my color."
The Fence wrinkled his face, conducting a quick mental inventory. "There is a wig in Asalah's office. It's brown. I suppose we can dye it."
"I need it," Merlot demanded. "And any women's clothing in his size." She nodded towards Coffee.
Coffee snapped out of his daydream. "What?"
***
The Fence finished dying and the Silhouette wiped his knife clean. He felt better now that he killed somebody pertinent, but the lack of useful information bothered him. Why had Merlot purchased sodium thiopental? Silhouette dialed Grayson. Getting no answer, he gathered materials in preparation to set the Fence's building aflame.
There's nothing like watching something burn to the ground.
***
Sleep is taking over and Grayson knows it's just about over for him. The fat lady sings, but she's a lot skinnier than he figured. And she's a redhead. Although it's clear that the wig is actually brown.
"What are you gonna do now?" Grayson murmurs, unsure if he actually said anything. "You gonna rape me?"
Coffee's expression makes Merlot giggle. Coffee loves her giggle. So much so that he tries to immediately recreate the expression, but she's already turned her attention back to Grayson.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she teases Grayson.
"Oh, yes, please."
"Sorry, babe," she says, rubbing Grayson's forehead, "but I'm going to save that for your little hit man."
Grayson mumbles something and fades into unconsciousness. Realizing that Grayson is finally dead, Coffee returns himself to reality. "Why couldn't you kill him quickly? This was fucked up."
"I know, I know. But it had to be done." She grabs Grayson's cell phone from its hiding spot between Grayson's shoulder blades. It's on an active call. She puts it up to her ear. "You hear that? When I find out who you are, where you are, and what you're up to, it's your turn." Not waiting for a response, she hangs up. She notices a missed call and shows it to Coffee.
"Look."
Coffee sees the call notification and shrugs. "Whose number is that?"
"Ten to one says it's our hit man."
"So we're going to kill him, too?"
Merlot smiles and kisses Coffee on the cheek - an action she's been doing liberally as of late, it seems. "Oh, silly boy. Don't ask stupid questions."
"Will you marry me?" Coffee has no idea how that escaped his mouth.
Merlot simply winks and leaves the room.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Touché, Cliché #1: The Grass is Greener...
Yes, I know today's a "rant and rave day" and there was a rant for today, but it's been moved to Wednesday of next week. Why? Because I got together with Tom at Half-Moose with a Twist a while back and pitched an idea I had for a comic strip. In short, he agreed to draw it, and we finally got off our asses (well, HE did... my records indicate I sent the first script on June 15th... nyah) and put the first one together.
Hope you enjoy. Here it is (click to enlarge):
Hope you enjoy. Here it is (click to enlarge):
Art by Half-Moose. Script by JeffScape.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Theme Thursdays, 2010: Volume 2
Something's amiss with Theme Thursday and I've not been able to figure it out. Things just got... weird... in the past couple of months. In light of this (and for several other unrelated reasons), I'm taking a hiatus from participating there for a while, but I continue to recommend it for anyone who needs or wants an excuse to post something or otherwise be creative.
Obviously, this "Volume 2" post should go up sometime in January, but given the circumstances, I'll put it up now.
Submitted for the second half of 2010 (titles marked with * were not originally written for Theme Thursday):
Obviously, this "Volume 2" post should go up sometime in January, but given the circumstances, I'll put it up now.
Submitted for the second half of 2010 (titles marked with * were not originally written for Theme Thursday):
- Blue (July 1, 2010) - Beautiful Water* (May 18, 2010)
- Help (July 15, 2010) - Living Backwards; also, His Wings Were Not Armor* (April 22, 2010)
- Light (July 29, 2010) - The Scheherazadi, Part III
- Brush (August 19, 2010) - Décolletage; also, Twenty Minutes and a Gun, Part I* (June 29, 2010)
- Equal (August 26, 2010) - And They Dance...; also, Equation* (June 8, 2010)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
And They Dance...
"I need to get the fuck out of here." He's a wanderer by nature. A wistful heart who knows the world passes everyone by without so much as a by your leave.
"Where you gonna go?" His roommate doesn't really care, but sympathy behind a cigarette is easy enough to offer.
"Don't give a shit. Anywhere." Smoke and ash dissipate beneath a ceiling fan as if showing the way.
***
"I just need to go somewhere." She's a wanderer by design. A wondering heart who knows the world is out there to be seen.
"Aw, honey. I understand, but I wish you wouldn't." Her mother often claims to want her daughter to leave the roost, but the two very much resemble inseparable friends. It's going to break her heart.
"I have to." The crack is almost audible.
***
It is at different times they stand on the same cliff, taking in the wondrous natural beauty of waterfall and canopied jungle below. Thoughts of jumping off may initially alarm, but they are thoughts accompanied by impressions of rope and carabiner. Exhilaration is a necessity, for neither feels alive without it.
It is at different times they swim in the same waters of the same beach, cautious of the invisible barrage from the sun and the currents that could sweep them away. Reckless abandon, for them, is anything but reckless. Few are as aware as either of their easily forgotten roles in the world. There is no reason to conform to anything that, at its core, is little more than chaos. And it is both how and why they understand.
***
"Where are you from?" the Dominican asks. She's beautiful and her English is quite natural in tone. Hell, she's probably from Miami.
He answers with a flippant gesture of hands, the implication of everywhere and nowhere at all.
"What does that mean?"
"Whatever it needs to."
Though the response intrigues her, she can tell he's already bored.
***
"Where are you from?" the Frenchman asks. He's traditionally handsome and picturesque. But she can tell he's looking for a one-nighter.
She answers with not only the city of her origin, but of the suburb. Home, for her, is very specific.
"I used to travel there a bit," he lies, quite obviously.
She asks him a question anyone who's ever seen her hometown would know the answer to. She can't help but laugh when he pretends he's late for an engagement and walks off in embarrassment.
***
He loves an ill-advised adventure down alleys locals warn not to take. Far from suicidal, there is something about this dance that makes the world worth surviving for. To appreciate beauty, one must know ugly. And the knife-wielding thugs are rightfully ugly. Should he come out on top, there will be no guilt in adding to their ugliness.
When it's over his palm is sliced open, though he retains full range of motion with his hand and fingers. A good sign. Neither of the thugs are seriously injured. The one running away tends a fracture mid-forearm while the other stares in disbelief at the sight of his own blade sticking out from his thigh.
Being lost in chaos tastes as good as he remembers.
***
She adores letting it all go in the middle of a dance floor. Self-consciousness dissipates amid the tempo of music and the twirl of hair under black light. Controlled motion depicting out-of-control emotion bridges the gap between being there and knowing where she needs to be. A beautiful stillness is to be had in beautiful movement.
When the music stops she finally notices the eyes of men temporarily in love with her form. It is a motivation she doesn't need, but fully appreciates. Her heartbeat slows down as she gathers her belongings and disappears into the night. It's almost time to return home.
Finding meaning in chaos is as calming as it's ever been.
***
It is in different places they realize they're together, with friends they'll never meet sifting their own ways through the detritus of loneliness. The world, solitary as it is, never stops. And neither will they.
So they dance.
"Where you gonna go?" His roommate doesn't really care, but sympathy behind a cigarette is easy enough to offer.
"Don't give a shit. Anywhere." Smoke and ash dissipate beneath a ceiling fan as if showing the way.
***
"I just need to go somewhere." She's a wanderer by design. A wondering heart who knows the world is out there to be seen.
"Aw, honey. I understand, but I wish you wouldn't." Her mother often claims to want her daughter to leave the roost, but the two very much resemble inseparable friends. It's going to break her heart.
"I have to." The crack is almost audible.
***
It is at different times they stand on the same cliff, taking in the wondrous natural beauty of waterfall and canopied jungle below. Thoughts of jumping off may initially alarm, but they are thoughts accompanied by impressions of rope and carabiner. Exhilaration is a necessity, for neither feels alive without it.
It is at different times they swim in the same waters of the same beach, cautious of the invisible barrage from the sun and the currents that could sweep them away. Reckless abandon, for them, is anything but reckless. Few are as aware as either of their easily forgotten roles in the world. There is no reason to conform to anything that, at its core, is little more than chaos. And it is both how and why they understand.
***
"Where are you from?" the Dominican asks. She's beautiful and her English is quite natural in tone. Hell, she's probably from Miami.
He answers with a flippant gesture of hands, the implication of everywhere and nowhere at all.
"What does that mean?"
"Whatever it needs to."
Though the response intrigues her, she can tell he's already bored.
***
"Where are you from?" the Frenchman asks. He's traditionally handsome and picturesque. But she can tell he's looking for a one-nighter.
She answers with not only the city of her origin, but of the suburb. Home, for her, is very specific.
"I used to travel there a bit," he lies, quite obviously.
She asks him a question anyone who's ever seen her hometown would know the answer to. She can't help but laugh when he pretends he's late for an engagement and walks off in embarrassment.
***
He loves an ill-advised adventure down alleys locals warn not to take. Far from suicidal, there is something about this dance that makes the world worth surviving for. To appreciate beauty, one must know ugly. And the knife-wielding thugs are rightfully ugly. Should he come out on top, there will be no guilt in adding to their ugliness.
When it's over his palm is sliced open, though he retains full range of motion with his hand and fingers. A good sign. Neither of the thugs are seriously injured. The one running away tends a fracture mid-forearm while the other stares in disbelief at the sight of his own blade sticking out from his thigh.
Being lost in chaos tastes as good as he remembers.
***
She adores letting it all go in the middle of a dance floor. Self-consciousness dissipates amid the tempo of music and the twirl of hair under black light. Controlled motion depicting out-of-control emotion bridges the gap between being there and knowing where she needs to be. A beautiful stillness is to be had in beautiful movement.
When the music stops she finally notices the eyes of men temporarily in love with her form. It is a motivation she doesn't need, but fully appreciates. Her heartbeat slows down as she gathers her belongings and disappears into the night. It's almost time to return home.
Finding meaning in chaos is as calming as it's ever been.
***
It is in different places they realize they're together, with friends they'll never meet sifting their own ways through the detritus of loneliness. The world, solitary as it is, never stops. And neither will they.
So they dance.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Décolletage
The impression's been made, even from at this distance. She's beautiful. Already, with eyes closed, the tone and accent of her voice match with the impression. Even from at this distance.
A sleeveless cowl-necked top exposes shoulders slouched just a little, sadness revealed on the horizon of her torso. Sun-embraced skin glistens as a foreign easterly attempts to reassure her with cooled ocean air and a whisper of encouragement. She does not look in his direction, instead shifting away. He enjoys the brief image of windswept strands of brunette semaphore.
Loneliness has settled within her, but the desire to be held did not relent, escaping from her imagination in the form of surreptitious tears. Salt-water slides below sunglassed eyes, emphasizing the lines of a turned neck screaming to be tasted. She continues to avoid him, instead gazing to the ground beneath her own feet. An upturn in the wind creates a silhouette of winged coiffure.
Fears of rejection nearly overwhelm her, threatening to dim such a luminescent smile. The sea breeze pauses and wings gently fold into a cleft so lasciviously captivating, sensation reminding that the world is a wonder to behold with head held high. She makes eye contact, but for an instant, and sees the desire in a stranger's eyes. Her own hand caresses her breast, sweeping her hair behind her, a moment reminiscent of angel bearing tressed halo.
In spite of the agony her in visage, the anguish in her heart, there is a part of her always smiling. As smooth and reflective as the beauty who wears it. She knows she's beautiful. And the confidence affords her the grace to walk on by.
Décolletage...
A sleeveless cowl-necked top exposes shoulders slouched just a little, sadness revealed on the horizon of her torso. Sun-embraced skin glistens as a foreign easterly attempts to reassure her with cooled ocean air and a whisper of encouragement. She does not look in his direction, instead shifting away. He enjoys the brief image of windswept strands of brunette semaphore.
Loneliness has settled within her, but the desire to be held did not relent, escaping from her imagination in the form of surreptitious tears. Salt-water slides below sunglassed eyes, emphasizing the lines of a turned neck screaming to be tasted. She continues to avoid him, instead gazing to the ground beneath her own feet. An upturn in the wind creates a silhouette of winged coiffure.
Fears of rejection nearly overwhelm her, threatening to dim such a luminescent smile. The sea breeze pauses and wings gently fold into a cleft so lasciviously captivating, sensation reminding that the world is a wonder to behold with head held high. She makes eye contact, but for an instant, and sees the desire in a stranger's eyes. Her own hand caresses her breast, sweeping her hair behind her, a moment reminiscent of angel bearing tressed halo.
In spite of the agony her in visage, the anguish in her heart, there is a part of her always smiling. As smooth and reflective as the beauty who wears it. She knows she's beautiful. And the confidence affords her the grace to walk on by.
Décolletage...
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Scheherazadi, Part III
*Continued from The Scheherazadi, Part I and The Scheherazadi, Part II
The Magic Carpet slowly whirs to life, emanating a hum that sounds a little like an alien version of the cooling turbines on a golem. I've heard Morgiana and Rashid talk about "carpet burns" before, but it was only yesterday that I learned what they were.
And, I must admit, the prospect of traveling via carpet burn scares the shit out of me.
***
They call themselves the Scheherazadi and they're not quite human. Human, yes, but even less natural than the tech-djinn. They don't talk about it with me, being an outsider and all, but as near as I can tell they serve some sort of entity - a god, a dictactor, a wet dream, I have no clue - they call the Shahryi.
Most of them stay away from me, save for Morgiana and two other women, Zumarra and Parizade. Although Parizade's kept her distance ever since we almost sealed the deal, if you know what I mean. The only male I have any contact with is Rashid, and he's the prick who walked in on Parizade and me. Everyone else I've interacted with has been on a sterile basis... braniac types who have been poking and prodding me, supposedly to ensure the modifications to my golem hold up under field tests, even though I haven't seen my golem since these people captured me.
I did happen to notice that there were no children present and that everyone was an intellectual of some sort. I couldn't figure out why, but Morgiana eventually let the cat out of the bag during my long indoctrination.
"While the rest of civilization were trying to save their useless children, our fathers were saving engineers, scientists, doctors," Morgiana says, the arrogance slipping through her kind's prescience.
I ignore it. Fact is, they all talk like this. "Is that why there aren't any kids?"
"We have children, though very few. The pleasures of nature are hard to suppress, as you know." She gives me an evil eye, obviously because of the whole Parizade debacle. I just chalk it up to jealousy. "But most of us are clones, either replacement bodies for those becoming too old or copies of those in high-risk positions."
"So, you don't die."
"Of course we do, though it is rare that a person is completely lost." Completely lost, she says. I like that. "500 years of research perfected the cloning and transfer of memories from body to body."
Whoa. Even I'm smart enough to have my mind blown by this.
"And, to think," Morgiana continues, "all you've managed to do is figure out how to transfer to machines."
Pathetic, I know.
"I'm still lost. How do you plan on saving the world?"
"Nothing more is expected from you." Because she's so beautiful, I let her insult me. Okay, okay, half the time I don't even realize she's insulting me. But that time I did. "And the same way we destroyed it. With technology and a desire to use it."
Funny, had I heard someone at home dune say that, I'd be worried. Morgiana's words, though, carry themselves with an immeasurable weight of trust. And I believe them.
***
"Open Simsim," Rashid commands and blast of bright light permeates the entire chamber. I was briefed for this, but there's nothing like seeing the Magic Carpet tear a hole through space-time in person.
Rashid and two of his soldiers step in with no hesitation and disintegrate in front of my very eyes. Morgiana smiles and follows. Parizade takes my hand and pulls me in as she herself disappears.
Now I know why it's called a carpet burn. I feel like I'm on fire.
When it subsides, something's not right. There's a bright blue planet over my head. Before I can even ask if that's Earth, Morgiana and Parizade lift me to my feet.
"Come," Morgiana says, her voice more deferential than I've ever heard it, "it's time for you to tell a story to the Shahryi."
Forget what I said about the Magic Carpet. Now I'm scared shitless.
The Magic Carpet slowly whirs to life, emanating a hum that sounds a little like an alien version of the cooling turbines on a golem. I've heard Morgiana and Rashid talk about "carpet burns" before, but it was only yesterday that I learned what they were.
And, I must admit, the prospect of traveling via carpet burn scares the shit out of me.
***
They call themselves the Scheherazadi and they're not quite human. Human, yes, but even less natural than the tech-djinn. They don't talk about it with me, being an outsider and all, but as near as I can tell they serve some sort of entity - a god, a dictactor, a wet dream, I have no clue - they call the Shahryi.
Most of them stay away from me, save for Morgiana and two other women, Zumarra and Parizade. Although Parizade's kept her distance ever since we almost sealed the deal, if you know what I mean. The only male I have any contact with is Rashid, and he's the prick who walked in on Parizade and me. Everyone else I've interacted with has been on a sterile basis... braniac types who have been poking and prodding me, supposedly to ensure the modifications to my golem hold up under field tests, even though I haven't seen my golem since these people captured me.
I did happen to notice that there were no children present and that everyone was an intellectual of some sort. I couldn't figure out why, but Morgiana eventually let the cat out of the bag during my long indoctrination.
"While the rest of civilization were trying to save their useless children, our fathers were saving engineers, scientists, doctors," Morgiana says, the arrogance slipping through her kind's prescience.
I ignore it. Fact is, they all talk like this. "Is that why there aren't any kids?"
"We have children, though very few. The pleasures of nature are hard to suppress, as you know." She gives me an evil eye, obviously because of the whole Parizade debacle. I just chalk it up to jealousy. "But most of us are clones, either replacement bodies for those becoming too old or copies of those in high-risk positions."
"So, you don't die."
"Of course we do, though it is rare that a person is completely lost." Completely lost, she says. I like that. "500 years of research perfected the cloning and transfer of memories from body to body."
Whoa. Even I'm smart enough to have my mind blown by this.
"And, to think," Morgiana continues, "all you've managed to do is figure out how to transfer to machines."
Pathetic, I know.
"I'm still lost. How do you plan on saving the world?"
"Nothing more is expected from you." Because she's so beautiful, I let her insult me. Okay, okay, half the time I don't even realize she's insulting me. But that time I did. "And the same way we destroyed it. With technology and a desire to use it."
Funny, had I heard someone at home dune say that, I'd be worried. Morgiana's words, though, carry themselves with an immeasurable weight of trust. And I believe them.
***
"Open Simsim," Rashid commands and blast of bright light permeates the entire chamber. I was briefed for this, but there's nothing like seeing the Magic Carpet tear a hole through space-time in person.
Rashid and two of his soldiers step in with no hesitation and disintegrate in front of my very eyes. Morgiana smiles and follows. Parizade takes my hand and pulls me in as she herself disappears.
Now I know why it's called a carpet burn. I feel like I'm on fire.
When it subsides, something's not right. There's a bright blue planet over my head. Before I can even ask if that's Earth, Morgiana and Parizade lift me to my feet.
"Come," Morgiana says, her voice more deferential than I've ever heard it, "it's time for you to tell a story to the Shahryi."
Forget what I said about the Magic Carpet. Now I'm scared shitless.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Living Backwards
"Ka-blam, elimination! Lack of education!" - Big Mama, The Fox and the Hound, 1981
She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.
When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.
She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.
When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.
She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.
When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.
She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.
When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Theme Thursdays, 2010: Volume 1
Yep, I'm still doing Theme Thursday (although I've skipped a few). It's a fun way to force creativity and the occasions in which I can combine the theme there with a Muse at The Tenth Daughter of Memory provide a bit of a challenge, as well. I can't say I'm satisfied with their resistance to "direct links," since it's practically impossible to go back and enjoy old entries, but c'est la vie. At least I can enjoy mine (the ones that don't suck, anyway):
- Polka Dots (January 7, 2010) - Amid Hints of Sensation
- Surface (January 14, 2010) - Surface; also, Gateway* (December 4, 2009)
- Bread (January 21, 2010) - Just Desserts
- Felt & Impression (January 28, 2010) - The Man in the Fedora
- Red (February 4, 2010) - Partus Sequitur; also, The Lovers Spectra* (December 18, 2009)
- Mirror (February 11, 2010) - A Tautology, Part I and A Tautology, Part II
- Bell (February 18, 2010) - SPQR, Part I
- Bottle (February 25, 2010) - On a Sea of Oatmeal
- Green (March 4, 2010) - The Window Blinks When the Mirror Sees
- Hats (March 11, 2010) - Halos
- Sign (March 25, 2010) - Shadow and Sign
- Yellow (April 1, 2010) - Yellow Butterflies* (November 5, 2009)
- Box (April 8, 2010) - Gaia's Lust
- Pink (May 6, 2010) - Correspondence
- Mystery (May 13, 2010) - The Scheherazadi, Part I
- Pets (May 20, 2010) - Sagremor; also, Incredible Journeys Home* (August 17, 2009)
- Wrinkle (May 27, 2010) - In-Love-In-Law
- White (June 3, 2010) - White Supremacists Must Be Boring* (September 18, 2006)
- Candy (June 10, 2010) - Lollies, Stupid; also, Candy Girl* (April 13, 2010)
- Camera (June 17, 2010) - Window; also, Beauty is in the Eye* (June 20, 2009)
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Window
He can see her, but he can barely hear her. Even with the listening device, the window doesn't allow sound through all that well. She's extraordinarily beautiful - to him, at least - and he'd be hard-pressed to dream of a woman more attractive.
They met in Cozumel, Mexico. She was traveling the world, fresh from secondary school. With no desire to immediately attend college, she packed her bags and left everything behind. He was a sophomore at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, on Spring break. Not much of a traveler - he likes to keep to himself - his friends talked him into accompanying them to yet another tourist trap.
Sublimely unaware of his eyes gazing upon her, she goes about her business, dusting shelves and preparing her evening meal. She's speaking, but he's since put away the device out of frustration. Besides, he's far more interested in staring at the movement of her lips than the words. Pity she's not a bit closer. Of course, proximity runs the risk of giving his devious intentions away. He licks his upper lip in anticipation.
He was glad he went. An inopportune bar brawl between French and American partiers led to him taking a broken bottle on his left shoulder - a bottle that would have hit her had he not got in the way. There wasn't any chivalry involved in the decision, it's just that he had stared at her for most of the night and didn't want his evening obsession left scarred in any way. The blood and protruding glass in his shoulder led to sympathetic conversation, which led to sympathetic dinner, which led to romance. Only lasting three days, it was the best three days of his life. She enjoyed them, herself, but they failed to resonate with her as strongly as they did with him.
The notion of voyeurism creeps into his mind, but he doesn't care. She's worth looking at; she's worth listening to, and he's aware of the possibility that he'll never touch her again. Something distracts her and he moves away, pretending not to notice. She doesn't need his piercing eyes to add to the distraction. And he doesn't want this moment to end. The perfect body in the perfect frame.
They exchanged contact information, but as she circumnavigated the globe for nearly three years, her information soon proved useless. Caught up in the grand adventure that is the world, the excitement of Cozumel quickly hid itself beneath the excitement of seeing and experiencing things she'd only dreamed of while growing up in Glasgow, Montana.
She reacts to the distraction - clearly, she heard some sort of noise. Out of reflex, he checks his surroundings. Did he..? No, he knows better. He's been sitting here for the better part of two hours and he's done nothing save whisper a few longing words. There are dogs barking, but they are in neighbors' yards and not aimed at him. Still, the excitement arouses him.
Finding himself oblivious to any other women, he succumbed to depression, dropped out of college in his final semester, and joined the US Army. A mental breakdown - related to her, no doubt - forced an early discharge. Though not in in love, he nevertheless renewed a relationship with an old high school girlfriend and got his life together, at least partially. Subsistence was his only recourse.
She screams at something and his curiosity overcomes him. He leans in so closely, trying to get a better view, that his breath fogs up her image. He's been breathing hard, conscious of his own caress, and backs off. The vapors need wiping clean, but he decides that might be too conspicuous. They dissipate just when a cat appears in the window. He hears her scream at it again. Damn... it's blocking her. His hand swipes at the air in a useless gesture.
When an old friend became a private investigator and the Internet afforded the capability, he managed to track her to South Africa. Search engines devoid of contact information, he spent nearly all of his savings and hired his PI friend to go to there. She married a businessman in Johannesburg and took a job with the South African Sports Confederation and Olympic Committee. Now divorced, she had kept her married name.
Her hands grab the cat and he gets a good look at her fingers. Oh, those sensual fingers. He's not been this close to them since Mexico. He must be careful... showing up like this is probably odd to her, but so far she seems to have paid no mind. She moves away, out of the room, and returns a few minutes later wearing a robe. He curses his limited visibility, tracing her body with a finger and imagining the lines underneath.
Leaving his girlfriend, he tried to relocate himself overseas, but life and money kept getting in the way. He often wondered if it would have been better had he gone to South Africa himself, but knows he probably wouldn't have found her. So he watched from a distance, trying to summon the courage to reenter her life. One time he built up the nerve to call her, only to fail in building up the nerve to actually speak. But hearing her voice renewed his sense of purpose. She would be his. One way or another.
"Sorry," she says. "Just wanted to get comfortable."
"It's okay," he replies, having plugged the headset and microphone back into the computer. There's some frustration that she's so pixelated, but her memory is as clear as day, and that's all his eyes require.
"When are you coming to visit me?"
He smiles. Though she's careful not to be obvious, she clearly harbors affection. It's too bad there's an ocean between them. He considers sending the inventor of the web camera a thank you note.
"As soon as I can."
They met in Cozumel, Mexico. She was traveling the world, fresh from secondary school. With no desire to immediately attend college, she packed her bags and left everything behind. He was a sophomore at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, on Spring break. Not much of a traveler - he likes to keep to himself - his friends talked him into accompanying them to yet another tourist trap.
Sublimely unaware of his eyes gazing upon her, she goes about her business, dusting shelves and preparing her evening meal. She's speaking, but he's since put away the device out of frustration. Besides, he's far more interested in staring at the movement of her lips than the words. Pity she's not a bit closer. Of course, proximity runs the risk of giving his devious intentions away. He licks his upper lip in anticipation.
He was glad he went. An inopportune bar brawl between French and American partiers led to him taking a broken bottle on his left shoulder - a bottle that would have hit her had he not got in the way. There wasn't any chivalry involved in the decision, it's just that he had stared at her for most of the night and didn't want his evening obsession left scarred in any way. The blood and protruding glass in his shoulder led to sympathetic conversation, which led to sympathetic dinner, which led to romance. Only lasting three days, it was the best three days of his life. She enjoyed them, herself, but they failed to resonate with her as strongly as they did with him.
The notion of voyeurism creeps into his mind, but he doesn't care. She's worth looking at; she's worth listening to, and he's aware of the possibility that he'll never touch her again. Something distracts her and he moves away, pretending not to notice. She doesn't need his piercing eyes to add to the distraction. And he doesn't want this moment to end. The perfect body in the perfect frame.
They exchanged contact information, but as she circumnavigated the globe for nearly three years, her information soon proved useless. Caught up in the grand adventure that is the world, the excitement of Cozumel quickly hid itself beneath the excitement of seeing and experiencing things she'd only dreamed of while growing up in Glasgow, Montana.
She reacts to the distraction - clearly, she heard some sort of noise. Out of reflex, he checks his surroundings. Did he..? No, he knows better. He's been sitting here for the better part of two hours and he's done nothing save whisper a few longing words. There are dogs barking, but they are in neighbors' yards and not aimed at him. Still, the excitement arouses him.
Finding himself oblivious to any other women, he succumbed to depression, dropped out of college in his final semester, and joined the US Army. A mental breakdown - related to her, no doubt - forced an early discharge. Though not in in love, he nevertheless renewed a relationship with an old high school girlfriend and got his life together, at least partially. Subsistence was his only recourse.
She screams at something and his curiosity overcomes him. He leans in so closely, trying to get a better view, that his breath fogs up her image. He's been breathing hard, conscious of his own caress, and backs off. The vapors need wiping clean, but he decides that might be too conspicuous. They dissipate just when a cat appears in the window. He hears her scream at it again. Damn... it's blocking her. His hand swipes at the air in a useless gesture.
When an old friend became a private investigator and the Internet afforded the capability, he managed to track her to South Africa. Search engines devoid of contact information, he spent nearly all of his savings and hired his PI friend to go to there. She married a businessman in Johannesburg and took a job with the South African Sports Confederation and Olympic Committee. Now divorced, she had kept her married name.
Her hands grab the cat and he gets a good look at her fingers. Oh, those sensual fingers. He's not been this close to them since Mexico. He must be careful... showing up like this is probably odd to her, but so far she seems to have paid no mind. She moves away, out of the room, and returns a few minutes later wearing a robe. He curses his limited visibility, tracing her body with a finger and imagining the lines underneath.
Leaving his girlfriend, he tried to relocate himself overseas, but life and money kept getting in the way. He often wondered if it would have been better had he gone to South Africa himself, but knows he probably wouldn't have found her. So he watched from a distance, trying to summon the courage to reenter her life. One time he built up the nerve to call her, only to fail in building up the nerve to actually speak. But hearing her voice renewed his sense of purpose. She would be his. One way or another.
"Sorry," she says. "Just wanted to get comfortable."
"It's okay," he replies, having plugged the headset and microphone back into the computer. There's some frustration that she's so pixelated, but her memory is as clear as day, and that's all his eyes require.
"When are you coming to visit me?"
He smiles. Though she's careful not to be obvious, she clearly harbors affection. It's too bad there's an ocean between them. He considers sending the inventor of the web camera a thank you note.
"As soon as I can."
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Lollies, Stupid
*Not sure why I did it, but a random thought popped into my head and I wound up writing a semi-continuation of a friend's piece, "24 Hours in a Tin Can." It's not directly-related narratively, but it's certainly thematically so. Basically, I used her piece as a prompt, and here's what happened...
"You quit smoking, eh?" It's an accusation as much as it a question, and she wants to be totally clear about it. Her mother smokes and she'll be damned if there are two smokers staying in the same house.
"Yeah, a while back." He understands. He almost explains to her that even when he did smoke, he never smoked in the house, but he doesn't. His reluctant chauffeur is gorgeous and is sublimely aware of his interest in her, and he doesn't want to risk turning her off by telling too many fish stories too early.
"And how's that going?" There's a sarcastic twinkle in her eye, but she feels confident he won't notice it behind her oversized sunglasses.
But he does. He just doesn't take the bait. "Pretty good. Tobacco-free for four months. Nicotine-free for two." He reflects for a moment how little fashion varies from place to place these days. Probably the Internet's fault. His father would've blamed it on Hollywood, but since such placement of blame is passé - combined with the fact that he actually works in Hollywood - he ignores the mental voice of a scolding parent.
"Good," she says, rather bluntly. "The house already stinks." She sees him smirk out of the corner of her eye. It's a disarming smirk - he is much cuter in person - and she allows herself to let loose a small bit of friendly humor. "My nostrils probably have cancer by now."
There's a quick laugh and she turns to check out his smile - his teeth, actually - but he's looking out his window. In reality, he's looking at her. Her reflection just strong enough to see clearly. She's beautiful and it's near impossible to take his eyes off of her.
She doesn't drive much and he can tell. He rarely gets car sick, but he can feel the onset of motion sickness creeping its way up through his abdomen. It's probably no accident that the only three drivers to ever get him car sick were all women - his sister, his ex-fiancée, and one of his best friends from college. Why should this ride be any different? Of course, he's never had butterflies in his stomach flapping as violently as they were now. Put a man purportedly unafraid of anything into a car with a beautiful woman and he's suddenly omniphobic.
He clears his throat and shifts forward. "Is there like a candy store or something on the way?" His ears don't need popping, but it's all he can think of.
"A what?" She knows what he means, but she loves fucking with Americans. Who doesn't?
"Candy store?"
"We call them lollies here, stupid." It is as endearing as an insult could possibly be. "Are you car sick?"
Beautiful... and observant. He'll wax poetic about that later, hopefully after managing not to throw up. Too many hours in a plane followed by stop and go traffic, he does not recommend.
She pulls to the curb, leaving the engine running.
"What's up?" he asks. Although he's been avoiding aviator breathing techniques as he didn't want to look "uncool," he's wisely reconsidering his priorities.
She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, laughing and sympathetic eyes peering past his. "Lollies?" She nods to the shop behind him.
He opens the door without looking and steps out. Gathering himself and trying to save some face, he leans back into the window. "You want anything?"
"Yeah. Don't spew in my fucking car."
He smirks again, hiding a wink in his sardonic smile. Candy, indeed. He can't wait to taste this one.
"You quit smoking, eh?" It's an accusation as much as it a question, and she wants to be totally clear about it. Her mother smokes and she'll be damned if there are two smokers staying in the same house.
"Yeah, a while back." He understands. He almost explains to her that even when he did smoke, he never smoked in the house, but he doesn't. His reluctant chauffeur is gorgeous and is sublimely aware of his interest in her, and he doesn't want to risk turning her off by telling too many fish stories too early.
"And how's that going?" There's a sarcastic twinkle in her eye, but she feels confident he won't notice it behind her oversized sunglasses.
But he does. He just doesn't take the bait. "Pretty good. Tobacco-free for four months. Nicotine-free for two." He reflects for a moment how little fashion varies from place to place these days. Probably the Internet's fault. His father would've blamed it on Hollywood, but since such placement of blame is passé - combined with the fact that he actually works in Hollywood - he ignores the mental voice of a scolding parent.
"Good," she says, rather bluntly. "The house already stinks." She sees him smirk out of the corner of her eye. It's a disarming smirk - he is much cuter in person - and she allows herself to let loose a small bit of friendly humor. "My nostrils probably have cancer by now."
There's a quick laugh and she turns to check out his smile - his teeth, actually - but he's looking out his window. In reality, he's looking at her. Her reflection just strong enough to see clearly. She's beautiful and it's near impossible to take his eyes off of her.
She doesn't drive much and he can tell. He rarely gets car sick, but he can feel the onset of motion sickness creeping its way up through his abdomen. It's probably no accident that the only three drivers to ever get him car sick were all women - his sister, his ex-fiancée, and one of his best friends from college. Why should this ride be any different? Of course, he's never had butterflies in his stomach flapping as violently as they were now. Put a man purportedly unafraid of anything into a car with a beautiful woman and he's suddenly omniphobic.
He clears his throat and shifts forward. "Is there like a candy store or something on the way?" His ears don't need popping, but it's all he can think of.
"A what?" She knows what he means, but she loves fucking with Americans. Who doesn't?
"Candy store?"
"We call them lollies here, stupid." It is as endearing as an insult could possibly be. "Are you car sick?"
Beautiful... and observant. He'll wax poetic about that later, hopefully after managing not to throw up. Too many hours in a plane followed by stop and go traffic, he does not recommend.
She pulls to the curb, leaving the engine running.
"What's up?" he asks. Although he's been avoiding aviator breathing techniques as he didn't want to look "uncool," he's wisely reconsidering his priorities.
She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, laughing and sympathetic eyes peering past his. "Lollies?" She nods to the shop behind him.
He opens the door without looking and steps out. Gathering himself and trying to save some face, he leans back into the window. "You want anything?"
"Yeah. Don't spew in my fucking car."
He smirks again, hiding a wink in his sardonic smile. Candy, indeed. He can't wait to taste this one.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
In-Love-In-Law
"You ready?" It is a rhetorical question, though one whose answer is not known, since there is no answer. Actually, there are several answers. All correct. All incorrect. This is simply a situation in which only the future will reveal what should've been said.
Peter winks upon Keith's nervous nod, then laughs when Keith nervously shakes his head. Peter's been married twice already - his third fiancée is sitting somewhere in the pews - and knows the answer doesn't even matter. All can be changed later. Reverted, converted, subverted... what have you. But this is Keith's first time as a groom. And he's about to crap his pants (figuratively, of course).
"Don't sweat it," Peter consoles, though it's already too late. Keith feels like he's swimming, his body an overwhelming source of humidity in a desert so dry. "I freak out every time." There's another wink, though even Peter realizes that his statement will probably just make it worse. After all, Keith believes that his "one, true" is in a dressing room across the church. There shouldn't be another time.
Still, Keith finds it extremely difficult to maintain his cool. Point of fact is that he's already lost it. He worries that some of his reasons for getting married might not be... completely appropriate. It's a secret he holds that is dangerously close to breaking free. So close, there's no point in trying to keep it anymore.
"I'm in love with my Mother-in-Law."
Peter gags.
***
"No, no, it's not like that," Keith stammers, trying to rectify the confusion he caused.
Peter stares at his best friend through squinted eyes. His brow is ruffled. This is just completely unexpected. And, like, totally wrong. "What's it like, then?"
Keith takes a breath. He really doesn't know how to explain it. He's not in love with his Mother-in-Law (or, rather, the woman who will become his Mother-in-Law in about an hour), it's just that...
"I sort of..."
"You fuck her? Please tell me you didn't fuck her."
"Dude! No." It's Keith's turn to be flabbergasted, though he probably should've expected the question. His Mother-in-Law, Susan, isn't unattractive, and were it not for her daughter, none of his friends would've questioned Keith bedding the older woman.
"You let her watch you fuck Catherine?"
That one, no reasonable person would expect. Although, for some reason, the memory of a porn movie watched while in college flashes through Keith's mind. Peter's, too.
"What the Hell is wrong you? Let me finish!"
Peter sits forcibly down on a small chair and almost immediately falls off. He quickly regains his composure, pulls his tuxedo coat straight, then crosses his right leg over his left knee. It is both a mock and quite sincere indication that Peter would love the whole story.
***
"So, hold on, one sec," Peter's trying very hard not to laugh. "You knew Susan for a year before you met Catherine, and that's what's fucking you up? That's it? Really? Come on, Keith."
"You don't think that's weird at all?"
"What? No, why the fuck would it be?" Peter is honestly beside himself. Of all the stupid things... "You sure you didn't sleep with her?"
"I swear."
Peter smiles; he can't resist. "And you're sure you didn't let her watch you pound her daughter?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Pete. We're in a church."
As Keith and, indeed, Catherine were both agnostic, Pete finds himself again being unable to resist. "You'll get used to it."
There's a loud knock on the door. It's time.
***
Peter finishes the toast. The ceremony went down without a hitch - which resulted in a deep, slow, and relieved exhalation from Peter immediately following the "I dos" - and the reception is proceeding nicely. His speech to Keith (and Catherine) brought uproarious laughter and more than a few tears and sobs. Peter's built for the limelight, no matter how small and subjectively important. He winks at his own fiancée, Amanda, and almost finds himself unable to resist another temptation.
But he holds his tongue. Sure, it would be funny (to independent observers only, of course), but Keith genuinely loves and is genuinely in love with Catherine, so to say anything would be ridiculously rude... and unforgivably disloyal. Peter is Keith's best friend, after all.
And besides, given that Peter's about to embark on his third marriage, he muses for a moment that perhaps Keith did it the right way. Instead of picking the bride and hoping for a great mother-in-law, maybe - next time - he should try it the other way around.
Peter winks upon Keith's nervous nod, then laughs when Keith nervously shakes his head. Peter's been married twice already - his third fiancée is sitting somewhere in the pews - and knows the answer doesn't even matter. All can be changed later. Reverted, converted, subverted... what have you. But this is Keith's first time as a groom. And he's about to crap his pants (figuratively, of course).
"Don't sweat it," Peter consoles, though it's already too late. Keith feels like he's swimming, his body an overwhelming source of humidity in a desert so dry. "I freak out every time." There's another wink, though even Peter realizes that his statement will probably just make it worse. After all, Keith believes that his "one, true" is in a dressing room across the church. There shouldn't be another time.
Still, Keith finds it extremely difficult to maintain his cool. Point of fact is that he's already lost it. He worries that some of his reasons for getting married might not be... completely appropriate. It's a secret he holds that is dangerously close to breaking free. So close, there's no point in trying to keep it anymore.
"I'm in love with my Mother-in-Law."
Peter gags.
***
"No, no, it's not like that," Keith stammers, trying to rectify the confusion he caused.
Peter stares at his best friend through squinted eyes. His brow is ruffled. This is just completely unexpected. And, like, totally wrong. "What's it like, then?"
Keith takes a breath. He really doesn't know how to explain it. He's not in love with his Mother-in-Law (or, rather, the woman who will become his Mother-in-Law in about an hour), it's just that...
"I sort of..."
"You fuck her? Please tell me you didn't fuck her."
"Dude! No." It's Keith's turn to be flabbergasted, though he probably should've expected the question. His Mother-in-Law, Susan, isn't unattractive, and were it not for her daughter, none of his friends would've questioned Keith bedding the older woman.
"You let her watch you fuck Catherine?"
That one, no reasonable person would expect. Although, for some reason, the memory of a porn movie watched while in college flashes through Keith's mind. Peter's, too.
"What the Hell is wrong you? Let me finish!"
Peter sits forcibly down on a small chair and almost immediately falls off. He quickly regains his composure, pulls his tuxedo coat straight, then crosses his right leg over his left knee. It is both a mock and quite sincere indication that Peter would love the whole story.
***
"So, hold on, one sec," Peter's trying very hard not to laugh. "You knew Susan for a year before you met Catherine, and that's what's fucking you up? That's it? Really? Come on, Keith."
"You don't think that's weird at all?"
"What? No, why the fuck would it be?" Peter is honestly beside himself. Of all the stupid things... "You sure you didn't sleep with her?"
"I swear."
Peter smiles; he can't resist. "And you're sure you didn't let her watch you pound her daughter?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Pete. We're in a church."
As Keith and, indeed, Catherine were both agnostic, Pete finds himself again being unable to resist. "You'll get used to it."
There's a loud knock on the door. It's time.
***
Peter finishes the toast. The ceremony went down without a hitch - which resulted in a deep, slow, and relieved exhalation from Peter immediately following the "I dos" - and the reception is proceeding nicely. His speech to Keith (and Catherine) brought uproarious laughter and more than a few tears and sobs. Peter's built for the limelight, no matter how small and subjectively important. He winks at his own fiancée, Amanda, and almost finds himself unable to resist another temptation.
But he holds his tongue. Sure, it would be funny (to independent observers only, of course), but Keith genuinely loves and is genuinely in love with Catherine, so to say anything would be ridiculously rude... and unforgivably disloyal. Peter is Keith's best friend, after all.
And besides, given that Peter's about to embark on his third marriage, he muses for a moment that perhaps Keith did it the right way. Instead of picking the bride and hoping for a great mother-in-law, maybe - next time - he should try it the other way around.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Sagremor
He was born sometime in the latter half of 2004, shortly after the first time I moved to Wilmington, North Carolina. It was August, I think... September at the latest. I can't recall exactly, but I do have the date written down somewhere. I watched him come out of his mother, Guinevere, along with his two twin brothers - Arthur and Kay - and his twin sister, Isolde. Yes, he was part of my Cats of the Round Table, and while I fear the worst, I hope that he still is.
But he's probably dead. Being abandoned in a place where coyotes and hawks hunt freely tends to lead to that.
Sagremor wasn't always the friendliest cat, at least not as I remember. He wasn't my favorite - Guinevere and Arthur were - though my ex-girlfriend claims that he was hers (along with Tristan, from Gwen's first litter). As such, the first year-and-a-half of his life is lost on me. Upon preparing the leave Wilmington in early 2006, my ex and I made the decision to give up two of our cats. We had six, and trying to move nine animals (counting the three dogs) from North Carolina to California didn't seem like an ideal situation. So, using a strange method of determination, Kay and Sagremor were selected to be given to my ex's mother.
Now, as I implied, I didn't spend a lot of one-on-one time with Sagremor and even though I wasn't giving him up lightly, I felt that it was something that wouldn't keep me up at night. The day before he and Kay were supposed to go to their home, that all changed. For whatever reason - be it animal instinct or some other paranormal observation - both of those cats knew something was up. One at a time, they came up to me as I watched television, climbed into my lap, and pulled a cute act... cuddling at purring as if begging to stay. Obviously, given my attachment to my pets (and animals in general), they were loaded into the back of the truck with the other seven four-pawed members of my family.
Once in the West, misfortune forced all of us to settle in a small desert town in Northern Nevada. It was there that four of the cats - Isolde, Guinevere, Arthur, and Tristan - disappeared (I later saw Isolde and Guinevere hunting together in the middle of the desert a few miles away, but that's another story). Sagremor and Kay, however, stuck around as if to emphasize their loyalty to me for making the choice to remain loyal to them. I miss the others, sure, and often dream of them, but Sagremor and Kay became my favorites... and not just by default of them being the only ones left.
Sagremor was, by all accounts, a cuddling cat. He liked to hunt, loved the outdoors, but he always came back within a few hours to use the bathroom and take advantage of a free hand for a petting. He had an obnoxiously loud meow, but it was an effective tool to let one know that he wanted inside (or outside, depending). He loved being picked up, held upside like a baby, and having his stomach rubbed. And he had ridiculously long teeth... so long that I often called him "Vampire Cat." He also had a recurring problem with his wrists and could often be seen limping, particularly after attempting too high a jump (usually from the top of a refrigerator).
Like all cats, he hated traveling by car, but he tolerated it as we returned to Wilmington in the summer of 2007, settled in a sub-let, then settled again in our own place (barely 15 minutes from where he was born), then left again in October of 2009. He tolerated living in a garage outside of Fort Bragg while I tried to tie as many loose ends as I could before returning to the West.
Upon our return, I knew that I would need to place him temporarily with someone while I yet again found us a home. So I left him with my sister, thinking he would be well-taken care of and babied as much as he was used to. While I stayed with her, she let him (and Kay) in the house, got familiar enough with him so he'd sleep on her lap, and everything appeared to be going according to plan. But, on Wednesday, May 12, I left for Seattle to take care of some things. I last saw him cleaning his brother's forehead in my sister's living room. He looked happy.
She kicked him out of the house while I was away. In my head, I know what happened, because I know Sagremor very well. No doubt from his "let-me-in" meows being ignored, he took off in search of friendlier pastures... pastures that were never meant for him to find. I've been scouring the desert, all through the night for the past two days, in an attempt to bring him home.
There's a chance this eulogy is false, rash, and the result of too pessimistic an imagination, and I hope this to be the case. But in that there are no signs of him, combined with the strange behavior of his brother - behavior I saw in Tristan when Isolde disappeared - he's probably dead. And I will lose sleep over it.
*Serendipity smiles upon me... within 20 minutes of this post going up, the chubby bastard came home. He'd been gone for almost 8 days. I'll admit, I overreacted. But I'm happy and don't care if you sneer, roll your eyes, or laugh. And neither does his brother, who seems happier than I am.
But he's probably dead. Being abandoned in a place where coyotes and hawks hunt freely tends to lead to that.
Sagremor wasn't always the friendliest cat, at least not as I remember. He wasn't my favorite - Guinevere and Arthur were - though my ex-girlfriend claims that he was hers (along with Tristan, from Gwen's first litter). As such, the first year-and-a-half of his life is lost on me. Upon preparing the leave Wilmington in early 2006, my ex and I made the decision to give up two of our cats. We had six, and trying to move nine animals (counting the three dogs) from North Carolina to California didn't seem like an ideal situation. So, using a strange method of determination, Kay and Sagremor were selected to be given to my ex's mother.
Now, as I implied, I didn't spend a lot of one-on-one time with Sagremor and even though I wasn't giving him up lightly, I felt that it was something that wouldn't keep me up at night. The day before he and Kay were supposed to go to their home, that all changed. For whatever reason - be it animal instinct or some other paranormal observation - both of those cats knew something was up. One at a time, they came up to me as I watched television, climbed into my lap, and pulled a cute act... cuddling at purring as if begging to stay. Obviously, given my attachment to my pets (and animals in general), they were loaded into the back of the truck with the other seven four-pawed members of my family.
Once in the West, misfortune forced all of us to settle in a small desert town in Northern Nevada. It was there that four of the cats - Isolde, Guinevere, Arthur, and Tristan - disappeared (I later saw Isolde and Guinevere hunting together in the middle of the desert a few miles away, but that's another story). Sagremor and Kay, however, stuck around as if to emphasize their loyalty to me for making the choice to remain loyal to them. I miss the others, sure, and often dream of them, but Sagremor and Kay became my favorites... and not just by default of them being the only ones left.
Sagremor was, by all accounts, a cuddling cat. He liked to hunt, loved the outdoors, but he always came back within a few hours to use the bathroom and take advantage of a free hand for a petting. He had an obnoxiously loud meow, but it was an effective tool to let one know that he wanted inside (or outside, depending). He loved being picked up, held upside like a baby, and having his stomach rubbed. And he had ridiculously long teeth... so long that I often called him "Vampire Cat." He also had a recurring problem with his wrists and could often be seen limping, particularly after attempting too high a jump (usually from the top of a refrigerator).
Like all cats, he hated traveling by car, but he tolerated it as we returned to Wilmington in the summer of 2007, settled in a sub-let, then settled again in our own place (barely 15 minutes from where he was born), then left again in October of 2009. He tolerated living in a garage outside of Fort Bragg while I tried to tie as many loose ends as I could before returning to the West.
Upon our return, I knew that I would need to place him temporarily with someone while I yet again found us a home. So I left him with my sister, thinking he would be well-taken care of and babied as much as he was used to. While I stayed with her, she let him (and Kay) in the house, got familiar enough with him so he'd sleep on her lap, and everything appeared to be going according to plan. But, on Wednesday, May 12, I left for Seattle to take care of some things. I last saw him cleaning his brother's forehead in my sister's living room. He looked happy.
She kicked him out of the house while I was away. In my head, I know what happened, because I know Sagremor very well. No doubt from his "let-me-in" meows being ignored, he took off in search of friendlier pastures... pastures that were never meant for him to find. I've been scouring the desert, all through the night for the past two days, in an attempt to bring him home.
There's a chance this eulogy is false, rash, and the result of too pessimistic an imagination, and I hope this to be the case. But in that there are no signs of him, combined with the strange behavior of his brother - behavior I saw in Tristan when Isolde disappeared - he's probably dead. And I will lose sleep over it.
*Serendipity smiles upon me... within 20 minutes of this post going up, the chubby bastard came home. He'd been gone for almost 8 days. I'll admit, I overreacted. But I'm happy and don't care if you sneer, roll your eyes, or laugh. And neither does his brother, who seems happier than I am.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Scheherazadi, Part I
"A malicious pill for a malicious thrill, eh?"
"I hate it when you talk like that." I really do. There's something about tech-djinn that irritates me. It's either the ridiculous tattoos they sport or the alarming amount of cybernetic implants that stick out of their bodies. But I take the pill anyway.
"How? Maliciously?"
I really want to smack that grin off its face.
The pill works quickly and I can feel the djinn plugging me into the golem, barely. It's been a while since I've gone for a ride and I guess I forgot about the numbness. But, desperate measures for desperate times, right?
***
Forgive me. You probably have no idea what's going on. Earth is a desert wasteland in my time and there aren't very many people left. A few dozen-million, if that. Yeah, the polar icecaps melted - well, one of them - but not for reasons you're thinking. Some assholes started a nuclear shootout. With all the interceptor defense systems, most of those bad boys got knocked down over the North Pole, it being under the flight path of those damned things. It's amazing what fallout can do to ice.
Long-story short: the Arctic disappeared, water went everywhere, and everything heated up. Literally and figuratively. Oh, the Antarctic is still around, but it's mostly exposed rock now. Who knew?
***
"Golem 2-7, up." My voice sounds funny when it's mechanized. I burst through the sand trap and check the heat shields. Five by five. Weapons-check follows. I'm good there, too. Most golem-drivers check their guns first, but I've seen what a fucked up heat shield can do, and I'm not into that.
"2-7, 2-6. TRP alpha. Your discretion."
2-6 is my squad leader. I've never actually met her in person - Hell, I don't even know what dune she lives under - but her robot voice sure does turn me on. Then again, being given a "your discretion" order always turns me on.
***
Sorry, again. You probably still don't have a clue what's happening. Screwing up Mama Earth didn't unite humanity in a Utopian movement to save her. Instead, it just made land more valuable, as arid and useless as it is. Valuable land tends to start wars. Ah, humanity. How blessed are we?
Anyway...
The golem is a third-generation mech-suit and currently the pinnacle of battlefield technology. And I fucking love 'em. First-gen golems were garbage. Conventional tanks and aircraft typically made being a golem-driver the most dangerous job a soldier could have. Second-gen golems were better, but only marginally. They were more mobile, sure, but much harder to learn how to drive. Golem-drivers were their own worst enemies in 2G systems. Then some yahoo figured out how to transfer human consciousness into machines. Even with the 3G interface system in tanks and aircraft, the golems became the kings of war. And everyone wanted to drive one. They afford one of the few available methods of actually walking on the surface of the planet. Still, if we die in one, our bodies go brain-dead. There's a catch to everything, no?
***
I see the target and I light it up with incendiaries. Some weapons cache or something. At least, that's what I was told. I'll never know, of course, me being a dumb grunt and all. I've been offered promotions to operations, but what sane person would give up driving one of these things? And besides, I happen to like seeing the sun.
"2-7, this is Djinn. Your FLUV is picking up something strange."
I need to quit soliloquizing. I didn't even notice it. But, yep, it's strange. It's a group of signatures, packed closely together to look like a larger signature. And it looks...
"This is Djinn. Are those animals?"
What the fuck? No, they're not animals. I switch from incendiaries to guns, more from reflex than any desire to kill. I think I'm seeing something I shouldn't be seeing, and because I think I'm seeing it... I can't pull the fucking trigger.
"Djinn, this is 2-7. Not animals." Fuck me. "They're people."
One points a large tube my direction. I'm still in shock, though every sinew of tissue in my fingers is screaming to open fire. There's a flash. I'm currently staring at them through visual specs, and I mistake the flash for a reflective glint of the sun. There's no mistaking that impact, though. I don't feel the golem falling because I'm passing out. This feels strangely like I've taken another pill.
*To be continued... maybe... in The Scheherazadi, Part II
"I hate it when you talk like that." I really do. There's something about tech-djinn that irritates me. It's either the ridiculous tattoos they sport or the alarming amount of cybernetic implants that stick out of their bodies. But I take the pill anyway.
"How? Maliciously?"
I really want to smack that grin off its face.
The pill works quickly and I can feel the djinn plugging me into the golem, barely. It's been a while since I've gone for a ride and I guess I forgot about the numbness. But, desperate measures for desperate times, right?
***
Forgive me. You probably have no idea what's going on. Earth is a desert wasteland in my time and there aren't very many people left. A few dozen-million, if that. Yeah, the polar icecaps melted - well, one of them - but not for reasons you're thinking. Some assholes started a nuclear shootout. With all the interceptor defense systems, most of those bad boys got knocked down over the North Pole, it being under the flight path of those damned things. It's amazing what fallout can do to ice.
Long-story short: the Arctic disappeared, water went everywhere, and everything heated up. Literally and figuratively. Oh, the Antarctic is still around, but it's mostly exposed rock now. Who knew?
***
"Golem 2-7, up." My voice sounds funny when it's mechanized. I burst through the sand trap and check the heat shields. Five by five. Weapons-check follows. I'm good there, too. Most golem-drivers check their guns first, but I've seen what a fucked up heat shield can do, and I'm not into that.
"2-7, 2-6. TRP alpha. Your discretion."
2-6 is my squad leader. I've never actually met her in person - Hell, I don't even know what dune she lives under - but her robot voice sure does turn me on. Then again, being given a "your discretion" order always turns me on.
***
Sorry, again. You probably still don't have a clue what's happening. Screwing up Mama Earth didn't unite humanity in a Utopian movement to save her. Instead, it just made land more valuable, as arid and useless as it is. Valuable land tends to start wars. Ah, humanity. How blessed are we?
Anyway...
The golem is a third-generation mech-suit and currently the pinnacle of battlefield technology. And I fucking love 'em. First-gen golems were garbage. Conventional tanks and aircraft typically made being a golem-driver the most dangerous job a soldier could have. Second-gen golems were better, but only marginally. They were more mobile, sure, but much harder to learn how to drive. Golem-drivers were their own worst enemies in 2G systems. Then some yahoo figured out how to transfer human consciousness into machines. Even with the 3G interface system in tanks and aircraft, the golems became the kings of war. And everyone wanted to drive one. They afford one of the few available methods of actually walking on the surface of the planet. Still, if we die in one, our bodies go brain-dead. There's a catch to everything, no?
***
I see the target and I light it up with incendiaries. Some weapons cache or something. At least, that's what I was told. I'll never know, of course, me being a dumb grunt and all. I've been offered promotions to operations, but what sane person would give up driving one of these things? And besides, I happen to like seeing the sun.
"2-7, this is Djinn. Your FLUV is picking up something strange."
I need to quit soliloquizing. I didn't even notice it. But, yep, it's strange. It's a group of signatures, packed closely together to look like a larger signature. And it looks...
"This is Djinn. Are those animals?"
What the fuck? No, they're not animals. I switch from incendiaries to guns, more from reflex than any desire to kill. I think I'm seeing something I shouldn't be seeing, and because I think I'm seeing it... I can't pull the fucking trigger.
"Djinn, this is 2-7. Not animals." Fuck me. "They're people."
One points a large tube my direction. I'm still in shock, though every sinew of tissue in my fingers is screaming to open fire. There's a flash. I'm currently staring at them through visual specs, and I mistake the flash for a reflective glint of the sun. There's no mistaking that impact, though. I don't feel the golem falling because I'm passing out. This feels strangely like I've taken another pill.
*To be continued... maybe... in The Scheherazadi, Part II
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Correspondence
*adult content
Enclosed is a photo with my little league baseball team. I'm the cute one. - KW
Yes, you are cute. I find baseball boring. I prefer football. - AM
Football? I didn't know the French played football. - KW
You call it soccer, silly. Soccer. What an ugly word. - AM
That conversation took three weeks to have.
***
She's barely stepped through the front door before he throws her on the couch. He can't help himself. Doesn't want to. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Serendipity made them pen-pals in the third grade. A love of correspondence kept them that way. Even in high school, when email started becoming prolific, they preferred to read the hand-writing of the other. Subtext lost in sans-serif remained in the lines and curves of ink. Email did, however, become their primary method of exchanging photographs... they've known what each other has looked like throughout their lives. Their voices, however, remained mysteries to each other until a few weeks ago.
She had written that she was coming to the United States. Not to visit him, of course, but to interview for jobs in New York and Los Angeles. He was excited that they would finally be on the same continent, but living just north of Dallas, he didn't think they would have the chance to meet during her trip.
An irresistible need to alleviate being alone changed all that.
She's smiling through their kiss and begins to laugh. Pushing him off slightly, she looks up and says, "Hello." There's almost another laugh, but their mouths draw together too quickly. During their long correspondence, they always managed to maintain a platonic facade. That wall has fallen, and neither would have it any other way.
***
I am not sure. He has been aggressive. I want to travel and he wants me to settle down. - AM
Nah, don't settle. The world is there to be seen, you know? - KW
I left him. I'm going to blame you if this does not work in my favor. - AM
I'll buy you a coffee if it doesn't. - KW
Are you going to mail it to me? - AM
Got a gift card loaded with Euros just in case. - KW
That one took three days.
***
She lands gently on his bed, knees bent firmly on its edge. Her skirt is flipped up and she's in no mood to wait for him to undress. She motions him closer with her left hand and shifts her panties to the side with her right. He never even notices their color before she grabs his hair and pulls him in. Perhaps they are pink, but from his vantage, everything is pink.
***
"Hello?"
"Hello. This is Audrey."
"Holy shit. How are you? You sound... hot."
"I am hot. You know this."
"I suppose I do. What's up? Wow. This is weird."
"I am coming to America to interview for work."
"No shit?"
Three minutes.
***
She's on top, facing away from him. His hands lay gently on her hips, her silhouette arousing him more than he thought possible. She turns her heads and smiles, her profile seeming to glow blue in the absence of artificial light, then leans back onto his chest. Their eyes meet for moment before she playfully cranes her neck, exposing it to his awaiting mouth. She wants him to do something, but he's unsure of what. Confused, his hands begin to probe her body, fingers joining in lustful exploration.
"No, like this." There is no awkwardness in her command, and he feels no embarrassment in obeying. The language of their bodies becomes as fluent as their tongues.
***
"Will you?"
A smile, a nervous laugh. She covers her face in uninhibited joy. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Thousands of sheets of paper exchanged between them lead to a simple answer:
"Of course. Yes."
Three seconds.
Enclosed is a photo with my little league baseball team. I'm the cute one. - KW
Yes, you are cute. I find baseball boring. I prefer football. - AM
Football? I didn't know the French played football. - KW
You call it soccer, silly. Soccer. What an ugly word. - AM
That conversation took three weeks to have.
***
She's barely stepped through the front door before he throws her on the couch. He can't help himself. Doesn't want to. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Serendipity made them pen-pals in the third grade. A love of correspondence kept them that way. Even in high school, when email started becoming prolific, they preferred to read the hand-writing of the other. Subtext lost in sans-serif remained in the lines and curves of ink. Email did, however, become their primary method of exchanging photographs... they've known what each other has looked like throughout their lives. Their voices, however, remained mysteries to each other until a few weeks ago.
She had written that she was coming to the United States. Not to visit him, of course, but to interview for jobs in New York and Los Angeles. He was excited that they would finally be on the same continent, but living just north of Dallas, he didn't think they would have the chance to meet during her trip.
An irresistible need to alleviate being alone changed all that.
She's smiling through their kiss and begins to laugh. Pushing him off slightly, she looks up and says, "Hello." There's almost another laugh, but their mouths draw together too quickly. During their long correspondence, they always managed to maintain a platonic facade. That wall has fallen, and neither would have it any other way.
***
I am not sure. He has been aggressive. I want to travel and he wants me to settle down. - AM
Nah, don't settle. The world is there to be seen, you know? - KW
I left him. I'm going to blame you if this does not work in my favor. - AM
I'll buy you a coffee if it doesn't. - KW
Are you going to mail it to me? - AM
Got a gift card loaded with Euros just in case. - KW
That one took three days.
***
She lands gently on his bed, knees bent firmly on its edge. Her skirt is flipped up and she's in no mood to wait for him to undress. She motions him closer with her left hand and shifts her panties to the side with her right. He never even notices their color before she grabs his hair and pulls him in. Perhaps they are pink, but from his vantage, everything is pink.
***
"Hello?"
"Hello. This is Audrey."
"Holy shit. How are you? You sound... hot."
"I am hot. You know this."
"I suppose I do. What's up? Wow. This is weird."
"I am coming to America to interview for work."
"No shit?"
Three minutes.
***
She's on top, facing away from him. His hands lay gently on her hips, her silhouette arousing him more than he thought possible. She turns her heads and smiles, her profile seeming to glow blue in the absence of artificial light, then leans back onto his chest. Their eyes meet for moment before she playfully cranes her neck, exposing it to his awaiting mouth. She wants him to do something, but he's unsure of what. Confused, his hands begin to probe her body, fingers joining in lustful exploration.
"No, like this." There is no awkwardness in her command, and he feels no embarrassment in obeying. The language of their bodies becomes as fluent as their tongues.
***
"Will you?"
A smile, a nervous laugh. She covers her face in uninhibited joy. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Thousands of sheets of paper exchanged between them lead to a simple answer:
"Of course. Yes."
Three seconds.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Gaia's Lust
They say the night is to be feared. She thinks they are all idiots. It is under the stars that the Earth feels free. She relishes her clear skies, her crisp air. And her children seem to finally admire her. Sometimes, she wishes the Sun would fade away. Then perhaps her children might sleep long enough to allow her to recover. She is an old woman, after all, though still beautiful. She is Gaia. And she misses her lover, Ouranos.
If only that blasted Apollo would go away, the intrusive bastard. She much preferred Helios. At least he respected his grandmother. That ingrate Zeus, on the other hand... what with his favorite toys and desire for control. And creating Pandora as a punishment to man. Arrogant and stupid, the god of lightning. Though ultimately responsible for her current woes, Gaia secretly relishes the fact that Pandora opened that stupid jar, for it caused Zeus as much distress as his... men... have caused her.
Oh, for the days when Chaos reigned supreme. Everything in its proper order, working as it should. How hypocritical of humanity to attribute the name of her mother/father to confusion and unpredictability. It was only within Chaos that Gaia made love to the sky.
She still longed for Ouranos. Not out of love, but pure lust. A desire incorruptible by feeble emotions such as anger or fear. Or jealously. The blanket of his body wrapped around her green and blue dress. Above her, beside her, beneath her. How he carried her while penetrating the silhouette of her body. How he never paused in caress as her body quivered beneath his overwhelming weightlessness. Oceans and floods would come and go. And her breath would be loud, violent, and often wet. She wanted him everywhere, again and again, and all the time. The extended orgasm of time and tide as life fertilized within her and sprung from her loins. Constantly pregnant, yet constantly fucking.
If only humans knew what that was like. They'd be too busy to scar her delicate skin. Perhaps, because of the scars, Ouranos no longer finds her desirable.
Gaia sighs, resigned to the fact that it's all inevitable. Apollo is not her enemy... only one diurnal species of life is. An acne on her glorious visage.
Diurnal. She sighs again. Let there be light never seemed so evil a proposition. She should beg Ouranos to send her another rock. Or trick Zeus into showing her Pandora's jar. It is rumored that Hope remains within, after all. And Gaia is very much in need of some. And is very much in want of sex.
If only that blasted Apollo would go away, the intrusive bastard. She much preferred Helios. At least he respected his grandmother. That ingrate Zeus, on the other hand... what with his favorite toys and desire for control. And creating Pandora as a punishment to man. Arrogant and stupid, the god of lightning. Though ultimately responsible for her current woes, Gaia secretly relishes the fact that Pandora opened that stupid jar, for it caused Zeus as much distress as his... men... have caused her.
Oh, for the days when Chaos reigned supreme. Everything in its proper order, working as it should. How hypocritical of humanity to attribute the name of her mother/father to confusion and unpredictability. It was only within Chaos that Gaia made love to the sky.
She still longed for Ouranos. Not out of love, but pure lust. A desire incorruptible by feeble emotions such as anger or fear. Or jealously. The blanket of his body wrapped around her green and blue dress. Above her, beside her, beneath her. How he carried her while penetrating the silhouette of her body. How he never paused in caress as her body quivered beneath his overwhelming weightlessness. Oceans and floods would come and go. And her breath would be loud, violent, and often wet. She wanted him everywhere, again and again, and all the time. The extended orgasm of time and tide as life fertilized within her and sprung from her loins. Constantly pregnant, yet constantly fucking.
If only humans knew what that was like. They'd be too busy to scar her delicate skin. Perhaps, because of the scars, Ouranos no longer finds her desirable.
Gaia sighs, resigned to the fact that it's all inevitable. Apollo is not her enemy... only one diurnal species of life is. An acne on her glorious visage.
Diurnal. She sighs again. Let there be light never seemed so evil a proposition. She should beg Ouranos to send her another rock. Or trick Zeus into showing her Pandora's jar. It is rumored that Hope remains within, after all. And Gaia is very much in need of some. And is very much in want of sex.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Shadow and Sign
* a continuation of The Blinking Moon
Typically, a Beretta 391 makes its wielder feel powerful and safe. Typically, however, the wielder is the hunter. Not tonight.
The sun set over an hour ago and now twilight is fading into black. There's no moon tonight and he curses his timing. He had noticed the new moon symbol on the calendar before he left to come here, but was incensed from the local sheriff's decision to stop the search for his sister and her boyfriend. Even if he weren't, he's not sure if he'd have noticed the significance, anyway. But now, with three of his four rounds already fired from his 12-gauge and his ammunition box floating somewhere down a river - along with the rest of his pack - he's more than aware that he can't see. He can occasionally make out the silhouettes of the top of the trees, but most of the forest is too thick to navigate reliably via the stars. There was a brief consideration of staying put and walking out in the morning, but whatever is hunting him is clearly maneuvering him deeper into the woods.
Had he more ammunition, he'd fight such a manipulation. But he doesn't. And now he can't see.
He can, however, hear it growling. It seems to know the forest well, so well that it knows when sounds will bounce off of slight elevations in the terrain, almost random rock formations, and thickenings in the woods, making tracking by ear impossible. This is no surprise to him. Why wouldn't it, after all? This is its home. The old cliché applies here: the man is alien and intruder.
The river, he knows, is somewhere behind him. That he can barely hear the rushing water is good news. Without the ability to safely cross the rapids, the river is nothing more than a wall to be backed in to, and with one round left, being cornered is not something that appeals.
An owl somewhere reminds him that he's going to die.
***
All Hunting Permits Are Revoked Until Further Notice. The sign was hastily scrawled, probably by some young deputy whose usual job is answering telephones at the sheriff's station. It was placed underneath a professional sign that read No Hunting. One of those flip signs that forest rangers would drive around and open up when the season started.
His sister and her boyfriend had gone camping the week before hunting season would officially open. She was a bit of a nature lover and it was theorized that she might have confronted an early hunter, and such confrontation had turned ugly. But the blood and tissue that was found at her campsite suggested something else. A bear, maybe, or a mountain lion. Still, though local law enforcement has yet to release their findings publicly, something about the way they tried to describe the scene to him hinted that this was no animal, either.
He felt that they were being honest with him and was fine - as fine as he could have been - with letting the sheriff handle the search. But their cancellation of it changed his mind.
***
Sneaking past the rangers and the deputies was easy. There is just way too much land for a small sheriff's department and an even smaller forestry service detachment to cordon off. Finding the camp site had been easy, too. Investigators and rescuers had tramped their way to the tent and back out again. Plenty of foliage had been broken and stomped through. Indeed, finding the trail of the animal that might not be an animal was just as easy. Easier, probably. It had left sign everywhere.
It never even occurred to him that whatever it is had done so on purpose.
***
Its growl is terrifying. He's heard similar creatures, including wolves, but one can typically follow a wolf growl as it encircles a position. This one goes silent and reappears elsewhere, often behind him. There's been a few times that he swears he heard it coming from the trees above. Only a few hours ago, such a notion would have been silly to him, but now he's not so sure. He's not sure of anything. Including the wind.
Is it moving branches? Or is that a gentle breeze?
Were there more light he could've seen the shadow move, as innocuous or malicious at it is, but he's blind. There's only the sound of the shotgun blast. Then nothing, save an owl. The same one?
Another hoot again reminds him that he's going to die. He can only hope that the thing doesn't know his gun is empty.
***
Had he not succumbed to a heart attack in the middle of the night, he'd have discovered that he hit it. And that it isn't the only one out there. Had he made it back to his truck and checked his voicemail, he'd have learned that his other sister is on her way out to the woods. And is unarmed.
Typically, a Beretta 391 makes its wielder feel powerful and safe. Typically, however, the wielder is the hunter. Not tonight.
The sun set over an hour ago and now twilight is fading into black. There's no moon tonight and he curses his timing. He had noticed the new moon symbol on the calendar before he left to come here, but was incensed from the local sheriff's decision to stop the search for his sister and her boyfriend. Even if he weren't, he's not sure if he'd have noticed the significance, anyway. But now, with three of his four rounds already fired from his 12-gauge and his ammunition box floating somewhere down a river - along with the rest of his pack - he's more than aware that he can't see. He can occasionally make out the silhouettes of the top of the trees, but most of the forest is too thick to navigate reliably via the stars. There was a brief consideration of staying put and walking out in the morning, but whatever is hunting him is clearly maneuvering him deeper into the woods.
Had he more ammunition, he'd fight such a manipulation. But he doesn't. And now he can't see.
He can, however, hear it growling. It seems to know the forest well, so well that it knows when sounds will bounce off of slight elevations in the terrain, almost random rock formations, and thickenings in the woods, making tracking by ear impossible. This is no surprise to him. Why wouldn't it, after all? This is its home. The old cliché applies here: the man is alien and intruder.
The river, he knows, is somewhere behind him. That he can barely hear the rushing water is good news. Without the ability to safely cross the rapids, the river is nothing more than a wall to be backed in to, and with one round left, being cornered is not something that appeals.
An owl somewhere reminds him that he's going to die.
***
All Hunting Permits Are Revoked Until Further Notice. The sign was hastily scrawled, probably by some young deputy whose usual job is answering telephones at the sheriff's station. It was placed underneath a professional sign that read No Hunting. One of those flip signs that forest rangers would drive around and open up when the season started.
His sister and her boyfriend had gone camping the week before hunting season would officially open. She was a bit of a nature lover and it was theorized that she might have confronted an early hunter, and such confrontation had turned ugly. But the blood and tissue that was found at her campsite suggested something else. A bear, maybe, or a mountain lion. Still, though local law enforcement has yet to release their findings publicly, something about the way they tried to describe the scene to him hinted that this was no animal, either.
He felt that they were being honest with him and was fine - as fine as he could have been - with letting the sheriff handle the search. But their cancellation of it changed his mind.
***
Sneaking past the rangers and the deputies was easy. There is just way too much land for a small sheriff's department and an even smaller forestry service detachment to cordon off. Finding the camp site had been easy, too. Investigators and rescuers had tramped their way to the tent and back out again. Plenty of foliage had been broken and stomped through. Indeed, finding the trail of the animal that might not be an animal was just as easy. Easier, probably. It had left sign everywhere.
It never even occurred to him that whatever it is had done so on purpose.
***
Its growl is terrifying. He's heard similar creatures, including wolves, but one can typically follow a wolf growl as it encircles a position. This one goes silent and reappears elsewhere, often behind him. There's been a few times that he swears he heard it coming from the trees above. Only a few hours ago, such a notion would have been silly to him, but now he's not so sure. He's not sure of anything. Including the wind.
Is it moving branches? Or is that a gentle breeze?
Were there more light he could've seen the shadow move, as innocuous or malicious at it is, but he's blind. There's only the sound of the shotgun blast. Then nothing, save an owl. The same one?
Another hoot again reminds him that he's going to die. He can only hope that the thing doesn't know his gun is empty.
***
Had he not succumbed to a heart attack in the middle of the night, he'd have discovered that he hit it. And that it isn't the only one out there. Had he made it back to his truck and checked his voicemail, he'd have learned that his other sister is on her way out to the woods. And is unarmed.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Halos
"You scared, Jimmy? It's okay. If you're scared, say you're scared."
"I ain't scared."
Point of fact is that I was scared. Still am, really, and probably even more so. Though I never told my parents what I did while they were alive, they most certainly know now. I've done a lot of wicked and cruel things in my life, but what I did that day is the only thing that is... unforgivable.
Mrs. Taylor kept to herself. She was not an old woman. Early 50s at the time it happened, she might have looked 60 or so, but that's what happens when life gets too stressful or, in her case, too depressing. Of course, I didn't know that then. All I knew about her was that she had money and how her smile looked when she bothered to say hello as people walked by on the street. Other than that, she didn't interact very often with anybody. My mother was the only person who - to my knowledge - had ever been in her house. Mrs. Taylor hadn't even owned a car, preferring to ride a bicycle to wherever she needed to go.
All the really young kids thought that she might be a witch. Those slightly older imagined her as a cannibal, preying on unsuspecting children, despite the complete lack of kidnappings and disappearances in our neighborhood. By the time one reached high school, she ceased to be much of a curiosity to anybody. But I hadn't been in high school yet.
Whenever she rode by, everyone took notice of a floppy red hat that either stuck out of her oversized purse or was otherwise attached to her clothing. Perhaps tucked away under a belt or shoved into a pocket. No matter what she wore or what she was doing, she had that floppy red hat with her. But never, and I am not exaggerating, did she ever have it on her head. She never wore it. She simply kept it with her.
I, and my friends, were at the age when the witch stories were fading and the cannibal stories were brightening. You could say that, at the time, we viewed her as a spell-casting eater of human flesh.
"Well, are you going to do it?" John was, by and large, the leader of our little group. It wasn't because he was the biggest - which he was - but that he had the strange ability to manipulate everyone around him. Well, everyone his age, anyway.
"Yeah, I'm going to do it." I knew then that I shouldn't, but peer pressure is ridiculously powerful at that age, especially when Sally Foster happened to be there staring at me. Maybe I should mention that Sally Foster became my first wife, but then again, that might just make this story worse.
"I hear she sleeps with it." Billy always had a propensity to exaggerate - still does - and even then I assumed that he was just embellishing the tale. In retrospect, however, I now vaguely recall my mother talking to my father about the hat one night, and she had mentioned that Mrs. Taylor had indeed slept with it. Heck, now that I think about it, I think my mother might have known why Mrs. Taylor carried it around. Should have asked her. Hindsight, you know?
But the truth was she didn't sleep with it. Not on the bed, anyway. When I had broken into the house and sneaked up to the second floor, I spotted that floppy red hat on her nightstand, placed carefully next to a black and white photo of an older man - her husband - and a color photo of a younger - her son. At the time, I thought nothing of it; merely relished in the fact that I could walk so silently. I remember that the clock on her other nightstand read 3:13 AM. I remember the slight red hue to the room from both the clock and a decorative nightlight on the other wall. I remember everything about it.
And, yes, I took the hat.
Before I could tell everyone the next day that I retrieved it, Mrs. Taylor was at my front door, frantically explaining something to my mother. I knew immediately that whatever was going on was about the hat. And I knew, probably even prior to that, that I was in a world of trouble. So I did the sensible thing that all sensible children do: I hid the hat and kept my mouth shut.
Mrs. Taylor killed herself three days later.
Years later, when I returned from a tour of duty overseas, I found the red hat still tucked away in my closet. It wasn't red at all, but maroon. Made of wool; a leather sweatband; a drawstring cut and burned, obviously sized for a specific head. A beret. When I first joined the Army, I wore a black one. Maroon was reserved for the Airborne. Those crazy bastards who somehow thought jumping out of airplanes was the best way to attack an enemy. I didn't know any of this when I took... no, when I stole the hat.
It was upon my decision to research how Mrs. Taylor acquired the beret that I finally learned the truth.
***
Local Hero Buried With Full Military Honors
By Stephanie Jenkins
Wilmington, NC (AP) - Kyle Taylor, graduate of New Hanover High School, was buried amid a 21-gun salute and a military funeral detail on Saturday. A paratrooper of the vaunted 82nd Airborne Division out of Fort Bragg and a two-time recipient of the Silver Star, Taylor was killed during an unspecified operation last Monday. Known locally for wearing the maroon beret of his father, Kevin Taylor, who was killed in action 17 years ago this July. Kyle's squad leader personally ensured that the beret made its way safely to Kyle's sole-surviving relative, his mother Genevieve.
***
I was arrested for digging up her grave in an ill-advised attempt to place the beret in her casket. Mrs. Taylor's sister, then herself on her deathbed, gave permission to exhume the grave in order for the beret to be reunited with its rightful owner.
Though all chargers were dropped - thanks to the sister - and my chain of command declined to pursue a military investigation, I know I await final judgment. St. Michael, the patron saint of warriors and paratroopers, cannot possibly bless a man who has desecrated the memory of two of his chosen. Still, needing to face - and, maybe, hasten - my punishment, I am now a paratrooper, at the whim of the wings and the sword of an angel so powerful. I'm not sure I've slept a full night in years.
May Mrs. Taylor forgive me. Even if St. Michael never does.
"I ain't scared."
Point of fact is that I was scared. Still am, really, and probably even more so. Though I never told my parents what I did while they were alive, they most certainly know now. I've done a lot of wicked and cruel things in my life, but what I did that day is the only thing that is... unforgivable.
Mrs. Taylor kept to herself. She was not an old woman. Early 50s at the time it happened, she might have looked 60 or so, but that's what happens when life gets too stressful or, in her case, too depressing. Of course, I didn't know that then. All I knew about her was that she had money and how her smile looked when she bothered to say hello as people walked by on the street. Other than that, she didn't interact very often with anybody. My mother was the only person who - to my knowledge - had ever been in her house. Mrs. Taylor hadn't even owned a car, preferring to ride a bicycle to wherever she needed to go.
All the really young kids thought that she might be a witch. Those slightly older imagined her as a cannibal, preying on unsuspecting children, despite the complete lack of kidnappings and disappearances in our neighborhood. By the time one reached high school, she ceased to be much of a curiosity to anybody. But I hadn't been in high school yet.
Whenever she rode by, everyone took notice of a floppy red hat that either stuck out of her oversized purse or was otherwise attached to her clothing. Perhaps tucked away under a belt or shoved into a pocket. No matter what she wore or what she was doing, she had that floppy red hat with her. But never, and I am not exaggerating, did she ever have it on her head. She never wore it. She simply kept it with her.
I, and my friends, were at the age when the witch stories were fading and the cannibal stories were brightening. You could say that, at the time, we viewed her as a spell-casting eater of human flesh.
"Well, are you going to do it?" John was, by and large, the leader of our little group. It wasn't because he was the biggest - which he was - but that he had the strange ability to manipulate everyone around him. Well, everyone his age, anyway.
"Yeah, I'm going to do it." I knew then that I shouldn't, but peer pressure is ridiculously powerful at that age, especially when Sally Foster happened to be there staring at me. Maybe I should mention that Sally Foster became my first wife, but then again, that might just make this story worse.
"I hear she sleeps with it." Billy always had a propensity to exaggerate - still does - and even then I assumed that he was just embellishing the tale. In retrospect, however, I now vaguely recall my mother talking to my father about the hat one night, and she had mentioned that Mrs. Taylor had indeed slept with it. Heck, now that I think about it, I think my mother might have known why Mrs. Taylor carried it around. Should have asked her. Hindsight, you know?
But the truth was she didn't sleep with it. Not on the bed, anyway. When I had broken into the house and sneaked up to the second floor, I spotted that floppy red hat on her nightstand, placed carefully next to a black and white photo of an older man - her husband - and a color photo of a younger - her son. At the time, I thought nothing of it; merely relished in the fact that I could walk so silently. I remember that the clock on her other nightstand read 3:13 AM. I remember the slight red hue to the room from both the clock and a decorative nightlight on the other wall. I remember everything about it.
And, yes, I took the hat.
Before I could tell everyone the next day that I retrieved it, Mrs. Taylor was at my front door, frantically explaining something to my mother. I knew immediately that whatever was going on was about the hat. And I knew, probably even prior to that, that I was in a world of trouble. So I did the sensible thing that all sensible children do: I hid the hat and kept my mouth shut.
Mrs. Taylor killed herself three days later.
Years later, when I returned from a tour of duty overseas, I found the red hat still tucked away in my closet. It wasn't red at all, but maroon. Made of wool; a leather sweatband; a drawstring cut and burned, obviously sized for a specific head. A beret. When I first joined the Army, I wore a black one. Maroon was reserved for the Airborne. Those crazy bastards who somehow thought jumping out of airplanes was the best way to attack an enemy. I didn't know any of this when I took... no, when I stole the hat.
It was upon my decision to research how Mrs. Taylor acquired the beret that I finally learned the truth.
***
Local Hero Buried With Full Military Honors
By Stephanie Jenkins
Wilmington, NC (AP) - Kyle Taylor, graduate of New Hanover High School, was buried amid a 21-gun salute and a military funeral detail on Saturday. A paratrooper of the vaunted 82nd Airborne Division out of Fort Bragg and a two-time recipient of the Silver Star, Taylor was killed during an unspecified operation last Monday. Known locally for wearing the maroon beret of his father, Kevin Taylor, who was killed in action 17 years ago this July. Kyle's squad leader personally ensured that the beret made its way safely to Kyle's sole-surviving relative, his mother Genevieve.
***
I was arrested for digging up her grave in an ill-advised attempt to place the beret in her casket. Mrs. Taylor's sister, then herself on her deathbed, gave permission to exhume the grave in order for the beret to be reunited with its rightful owner.
Though all chargers were dropped - thanks to the sister - and my chain of command declined to pursue a military investigation, I know I await final judgment. St. Michael, the patron saint of warriors and paratroopers, cannot possibly bless a man who has desecrated the memory of two of his chosen. Still, needing to face - and, maybe, hasten - my punishment, I am now a paratrooper, at the whim of the wings and the sword of an angel so powerful. I'm not sure I've slept a full night in years.
May Mrs. Taylor forgive me. Even if St. Michael never does.
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