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Smee
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 Posted: Sat Nov 28, 2009 8:09 am Post subject: Character Experiment! |
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He cast a glance around in the total darkness. A bright light from somewhere above illuminated the large circular wooden table he was sat at; nothing else was visible, he couldn't even see himself. In front of him was an array of 9 white numbered cards. They looked thick, and of good quality, although of what material he didn't know.
Around the table he could see seven other lines of cards. Were there other people here with him? Who were they? Who was he for that matter?
Some force suddenly made him realise he was supposed to go first. Guided by the mysterious instinct he reached out and picked up the first card. Images immediately bombarded his mind.
~
"Don't just watch your target, feel it in here," a voice whispered.
Jhoni flicked his blue eyes sideways to see his mentor tap his head and then refocused on the deer some 200 yards ahead. Feel the target. Feel the target. He could barely see the target from this distance, let alone feel it. How was he supposed to do that?
His shoulder was starting to feel the tension as he held the bowstring back, his muscles tense as he trained the point on the prey.
"Let the wind speak to you, let it show you the exact path your arrow should take," his mentor continued. "The trees whisper their advice if you open yourself to it."
Jhoni let his mind clear as he tried to follow what Rhiun told him. The world quietened around him, and his breathing slowed in preparation for the shot. His eyes seemed to unfocus for a second as if he were listening to some unknown conversation. Suddenly they refocused as the deer seemed to zoom forward in his vision like he were stood just a few feet away.
Strong fingers eased back and the string hummed as the arrow took flight. Jhoni closed his eyes, seeing it travel in his mind. The experience was exhilerating, as if he were flying like a great hawk.
"Jhoni! Jhoni!"
Feeling the pull on his shoulder, Jhoni snapped out of the vision and opened his eyes. Rhiun was staring at him, the concern washing away instantly to be replaced by a wide smile as he saw his apprentice come back.
"You did it! I'm so proud."
Jhoni looked off into the woods. In the distance he could just make out the flights of his arrow, sticking up from the ground. If his vision had been correct, the deer was slain instantly as the missile took it through the neck. Smiling too, Jhoni embraced his mentor.
"The Elder will be glad to hear of this. I expect he'll declare your naming ceremony within a few days." Rhiun said. "Lets get your kill, and head back to camp."
Jhoni just continued smiling as he felt a tear form in the corner of his eye. He would have his own surname. Finally!
~
Feeling a matching smile form on his own unknown lips, he dropped the card on to the table revealing a word in an elegant script.
"Jhoni"
_________________
The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
Last edited by Smee on Thu Oct 14, 2010 11:13 pm; edited 3 times in total
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Lilith
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| Posted: Sat Nov 28, 2009 8:53 am Post subject: |
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A large, squarish hand rose from the darkness and fumbled a little as it picked up a card from the table…
“Richard, we’re letting you go. Your position at the company is being eliminated and your job responsibilities reassigned to several different people. Ivanka has some paperwork at the front desk for you concerning unemployment and severance pay.” Richard’s boss looked up from the open folder on his desk and his brows drew together in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Rich. I really am.”
Richard himself sat stock still in a chair across the desk from his boss, and his dark brown eyes looked down. “I understand Terry. Times are tough and the company is downsizing. I’ll be on my way…” He rose slowly, his hand moving to rub over his face in frustration. How could this be happening to him? He was an accountant. His position was supposed to be secure no matter were he worked… unless.. Rich raised his eyes and met Terry’s with curiosity.
“Terry, I have a question… has Ivanka told you anything, strange lately?” He eyed the gold band around his third finger, thinking of Elizabeth at home with the children and then brought his eyes back up to see Terry’s eyes flick rather panicked looking, first to the left and then the right. “Well, Rich, it was either she left or you left. I can’t overlook infidelity within the company, especially when I know you and Elizabeth have had your problems in the past…” Terry began but he didn’t get to finish as Rich stormed out of his office, confronting a pretty pale blonde woman behind a reception desk in the lobby, pointing and shouting loudly at her.
The blonde woman looked panic-stricken and stared through the glass doors of Terry’s office at him, hurt and betrayal in the gaze cutting Terry to the bone. Terry groaned and pressed a number on the intercom box on his desk. “Security, please remove Richard from the lobby. He’s verbally assaulting my assistant.” Terry groaned in dismay as Riche tried to fight his way through them towards Ivanka and she shrank towards the wall.
Striding over to the window, he watched as his once reliable accountant and faithful friend was thrown out of his corporate office and onto the pavement. As Rich’s shoulders disappeared ‘round the corner of the street, Terry felt two hands gently slide up his back and over his shoulders, rubbing them gently. “I trust you’ve shut the blinds on the windows, Ivanka?”
“Yessir, and everyone has been dismissed for the day anyways… I know that was a hard thing for you to do, sir and I wanted to come thank you properly…” A voice purred in Terry’s ear, as he closed his eyes and removed his wedding ring from his finger. It clattered onto his desk noisily and the voice in his ear chuckled darkly. “Your wife is shopping with her niece this evening, and she knows you will be home for dinner around 7. She also asked me to make sure you don’t keep me working too late on those quarterly reports.”
A tad shocked, the dark brown hand dropped the bone white card on the table, face up so the elegant script could be read:
Terry Daniels, CEO of DVB Enterprises
_________________
© 2007-2019 Lilith
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat Nov 28, 2009 11:47 am Post subject: |
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A scarred hand picks up a white square of paper…
He lays back on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling, as the orange jumpsuit scratches his skin. The ceiling is pitted with holes and dents, the monotony of grey cement hardly broken by the one fluorescent light square in the middle of the cell. But he doesn’t see the ceiling.
A woman, laughing, blonde hair blowing in the wind as she hugs a young girl to her. Her blue eyes are half-closed and she is in the midst of tumbling backwards. The young girl is laughing too, though, unlike the woman, her teeth are a tad yellow, probably from neglect. The sun shines down off of their blonde hair, the strands shining like harpstrings of gold as they compete with the glory of the sky’s light.
Betty is the only one he sees.
Another image involuntarily replaces the one he projects on the ceiling. A fleeting image of blood on his hands, a body on the floor. He looks up to see terrified eyes watching him.
She screams.
He turns over on his side, hoping that the memories will fade away. But his own photographic memory foils him, and he watches the scene unfold, the police and the restraints. Sometimes he wishes he could just forget what happened, and just…. But in the cold dark loneliness of this grey cube he clung to all he had of the outside world. If he had no memory, what was he? Just another crazy living in a cell. Who would he be? Someone different, for sure.
And if he forgets her… It would be as if she never existed. In that sense, her life was still in his hands. And, however much he wanted to forget, to clear his conscience… well, it was his burden to bear.
“Everybody up! Cell check!” The wardens prowl the corridors, one stopping in front of his cell as he gets off the top bunk slowly. The dark grey uniform looks over the orange jumpsuit and the rest of the cell, inspecting for cleanliness. Eventually he nods. “Barely acceptable, Inmate #63372. We’ll let it slide this time. But next time, we’ll expect something better.” Not waiting for a response, he gives a curt nod and walks to the next cell.
The man with the shaved head drops the card. As it flutters to the ground, black digits in block print can be seen. Inmate #63372.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Shady Stoat
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| Posted: Sun Nov 29, 2009 11:57 pm Post subject: |
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Looking at the cards on the table, she feels an unbearable itch in her fingers. The sort of itch that only goes away when curiosity is satisfied. She reaches out, compelled to know what that top card holds. Flip...
~
Xayne checked her gear one more time. If she was going to do this, tonight was the night. By the morning, the whole collection would be on a wagon, heading for the East coast. Nothing but stardust and glitter left behind.
You couldn't eat stardust. You couldn't sell glitter. It was more than just money, though. It was the thrill. Stealing into the inner chambers of the Baron's mansion, and swiping the Crownstar Ruby from its perch... well, she got hot just thinking about it.
If only Sam were here. No! Sam would talk her out of it. Or try to. Maybe he'd even succeed for a while... but in the end, she was who she was, and she'd do what she had to do. Better to get in, grab the prize and get out now, before she got too involved and hurt him even more.
Not for the first time, she wished she were the settling down type. The sort of girl who could be happy with a guy like Sam. A haver of babies, a washer of dishes, a cooker of dinners and a carer of...
Nah. She couldn't make it stick, not even in her imagination. All that appeared was a picture of her, wild-eyed and foaming at the mouth, ripping her nails to the quick as she pried at the prison bars of domestication.
It was time to go. One final check. Knife. Rope. Lockpicks. Caltrops. Knuckles. Wire. Silver stars... yes, yes and yes. No point in stalling further. Team Xayne (and wasn't the best size of team always one?) was ready.
She left the inn by the back door, donning a silky black hood. It covered her distinctive flame-coloured hair and slanted eyes well enough. She wasn't pretty, not by any means – but she was distinctive. Worst of both worlds, as she'd often thought in the past.
Carillon, her mare, was already saddled and bridled, tethered up on the post outside. Obstinate little beast she was, but she didn't stand out in a crowd. The same as all the other chestnut barrel-chested specimens from this area, bought for the purposes of anonymity. She tried to rear up as Xayne mounted, but a quick snap of the reins brought her back into line.
It was not a long ride to the Baron's place in the daytime. At midnight, in the soaking rain, with slippery cobbles underfoot, it was a good deal slower. Xayne could see passably well in the dark, but the mare had no such elven ancestry. And when they got to the hill that the Manor overlooked, streams and rivulets of mud made the going even more arduous. Carillon snorted so hard, Xayne was certain that they were announcing their presence to dead and living alike.
In the end, the mare stood, puffing and panting, before the walls of the great house. Xayne felt chills running through her; chills that had nothing whatsoever to do with the rain or the cold night air. This was it. This was all the planning, all the sleepless nights, all the dreams and ambitions of the last few months. The Crownstar Ruby, only a few walls away from being hers!
She looked around, seeing nothing but stone walls in the darkness. Quickly, she planted a metal spike in the ground and tethered the mare to it. Then, with shaking fingers, she threw the hooked rope up. It caught. First time.
She was good! A smile played around the corners of her mouth.
It was the matter of a few moments to get over the wall. Silently, she surveyed the grounds. The Baron had no hounds. There were guards, and plenty of them, but they wouldn't see her. She would make sure of that.
Rain soaked through to her skin as it pelted down. The long grasses slapped her calves and knees as she sprinted for the house. One guard. Two. Three. Yes, all where they were expected to be, none observant enough to see the girl in black slip by. Now, she just needed a little time between their patrols, to work on the window. Magical alarms were such a bore.
Slipping around the corner, she made her way to the large window, and sucked in a breath.
This wasn't right! It was already open.
Someone else had been here already. Someone was trying to steal her ruby! She felt her nails digging into her palms and swore softly. Her rival might have got in first, but he wouldn't be leaving, unless it was through Xayne Wilde's dead and rotting body!
Without a pause, she slipped through the open window. The smell of old leather and musty books pervaded the room. Those – and a fresher scent. Wet footprints led to the far door, and she followed them as silently as her squelching boots would allow. Through the hardwood corridor and down the stairs. Pause as a servant patrolled the downstairs, and onward as the wet footprints dictated.
The double doors at the end of the hallway stood open and silent. Light flickered out, as if from a fireplace or guttering torch. Xayne paused, cocking her head at the scent of something... vaguely... familiar.
With a shake of her head, she dismissed it. The ruby was in that room. She was going to get it. Over, around, under or through whatever obstacles there were. That was all that mattered now.
She sidled along the hallway, into the shadows at the side of the doors. Then, leaving herself in silhouette for as short a time as possible, she slipped into the room.
The Baron sat in his high-seated chair, eyes bloodshot, face purple. His tongue bulged in a swollen mass from his mouth, and a steel garrotte bit its sharp indent into his neck. The man holding the choking wire looked up from behind the chair.
For a moment, Xayne could only stare. Then:
“Sam?”
~
Curiosity satisfied, she stares at the card, and the writing on it.
Xayne Wilde, Thief
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ChoKiba
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| Posted: Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:37 am Post subject: |
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She reached out in front of her. Cards. They were cards. Why did she know that? Was it so dark that she really couldn’t see? No…no…that didn’t make sense. She searched her thoughts as her hand picked up one of the cards.
“I’m going to take the bandages off now,” the doctor said making her brace. She took a deep breath. This was the moment she had been waiting for for a few weeks. She took a deep breath as she felt the bandage begin to unravel. Layer by layer. She anticipated light to seep into her desperate eyes. In one eye…it did. She could see the light start filtering through the bandages to touch the sensitive iris and retina. The other eye remained dark and clouded allowing near to nothing through.
A thrill of terror ran through her. What was happening? Had she not prayed enough? Had she not been devout enough? Had she not been good enough? She didn't understand it. She had been promised her sight back. And what did she have now, but a half attempt at it. If that!
The distress on her face must have been evident. “Well…we did the best that we could. You knew that there was little chance of the surgery succeeding.” The doctor pointed out as if trying to take away any of his own blame.
“Honey! Speak to me!” Her mother pleaded grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “Tell me! Tell mommy! What’s wrong? It can’t be that bad can it? You’re just overwhelmed with joy right?”
“No…” she whispered shaking her head. “No…that’s not it. I…One eye. He fully saved one eye.” Her fingers fluttered up to the other eye unable to take it all in. She had lost the sight in both eyes, but only regained on. She was wasn’t sure if she should cry about the injustice of it all or not. On one level, maybe it was fair. She had lost her sight after all. Most would argue that she shouldn’t be allowed it back at all. It was only sheer fate that allowed her to see even remotely again.
“It’s going to be okay,” a man’s gentle voice came through the darkness of her mind as his hand began gentle combing her hair. “You can live through this babe. I have faith in you. You’re stronger than anyone else I’ve ever met.” She took a deep breath and clung to those words. It was more than her mother’s hysteria did for her. She dug deep inside herself even as her fingers clenched around the muscular arm that held her steady. What did the Bible say? What did God say? She was his prophetess wasn't she? Her mother and father had always told her that and she had never found a reason to disprove it. God would not leave her unguided.
And she found her answer, a smile tilting her lips as it dawned on her. “It’s alright Dr. Weinhart, you did the best that you could. No one can blame you for that.” Her voice was so regal that it seemed to pardon him. She caught the look on his face through her good eye. A radiant light seemed to light it as if he had just been pardoned by a queen or a goddess. Two things that some had tried to claim her to be.
“It’s not okay!” Her mother screeched. “How could any of you think that this was even remotely allowable?! She’s not supposed to live like this? Do you even know who she is?”
“Mother!” The young woman snapped. “Stop it. Having a panic attack isn’t going to help or save anyone. This happened for a reason. God gave me back the sight in one of my eyes. Isn’t that enough? Even the apostle Paul was given a thorn in his flesh. This is mine and I will bear it gladly.” There was such a sincere sound in her voice that those around her could only stare in awe. She was used to such command, but it was different now. The stakes had changed. That fact was so clear. Yes…she had known her calling all along, but she had been going about it all the wrong way. She knew how to fix that now. “Mother, call a press conference. A.J. I want you to bring me my things. I have to be ready.”
She gasped dropping the card. Her eyes opened. Out of one, the world was dark and fuzzy gray at best, a black oblivion for the most. It was her good eye that concerned her though. The good eye that could look down and read what was on the very clear white card before her now.
Magdeline Jounee Winters, Prophetess of New Age Baptismal
_________________
CHAPTER THREE POLL UP
FIRST CHAPTER UP
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Mon Nov 30, 2009 3:39 am Post subject: |
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The next shadow slides a card towards itself, colour and tangibility seeping into its hand as it reads.
Her heart was already heavy when she woke. What a way to spend her last night in Elitham, in a stinking sleeping bag on the spare-room floor of Vincent's parents' house. Carey followed the fine cracks across the sky-blue ceiling with her eyes, past the scalloped lampshade towards the cobweb thread floating from its anchor on the cornice. Her bladder was calling to be emptied, but she dreaded letting anyone in the house know she was awake yet. She curled up, relishing a few more moments of denial.
She should have been waking up at Penny's house this morning, hung over from the monthly outing to the Squares club at Reldon. It was supposed to be her last fling with her friends, before joining her parents in their 'new life' in the God-awful rural back and beyond.
But Vince had tickets to some corporate networking function, and had pleaded with her to go along. After all, he didn't know when he'd see her again. Whether it was the guilt from wanting to break up with him anyway or just a show of goodwill, she had found it difficult to say no. And so, to the bemusement of Penny and Liz, Carey forewent the girls' night out and spent a boring evening sharing wine and canapes with stuffy middle-aged business people she'd never met.
"There was no room for me in the car anyway," she told herself as she cuddled her knees inside the sleeping bag. "There's no way Liz's car could have taken six." She played the excuse over and over in her head, willing it to become the truth behind her decision. But she knew they'd always believe she'd snubbed them for Vince at the last moment.
Sounds from downstairs told her Vincent's mum was already up, tending to her bedridden husband. Blind, crippled and unable to communicate, his condition had turned the dining room into a fully equipped hospital cubicle. Vincent and his sister would take it in turns to sleep at the house, helping her attend to their father's needs at night. Their mother was never alone in her vigil.
For this, Vince was a saint, in Carey's eyes. It made it all the more difficult for her to tell him. She knew she couldn't lead him on like this for ever. She was not ready to take on a life with so many strings attached - and he was too old anyway. Perhaps her parents' move might be a blessing in disguise. Perhaps distance might make the break up kinder.
The phone rang in the hall. She heard Vince's mum answer it. There was a moment of silence.
"Vincent, dear!" the elderly lady's voice drifted up the stairs. "It's for you..."
There was a groan from the room next door, the creak of a single bed, and she heard Vince lumber down to the hall.
Carey looked at her watch. 8am. On a Sunday?
She wriggled out of her sleeping bag and pulled on her jeans and sweatshirt. Then, she opened her door and crept to the top of the stairs.
Vince put the phone down, pulled his bathrobe tighter around his large belly, and looked up at Carey, his eyes shot with tears.
"Penny... and Liz... they're... they're dead!" He put his hands on the sides of his head, shocked at the sound of his own words.
"What? How?"
"The car smashed into a truck on the way back from Squares... There were six in the car - nobody survived..."
The card drops on the table, face up, bearing the words: Carey Brucken
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Mirel
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| Posted: Tue Dec 01, 2009 6:42 am Post subject: |
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Darkness. As dark as a night with neither moon nor stars. As dark as a nightmare. As dark as a dream. As dark as ink.
Light. Dim, pale, faintly flickering glowed in the darkness, banishing none of it, breaking none of the dark cloud that shrouded the room like death…like birth, revealing nothing save 9 square cards lily white which glowed in an eerie light.
She was more afraid of that light. That light that broke no dark, but promised instead to dispel to break the nightmare, to wake her dream, to write on her mind like on a page, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to wake up or to be written on.
Yet one single card beaconed, insisting, pleading, demanding it be revealed, that its hidden threat or its secret promise be revealed. Unbidden a single pale hand reached and flipped the card, bidding it to do its worst, hoping instead for its best.
Memory unrevealed. Nightmare dispelled, she entered a dream instead.
~ ~ ~
Yarn felt so comforting between her fingers, slipping, twining, twisting in between fingers as with a flick of her wrist she caught a single strand on the wooden hook held in between her fingers pulled it through a single loop, twisted again, pulled through again, manipulating the yarn into the form she wished, creating fabric with each delicate twist.
The pattern was familiar to her. One stored in memory, a stitch engrained in her fingers to the point where she no longer had to look at the needle or yarn in her hand to perform the stitch flawlessly. She had chosen it purposefully, this wavy chevron which looked complex with its subtle variation of texture and pattern, but was so simple that her mind was to free to wander as she would and her gaze could instead be enchanted by the rolling landscape that rushed passed her window as yet another bump reminded her why she was crocheting instead knitting. Railroads were not friendly to any project which required concentration, and the frequent bumps could make even the most patient knitter scream in frustration as yet another stitch slipped from the needle to be lost, sometimes forever if one was not careful, in the mess of stitches.
Knitting was unforgiving of mistakes, demanding perfection, forcing concentration, and requiring both skill and thought. Crocheting was much more forgiving. It could easily be frogged* back a couple of rows or a couple of stitches to correct an earlier mistake, and although sometimes complex once a stitch pattern was learned, crocheting required little to no thought at all. Even now in her bag was a delicate wool handyed with chestnuts and spun into slender perfection was worked halfway into a complex web of lace beaconed her, waiting patiently until she once again picked it up and lost herself in the demands of each tiny stitch.
She had to force herself to remain with the bulky warm non-dyed wool that was a combination of a reddish-brown and tan that was being worked into a comfy blanket reminding herself for yet the thousandth time that one stitch, one single mistake was all it took to undo the work of months and the bumps of railroad would endanger mistakes.
A severe bump in the tracks caused a single pale hand to rush down to the bulk under her pale green dress that reminded of her of yet another reason this blanket needed to be completed…and completed soon.
“Adah?” A masculine voice said softly beside her clearly concerned.
But just as she was about to turn, just as another part of her life was to be revealed, the vision was snuffed out, like a candle in a sudden wind.
~ ~ ~
Laying the card down with trembling hands, black ink filled the card taking with it some of the darkness around her not enough to dispel it completely but enough so that it lightened.
On the card was written: Adah, expectant mother.
“Adah,” a soft voice murmured tasting the word, hungry for more, waiting impatiently, imperfectly for yet another card to beacon.
Wanting to know more. Afraid to know more.
*frogged: a crocheting term, very technical. *smiles* Alright, alright, frogged is the term we crafters use to identicate the process of pulling out stitches supposedly because of the sound it makes. (A kind of ripping sound almost like a frogs "riiiiiiiiibiiiiiiit").
_________________
Possibilities are the food of the imgination.
~ ~ ~
Some things are too good to be missed: Get Invited.
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Fats_Masterson
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| Posted: Wed Dec 02, 2009 12:25 pm Post subject: |
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A dark figure sits at the table. In front of him are nine brilliant white cards. A metal hand reaches out from the darkness and grabs the first card...
~
"Commercial Transport 11-989-AOX-4786, this is Harmony Command. Please Identify yourself. Over," The space station operators squawked through the intercomm as the transport ship, "The Lady of the Void", entered Harmony space. Jackson Hummel, the Captain, crew and sole owner of The Lady of the Void, sat at the controls and prepared to dock with the Confederation space station.
"Harmony Command, this Captain Russ Armand of the Commercial Transport 11-989-AOX-4786. I'm sending our ISID now. Over," Jackson punched at the dimly lit computer screen and, while making a silent prayer to the Gods of smugglers and pirates, sent the ISID codes that his new employer said would get him onto the station.
"Thank you, Captain Armand, we have received your ISID and have cleared you for docking. Please proceed to the E45 pylon and open your data-ports for computer assisted docking maneuvers. Enjoy your stay at Harmony," The intercomm clicked off and Jackson began his approach to the docking pylon.
"Well, Lady, it seems that our new employer isn't as small time as we thought. Now it's just a matter of finding our contact, getting the shipment and getting the hell out of this Gods-forsaken station. Easy-peasy, don't you think?" Jackson chuckled to himself, he knew from years of experience that getting into and getting out of a rendezvous were usually the easiest parts of a job. It's when you start adding people that everything goes to hell.
The ship, guided by the station computers, docked seemlessly while Jackson readied himself in the crew quarters. Jackson was a fairly non-discript person, of average height and build for a deep space pilot, but experience had taught him to never leave anything up to chance. Rendezvous were dangerous and it was always a good idea to show up to one as anyone but yourself.
It was as Jackson was putting the finishing touches on his disguise, some engine grease on his face and some alterations to his cybernetic arm to make him look the part of a dock worker, that he heard the tell-tale click of a ships airlock being hacked open. He had just enough time to duck into the shower stall before the explosions hit.
"Jackson Hummel! This is the CTTO! You are under arrest! Do not resist or we will use lethal force!" The orders were patched directly into The Lady of the Void's internal speakers and blared throughout the ship. Smoke filled the ship as CTTO officers, clad in organic body-armor and wielding state of the art Confederation assault weapons, stormed the interior looking for their prey.
One easy job, that's all I ask. One Gods-damned easy job! Jackson thought to himself as the smoke began to seep into the shower stall. It was his last thought before slipping completly into unconsciousness.
~
The metal hand grabbed the white card and flipped it over, all it said was;
Jackson Hummel, Space Pirate
_________________
YYURYYUBICURYY4ME
My reality tunnel is bigger than Yours
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Smee
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| Posted: Mon Dec 07, 2009 6:48 am Post subject: |
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Round 2 begins!
_________________
The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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Shady Stoat
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Joined: 02 Oct 2005
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| Posted: Tue Dec 08, 2009 5:25 am Post subject: |
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Her turn again. She reaches out a hand, hovering over the top card. Does she really want to know more?
Yes. It is God's will. In a sudden motion, she flips the card back... all the way back...
~
"Miss Cooper. Something's wrong."
"What is it, Maggie?
"It's... too hot." Magdeline squirmed in the orange plastic seat of the classroom.
The teacher frowned. It made her even more ugly than usual. Mom and dad always said that no-one was ugly in the eyes of God - but Maggie wasn't God, she was just a five year old girl. In her book, scrunchy eyes, a bulb nose and a wart on the chin was pretty ugly.
Not nasty, though. Miss Cooper was kind and funny. As the teacher came closer, Maggie could see the concern in her face.
"Too hot? No, the temperature's fine. Are you all right, Maggie?"
No. She wasn't. Something was wrong. The classroom was beginning to fog slightly. Her skin was all wet and drippy, like when she'd had the 'flu last year. There was a catch in her throat, making her want to cough.
"Need to get out." She managed to stand up before the vision hit.
Black and scarlet... rippling waves of heat... choking grey fog... the smell of roasting meat... sweat and fear and stink and terror...
She blinked. The world swam into focus again and she croaked out a single word.
"Fire."
From where she lay, dazed, she could hear the other children whispering and chattering. They sounded frightened. They should be.
"Fire," she said, again, more insistently, and coughed.
"There's no alarm sounding," said Miss Cooper. She was trying to make her voice stern, but Magdeline could tell she was frightened too. "You're just being silly."
"Please..."
"Not another word, Magdeline Winters! You're obviously not well. You should go and see the nurse in the sick room. Come on now, get up."
One of the other children began to cry. Magdeline got to her feet, trapped in despair by her inability to explain. It was going to happen. Nobody would help, nobody would believe her. She watched, as if drugged, while the teacher walked to the classroom door and opened it, an invitation for Maggie to walk through and out.
The invitation never came. As the door opened, the fire backblasted into the room, taking Miss Cooper with it. The screams of reality mingled with the screams of premonition. Magdeline covered her ears and screwed her eyes shut. It didn't help. The vision inside her head was as clear as her five senses.
She could feel the heat on her skin as the flames began to peel the paint from the walls, lick against the dry wood of the desks. There was no way out. No way out! Miss Cooper was beyond screaming now, her skin black and burnt, her clothes still smouldering. But the other children were screeching like police sirens, knocking each other over in their struggles to get to a place of safety. They hammered on the reinforced windows, tried to squeeze out of the tiny openings at the top.
No way out!
Magdeline trembled, her teeth chattering, tears streaming down her eyes. She knelt on the patterned linoleum floor, feeling the warmth seeping through her knees as the fire's heat drew closer. Her hands fell from her ears and planted themselves together in front of her chest.
"Gentle Jesus, hear my prayer
Keep me in Your tender care..."
The words – the same words she had recited a hundred times before bed - would not come. Her mind felt grey, filled with smoke and fumes. And she uttered the one true prayer in its place.
"Please God. Help me. Save me."
Dizzy. She was so dizzy. And the screams had turned from terror to pain. The floor felt hot under her cheek as she fell, and her eyes took in the vague forms around her, wheeling and burning and dying in the fire.
Another figure in the doorway. Through the flames. Tall and upright, light shimmering around its shape. It walked toward her, effortless through the heat and the smoke. Her eyes and nose were streaming, and she could barely speak for coughing; but as the figure scooped her up in strong arms, she asked the question that burned hotter within her than the flames themselves.
"Father?"
"Sleep now."
She closed her eyes, barely aware of her surroundings until fresh, cold air hit her in a sudden gust. The window. He'd broken the window. A dizzying second and she was falling. Only a short drop, into the grass below. Wonderful, cool grass. Air, cold and clear in her mouth. She gasped and grasped at it, sucking in lungful after lungful.
Only when she felt the flames licking out of the window frame did she think to crawl further away. She stumbled toward the sounds of the fire engines, then stopped and turned around.
There was no sign of her rescuer. He hadn't come out.
Had he died in there? Had he ever been alive in the first place? She knew the truth, deeper than words in the core of her soul.
"Thank you," she whispered to her guardian angel – wherever he was now.
~
She wondered if the other shadowy figures saw it - the glow of the card she held in trembling fingers. It shone with the light of angels, bright in her good eye, cloudy and fuzzed in her wounded one.
Probably not. The light, and the message, were for her alone.
Magdeline Winters, age five: Sole survivor of the Saint Adelaide School Fire.
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Smee
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| Posted: Wed Dec 09, 2009 3:06 am Post subject: |
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** Warning - Some adult content. Reader discretion is advised. **
The squarish hand reached out for a second time, an unsure confidence moving it without thought. He flipped over the next card...
~
"Mr Daniels... stop talking and pay attention."
"Sorry, Sir," Terry replied with an impudent grin as he casually brushed his dark hair back from his eyes, and flashed an amused grin to his best friend Richard sat to his left.
"Perhaps you can take time away from chatting with Mr Wicker and explain to the class how covalent bonds are formed between hydrogen and oxygen molecules?"
Richard wasn't so used to attention from the teachers and blushed at mention of his name. Terry meanwhile cast about for an answer to satisfy the aged tutor.
"Erm... it's something to do with the electins.. or protans?" The class sniggered around him and the teacher cut him off.
"You may think that because you're 15 you know everything, but I assure you Mr Daniels, you don't. You and Mr Wicker can join me for detention this evening."
Terry held on to his cocky smile, winking at some of the girls as they giggled at him from within their circles. He caught Rich's eye and the grin wilted.
"Gee thanks, y' prick... my first detention," his friend hissed.
The rest of the lesson passed slowly, and in silence, as they listened to the teacher drone on. When the bell rang, they all filed out and Terry took the opportunity to apologise in his usual way.
"Aaah come on, Richie, it won't kill ya. Besides we're in it together, it'll be a laugh."
"You obviously don't remember my Dad."
Terry winced. Richard's Dad wouldn't take it well. "You can say it was my fault if you want?"
"It WAS your fault!"
"A technicality," Terry replied, waving it off. They were weaving through the busy crowds of students in the corridors. "Say, don't we have a free now?"
"Yeah," Richard replied reluctantly, not happy that Terry had changed the topic so neatly.
"How about we go find Liz... I'm sure she'll be happy to see you." Terry's eyes glinted with amusement.
"Very funny!" Rich snorted, pushing Terry's shoulder roughly, although it only made him grin more. "She barely knows I exists."
"Oh she does too. She's always looking at you in Gym class, in your little shorts."
Richard blushed, and Terry laughed before turning serious.
"If you don't ask her out soon, you'll never have time to get her to give you a blowjob before the big game. You want to be the only one on the team not to have had one?"
"Alright, alright. I'll ask her. But if she says no that ain't my fault."
Terry patted his friend's shoulder reassuringly. "She'll say yes, and I'll finally not have to live with the shame that my best friend is still a BJ vrigin."
Richard grinned and swatted Terry's head. "Say it louder why don't ya."
"Just remember to smile, and be confident. Chicks love a confident guy."
"There she is!"
"Ok go.. wait, wait.. breath check!"
Richard stopped, and exhaled towards Terry, although keeping his eyes on the head of glossy brunette hair visible through the throngs.
"Gah, man... you been brushing your teeth with shit? This calls for emergency tictacs. Here."
Too nervous to respond to the insult, and still focused on Liz, Richard just took the offered mints, and put them in his mouth, chewing them absently.
"Go get her, man!"
But Richard had stopped in his tracks, no longer looking at Liz, but focused a few lockers down instead. "Erm, Terry, ain't that Becky... with Rob?"
It took a few seconds for what he'd say to register with Terry. When his eyes finally moved to take in the scene he could barely believe it. His girlfriend, the same one to profess her love for him, making out with Rob! He felt sick.
"That bitch!" He yelled out. "The two-timing lying little bitch!" He started pushing his way through the crowd toward her, but Richard grabbed hold of the straps on his backpack and pulled him back. "No man, she ain't worth it. Come on, lets get out of here."
~
The unseen shadow let out a gasp as he came back to the table. Such a long time ago, such a vivid memory!
The card dropped on to the polished wood, bold letters easy to read.
"Terry and best-friend Richard aged 15 : Everyone Cheats!"
_________________
The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Dec 14, 2009 7:15 pm Post subject: |
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But Curiosity is a greedy fellow, and soon enough her fingers itch to flip over the next. Just to see if she can, she resists, but within a minute she breaks and her nimble digits dart out to flip that second card.
“Oh come on, it’ll be fun!” he cries laughing, as the three stumble down the cobbled streets.
She laughs. “You’re drunk, Matt. And so am I. It’d be hard enough to steal the Maleka’s crown if we were sober. And if we had the plans for the palace, and if we knew the guard patterns, and if we wanted that hunk of iron in the first place.”
Matt gives a drunken bow. “Not drunk, merely timpsy. Tipsy. Whatever. And it’ll be easy! Only six pairs patrolling the roofs, a climb down sixty feet, a flimsy window latch, and walla! The Maleka’s a sound sleeper!”
“So THAT’S what you’ve been doing in your spare time.” Xayne gives him the evil eye, which dissolves into laughter when he responds with a clumsy kiss. As he holds her in his arms, she knows she’s found the love of her life. And, if he really wants some hunk of iron that badly…
“You still haven’t answered the question of why you want it.” The third one, the only sober one of the bunch, speaks for the first time. Sam, Matt’s brother.
Matt pulls away from Xayne, reminded that he has an audience. He gestures theatrically. “Why it’s a magical hat, remember? A piece of the stars, fallen to earth. Why wouldn’t anybody want that.”
Sam snorts. “Oh c’mon, that’s only a bit of hocus pocus. It’s just another hunk of metal. Why would you listen to that magic talk?”
Matt wags an admonitory finger. “What’s life without magic? A little stardust and glitter to glamour up this dump.” He waves his arms at the stone and wood houses that loom in the dark night, lit only by the occasional torch.
He’s like a little boy then. All dreams and imaginings. But it’s what Xayne loves about him, although she can be like that herself.
“All right, we’ll do it.”
Matt whirls, nearly falling over. “Yes!” He cries exultantly, as if the crown is already in his grasp.
“But tomorrow. You need to sober up.”
His face is a study of tragedy. “But the Maleka leaves for his little country in the sand tomorrow, some godforsaken desert where the wind strips the flesh from the persimmons in seconds! Or whatever fruit they have there. We’ll never get another chance! It’s a foggy night and there was a farewell feast at the castle. The Maleka will be stuffed, and extra sleepy. It’s perfect!”
Xayne smiles. Later on, she looks back at this moment, curses her weakness, curses the cheap ale they had swilled that night. “Fine.”
“I don’t approve of this. You both know that.” Sam warns.
“You never approve of any of our shenanigans, Sam. That’s why you’re the boring one.”
The two walk off, to plan their caper. Matt doesn’t see the jealous look Sam sends like an arrow at Matt’s back. Xayne pretends not to.
A week later, Matt hangs.
He swings from the gallows, his legs still broken from the slip that sent him tumbling down onto a lower roof. Unable to escape, he just lay there, the crown in his hands. As the guards rose from their slumber and the clatter of swords rang throughout the candle, woken by a cry ripped from her lips as a loose shingle slipped, all Xayne could do was leave him there.
The crows perch on his shoulder, tearing off strips of flesh from his rotting face. Xayne has her own perch, on a rooftop facing the square.
As footsteps approach, she quickly wipes away tears.
“I’m not Matt.”
She looks up, and for one ironic second thinks that Matt is before her, that the corpse rotting on hemp is mere fakery, stardust thrown across her eyes. But then she realizes that it is Sam that stands before her.
“I’m not Matt, Xayne. And I’ll never be like him. I don’t have his dreams, his vision, or his skill. I’m not a thief. I know this might be too soon…. But I could be good to you. The carpentry shop is bringing in money, and…”
He falls silent for a spell.
“I can’t give you glitter Xayne.”
Xayne gives a final look at the body swaying in the wind. For a second, the wind seems to hold her the exotic smells of the desert, the smell of persimmons, the promise of glitter and stardust. Then she moves away from the edge of the roof, away from that body swaying in the breeze, and takes Sam’s hand just to have somebody’s hand to take.
The card falls from her fingers, as sadness grips her soul. On the card, the letters are faded, difficult to read, a flowing ornate script.
Xayne Wilde, Widow
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Wed Jan 06, 2010 4:19 am Post subject: |
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The delicate hand slides another card towards herself from the pack.
"And remember, Adah, be ruthless with what you find in there. They can't all be valuable keepsakes. We only have one removal van!"
"Yes, Mom." Adah looked at the large box from the attic which had been left on the landing for her to go through. She tried to imagine what treasures from her childhood lay within. Pulling at one of its closed flaps she dragged it into her bedroom, and then pushed it towards the tea-chest that stood by the window. The wooden crate was already half filled with books, carefully wrapped ornaments and pictures she'd taken down from her bedroom walls. She'd already packed her winter clothes into it too - the rest would have to go in the trunk she normally used for college.
She wiped her dusty fingertips on her dress and then cut the string around the box. Wrinkling her nose at the musty smell from within, she lifted out a small package, wrapped in white tissue paper.
"Some item of clothing," she thought, as she laid it on the bed. The paper was stained and wrinkled, as if it had been exposed to something damp at some time in the past and then dried. She took care not to tear it as she unravelled it.
The green crochet dress looked as good as new. Made for her by her grandmother for her third birthday, she remembered how she'd turned her nose up at it when she'd ripped the colourful birthday wrapping from it all those years ago.
She'd been unable to appreciate the scalloped hem, heart-shaped neckline or flower-and-leaf detail about the waist, or the mother-of-pearl effect buttons that went down the back, let alone the time and effort her grandmother had taken to make it. To her it was a green dress, and because it was green it was horrible. Adah only ever wore yellow or pink, and so she grew out of it without hardly ever wearing it at all.
She felt the complex stitches between her fingers, and squeezed the dress to her chest, her eyes filling as she thought of her late grandmother, overcome with awe at her remarkable skill. If only she could create garments like this!
"What an ass I was," she thought, and resolving to buy herself a beginners crochet set before the summer was out, she re-wrapped and placed the little dress in her tea-chest.
Adah, aged 19, Student, in the process of moving house with her family.
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Mirel
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Joined: 25 Sep 2009
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| Posted: Tue Jan 12, 2010 1:57 pm Post subject: |
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Reaching out the metal hand tipped another card over, silently berating himself for being so stupid, so blind, so ignorant that he could have been tricked by such a simple thing. Hopefully the next card would be more promising, showing him for who he really was.
~ ~~
“You wretched little rodent, you get your dirty thieving rotten sticking self back here!” A loud voice bellowed somewhere behind him. “Wretch, you’ll pay for this see if ye don’t!”
His legs moving under him in a blur as he deftly darted between the crowd, his blond hair bobbing in the wind, a small version of Jack made his escape as he used his height, small size, and quick thinking to his advantage quickly losing himself into a mass of people. Dodging, ducking, and weaving, Jack turned one foot slightly to the right making a sudden pin wheeling turn into a nearby ally and quickly hid himself behind a couple crates wedging himself into the ditch that ran near the brick building behind him that was used to drain liquid and other unpleasant things into a grate in the back of the alley where it would finally drain into the city sewer.
The smell was almost unbearable of urine, rotting food, fecal matter, and other thousand grimes of the city. Indeed, Jack remembered the first couple of times he had used one of these gutters, he had nearly vomited giving himself away to the guards that were sent of f to catch the little purse snatcher that had been terrorizing the city for weeks now. After the guards had left, he had vomited making such a mess of himself that he had to bathe in the fountains of the city three times before the smell and the dirt were gone. Now, although the smell was still horrible, he had learned the trick of it, breathing through his mouth and burying his nose into a purse of mint and lavender that hung around his neck. A little dirt thrown in his hair and he was already any different then any of the other dirt urchins that ran about the city like little rats.
Breathing slowly and quietly, Jack waited until the noise of the market turned from loud chaos to the more subtle still louder chaotic cries of people shopping and merchants selling their ways. Smiling, Jack laughed tossing the heavy purse of gold in his hands. Creeping out from behind the crates, Jack went to stand when not looking upward he ran his head straight into something very big and very, very solid.
Before he could say, “Aquernailrasote!”* his ear was pinched into by a pair of very heavy fingers and his head jerked upward to met the large grey eyes and dark brown hair of the man whose purse he had just stole.
Ignoring his yelps of pain, his capturer growled, “Well there ye be you scurvy little moungrel, taking what don’t belong to ye, isn’t good for your health.” Shaking his head while he twisted the boy’s ear, “Though ye be a clever one, hiding where none have the belly to look for yer, I’ll be giving you that. But I can’t be letting you take what be mine, as I have a reputation to uphold and many a woman to be keeping happy. As for you, my little thieving rat, you’d be coming with me.”
~ ~~
Finishing the motion of flipping the card, he read Jackson “Jack” Hummel, age 10, thief, “Deader the a dead rat, caught like a cat by its tail.”
* -shrug-Don’t ask me.
_________________
Possibilities are the food of the imgination.
~ ~ ~
Some things are too good to be missed: Get Invited.
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Tikanni Corazon
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| Posted: Tue Jan 19, 2010 12:12 am Post subject: |
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He reaches out once again, with his other hand, to turn over a second card. As he does so he notices the ring. A thick, silver band, with intricate detailing, and a large, deep-green stone set into the centre. Somehow, it feels significant, but he doesn’t know how. Forgetting about it for a moment, he flips over the next card.
Screaming, screaming everywhere! Mathos held onto his father even more tightly, as they ran from the burning wreckage, that had been their home. Others ran alongside them, darting this way and that, to avoid the beasts that hunted them. Beasts that were borne upon the wind, breathing fire as they went. Their roars filled the air as they ran, cries of bloodlust, as they reveled in their continual slaughter.
Mother, Aurora and Baby Shilah were all dead. He had seen them, their bodies, strewn amongst the debris of their house. He cried for them now, his grief still strong, despite his fear.
Suddenly, they lurched forwards, and fell, as something crashed into the back of them. Mathos was thrown from his father’s arms, landing, hard, on the charred grass. He stood, looking around for the only family that he had left.
“Father!” he cried out desperately, tears spilling from his eyes, leaving tracks through the soot that covered his cheeks. “Father, where are you?” But there was no answer to his pleading calls.
All around him, people were dead, dying, or running for their lives. People he had known all of his short life. Why was this happening?
He never even saw the dragon coming, until it was stood in front of him. It focused on him with one golden eye, filled with malevolence and hatred for the little boy that quaked before it. It’s lips curled into a snarl, revealing hundreds of needle-like teeth. A tongue, flicked lazily out of it’s mouth, tasting the air, tasting his fear. He held his hands up, to cover his face from the rancid breath, that scorched his skin. He heard the warning rumble, like thunder, from inside the belly of the beast, the signal that it was about to unleash the inferno, that resided within it, upon his person. He screamed.
Then out of nowhere, his father appeared, wielding a sword. Before the beast knew what was happening, the blade had been thrust, up through it’s throat, and into it’s brain. It howled, a cry of both anger and pain. It staggered, then it began to fall. He watched, as his father tried to get out of the way, but he was not quick enough. The dragon collapsed on top of him, crushing his legs and torso.
For a moment, all was still. Then he heard his father groan. Mathos rushed forwards, and clasped his father hand. He looked down at the familiar face, the face that had been there at his birth, the face that was now awash with agony, and drained of colour. His father was dying, he knew that. He bent his head, touching the cold fingers to his forehead.
“Son.”
He looked up, at the barely audible voice. His father’s eyes flickered open, and slowly focused upon him. The fingers that he held, tightened around his own. He spluttered, blood spattering his chin, as he tried to speak.
“I’m dying, m’boy”
“I know,” whispered Mathos, tears continuing to fall, though he tried to be brave. His father smiled, weakly, at him, then pulled his hand from his sons grip. The boy watched, as he removed the ring, that he always wore on his right index finger, and reached over to place it in Mathos own palm.
“Take it, son,” he rasped, the blood gurgling in the back of his throat, as he spoke. “Take it, and never forget…wh..who…..you…….are?” A torrent of blood, spewed from his mouth, soaking his shirt front, running into the long, golden hair, that spread across the grass, beneath him. Then, with a final shudder, he went still.
“Father?” breathed Mathos, though he knew his father was gone. Emotion welled up inside him, and he lifted his head, and howled his anguish to the sky above. Then he curled up, beside the body, not knowing what else to do. Eventually he slept.
The screams and the roars of the beasts had long disappeared when, what seemed like an eternity later, he found himself being dragged to his feet, by strong hands. He found himself looking into the face of a tall, strong-featured man, who gazed back at him with eyes like steel, cold and hard.
“Who are you?” Mathos asked nervously, his eyes never leaving their icy glare.
“That does not matter,” came the answer, “You are to come with me.”
“But my father…” said Mathos, gesturing towards the body.
“..is dead, and you hanging around here will do nothing to change that. You will come with me Jhoni.”
“My name is Mathos,” he answered, daringly, “Mathos Greenleaf.” The stranger, took his hand, in a vice like grip, and began to lead him away.
“Not anymore, boy,” came the cold reply. “Not anymore.”
He looks down at the ring again. His father’s ring. His father’s last words play over in his head. “Never forget who you are.” He feels a tear trickle down his cheek, and drip from his chin. He has let his father down.
He places the card on the table before him, and reads the elegant script.
Jhoni, formerly Mathos Greenleaf, aged seven, during the first year of the Dragon Wars, on the day of his father’s death.
_________________
.... there is no religion without love, and people may talk as much as they like about their religion, but if it does not teach them to be good and kind to man and beast, it is all a sham....
Black Beauty by Anna Sewell, 1887
 
 
  
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Sugar Plum F
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| Posted: Thu Jan 21, 2010 8:57 pm Post subject: |
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The shaking white hand reaches for another card hoping it will eclipse the pain of the last.
The rain drizzled slowly onto Carey's windshield as she pulled out behind the six long hearses. With each swish of the windshield wiper, the voice in her head grew stronger. It was her fault this had happened. It was her body that should have been in that sixth coffin. And as she drove past the pub they met at every Friday night, she finally knew what she needed to do.
Carey pulled out of the procession and fled into the pub. She'd need a hard one for the long rode to the Squares...
She arrived at the Squares club an hour and two gin and tonics later. As she opened the door the sights and smells flooded her mind with familiarity. She made a straight line for their table in the corner and sat down with the weight of six souls on her shoulders.
“What can I get for you, miss?” the waiter asked.
“A Blow Job Shot is always first....”
“A Blow Job Shot sounds so vulgar” Stacie whispered.
“It doesn't matter if you think it's vulgar, Stacie. It's a tradition and you're doing it” Penny ordered with a devious grin.
“It's only been a tradition since last week,” Carey reminded them.
“A tradition once made cannot be broken!” Liz said in a booming voice. “Just give me one so I can get to my Cosmo and all the fellas that come after it!”
Stacie made a face, held her nose and did the shot. “That was gross! Now give me my peppermint schnapps. I don't think I can take any more of that vile taste! I don't see how you girls can drink that putrid stuff.”
“Each to her own. Just like that yummy ginger in the corner will be my own by the end of the night...” Penny slid away from the table and towards the dance floor and the red head in the corner.
“Could you ever see me doing something like that? Penny is so fearless!” Olivia sighed.
“Get enough of those Strawberry Margaritas in you and you'll be singing like a lark to the cute curly-top that just winked at you,” coaxed Ginny.
“What about you, Ginny. Have enough apple martini in you to go after the dark one by the bar? I'll go for the blond next to him when I finish this Tequila Sunrise.” Carey offered.
Soon all the girls rejoined on the dance floor with their conquests. Laughing, they danced the night away with the carefree zeal of youth.
Carey sipped on Olivia's Strawberry Margarita, looking around at Olivia's favorite place on the dance floor where some new brunette danced, completely unaware of Olivia's absence. She was mostly through Liz's Cosmo before she saw the fella Liz would have gone for if she were there. He was Indian with rings lining both of his ears. Liz was always a wild card. Not that it mattered now.
Carey took the last swallow of the Cosmo and moved to her own Tequila Sunrise filled with more memories than alcohol. Each glass at the table should have had a girl behind it but now there was just one girl left. One girl who no longer belonged in this place.
Tipsy and desperate, she headed for the door. Outside, the rain pelted down on her as she fumbled with the keys. As she pulled the door open and slid into the driver's seat, her fear began to mount. But the roar of the engine solidified her determination. With squealing wheels Carey tore off.
She sped around each corner looking for the curve she knew so well. It was the curve they always took too fast, the curve they taunted each month, and the curve that killed them. She came around a bend with luck on her side. There, in the middle of the opposite lane was a large furniture truck. Gripping the steering wheel Carey floored it; without hesitation she took her chance.
“I'm making it up to you now!” She screamed as she slammed head-on into the truck.
The world didn't go white after it went black nor was there a white light to follow, it just went a kind of peach colour. Carey tried to understand why none of the things people said happened when you died were happening to her. Maybe people like her didn't get such nice welcomes. Maybe people like her were shunned for eternity. After all, she deserved it...
… Wait! Someone was calling her name!
Carey's eyes flashed open to reveal her mother's face drenched in tears.
“She's awake! “ her mother choked out turning to the man behind her.
It was then that Carey saw the walls of the hospital room and reality, horror, and the bitterness of failure wrenched the scream from her lips.
The white hand slumped to the side of the shadowy figure, revealing the card on which was typed:
Name:Carey Bruken
Diagnostic: broken arm, shattered ankle, broken nose and Survivor's Guilt
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Phantomfan
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| Posted: Fri Jan 22, 2010 2:50 pm Post subject: |
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With a heavy heart, the man reaches a marred hand out for a second card…
The boy crouches beneath the table, hidden by the long folds of the tablecloth. In his sweaty hand are the ears of a worn, obviously much-loved stuffed bunny, with patches of bare where fuzz should be. The boy peers through the small gap in the edge of the tablecloth, waiting for his father to some home and enter through that door. He kept his gaze fixated on it, giggling slightly under his breath as he imagines his father’s surprised face.
The door flies open and the boy tenses with a grin, read to jump out and grab onto his father’s legs with a happy yell- but something is wrong. His father slams the door shut behind him and leans against it, panting heavily.
“Karen!” his father yells frantically. It scares the boy to see such fear in his father’s normally calm and composed face. The boy stays silent and hidden, unsure of what is going on.
“Karen!” his dad yells again, storming into the room.
“Yes?” a voice from within the house answers him, and footsteps are heard pounding down the stairs as the boy’s mother runs into the room, visible through the tiny window the boy peers through. “Max, what’s wrong?”
“It’s the mob,” his dad says, still out of breath. “I couldn’t pay the debt and now they’re after me-“
The boy’s mother tries to interrupt, but his dad grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her slightly. The boy cowers in the dark, frightened by his father’s tone.
“Listen to me,” his father says quietly. “I want to you take Nathan and run. Go somewhere, anywhere, just get out of this godforsaken city and find somewhere safe. Do you understand me?
“Max-“ she tries to say.
“Do you understand?” he yells over her protests, voice cracking. She nods, tears streaming down her face, and pulls him into a tight embrace.
The boy is thoroughly frightened by this point, and he pulls the tablecloth aside. “Dad?” he says in a voice high-pitched with fear. “What’s going on?”
His parents jump at the sound of his voice, then jump again as a heavy pounding assaults the door.
“Max?” a voice from outside drawls. “No use hidin’, we know yer in there.”
His dad lets go of his mother and pushes her towards where the boy crouches. “Hide!” he hisses.
His mother pushes her son to the far end of the table before crawling and gathering the bewildered boy in her lab, clutching him tightly. The boy’s last glimpse before the tablecloth swings back into place is of his father standing tall, facing the door defiantly. The boy can feel the fear radiating off his mother, enveloping him in its stranglehold, causing him to tighten his grip on the bunny’s ears.
The pounding comes again. “C’mon Max, we only wanna talk to ya,” the unknown voice calls.
His mother presses the boy’s head to her chest. He can hear her heart pounding rapidly. “Mom?” he begins to say, only to be silenced by her fierce “shush.”
“Talk?” his father says in a loud voice. “Then what’s with the guns?”
“Guns?” the voice chuckles. “We ain’t got no guns. Just let us in, and we’ll show you.”
“Lies,” his father says calmly.
“Aw Maxie boy, why d’ya have ta be like that?” the voice pouts. “And here I thought we were friends and all.”
His father starts to say something, but is drowned out by a loud burst of gunfire that nearly deafens the boy. His mother gasps, then quickly covers both her mouth and the boy’s. The boy is in too much shock to make a sound.
The gunfire stops, and something dense and heavy hits the floor.
“But you were right,” the voice calls. “We do have guns.”
Underneath the table, heart pounding, the boy listens as the footsteps from outside slowly fade away, leaving silence.
Minutes, maybe hours pass before the boy’s mother is overcome with noisy, heart-wrenching sobs. The boy stays still, eyes wide, clutched in his shaking mother’s arms. He expects himself to being crying like his mother, to say something, anything- but there is nothing.
It is years before another sound escapes his mouth.
A single tear rolls down man’s scarred cheek as the card floats to the floor, landing face up. Typewriter print is barely visible in the gloom.
Nathan
Age 8, mute and fatherless.
_________________
I've been pulled back from oblivion to lurk about the City once more. Though the music of the night always beckons...
Here's some stuff I started writing a long time ago. Orb. Nexus.
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Smee
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| Posted: Mon Jan 25, 2010 6:29 am Post subject: |
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Round 3 begins!
_________________
The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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Tikanni Corazon
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| Posted: Mon Jan 25, 2010 6:45 am Post subject: |
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He reached out, with the dark-brown hand once again, almost dreading what he might discover this time, but unable to help himself. He slowly turned over the third card.
A knock at the door, made Terry look up, from where he was sat, playing with his cars, on the lounge floor. He watched as his mother hurried across the hall, and checked herself out in the mirror, before answering.
With a sigh, Terry turned back to his cars. It was obvious who was at the door. Yet another new guy. A guy who would be here today, and gone tomorrow. It was always the same.
He listened to his mother, giggling, like a school girl, followed by the deeper, masculine voice of her guest.
“Go on through to the lounge, Trevor,” he heard his mother say, “I’ll get you some wine.” He heard her heels, clicking on the tiled floor, as she headed towards the kitchen. The strangers quieter footfalls, came closer, until he stood almost beside him.
Terry looked up at the man. He wore a navy-pinstripe suit, fancy, well-polished shoes, and a large, cheesy, fake grin on his face.
“Hey there little man!” he exclaimed, with a put-on enthusiasm. He bent down and ruffled Terrys dark hair, with one orange-tanned hand “You must be Terry! I’ve heard all about you!”
“Hi,” Terry replied, softly, and continued playing with his cars.
After a short pause, the stranger, Trevor, then began to wander around the room, hands in pockets, whistling off-key, looking at the various objects on the mantel, and the pictures hung on the wall.
He picked up a photo, a favourite of Terry’s. One of him, mum, and dad before he had died. Trevor gazed at it intently for a moment, then replaced it, on the mantel.
At that moment, his mother returned, a glass of wine in one hand, and the rest of the bottle in the other. She placed the bottle on the coffee table.
“Here you go,” she said, handing the glass to Trevor, who took it, and took a long swig, draining half the glass. He smacked his lips.
“That’s the stuff!”
Terry’s mother let out another childish giggle.
“Well, I’d better get back to the kitchen,” she said, turning to go. “Dinner won’t be long. You boys be good now!” She turned and walked out, leaving Terry and Trevor alone once again.
Trevor topped off the glass, then seated himself on the sofa. Terry could sense his eyes watching him as he played. After a few minutes, Trevor had drained the glass, and poured another.
“So, I guess you like cars, huh Terry?” he said, in the same ridiculous over-the-top tone. Terry simply nodded. “Me too!” Trevor went on. Terry looked at him, expecting more, but the oaf just smiled down at him. He returned it with a small half-smile of his own. Then turned back to his cars.
For a time, they sat in silence, Terry playing, and Trevor drinking. But Terry didn’t feel comfortable with the stranger. Every now and then, he would look up, to find Trevor watching him. After a while he got to his feet.
“I think I should go to bed,” he said, quietly, and made for the door. But Trevors arm shot out and grabbed him, as he went to go past.
“Just a minute, lad,” he slurred. Having already finished the bottle of wine, the guy was half way to plastered. “I wanna teach you somethin’, ‘bout women. You see, women is only good for two things. What your mama’s doin’ now, cookin’, and what she’s gonna be doin’ later, screwin’. Remember that, lad, and you’ll be fine.” He punctuated this last sentence, with a few rough jabs at Terrys chest.
Throughout this little speech, Terrys face was a mask of horror. He had no idea what this weirdo was on about, but he didn’t like it. And he didn’t like the way the guy gripped his arm, so tightly, he was sure it would bruise.
“Oh, and remember, confidence! Chicks love a confident guy!”
As he said those words, Terry managed to pull his arm free of his grip, and he ran, up the stairs to his room. He stayed there, for the rest of the evening, and night, hoping with all his heart, that Trevor would be gone the next day, before he woke up.
‘But he wasn’t’ he thought, to himself, ‘He stayed.’
He laid the card on the table. The bold lettering read:
Terry Daniels aged nine years, his first conversation with his step-father Trevor, and where it all began.
_________________
.... there is no religion without love, and people may talk as much as they like about their religion, but if it does not teach them to be good and kind to man and beast, it is all a sham....
Black Beauty by Anna Sewell, 1887
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Shady Stoat
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| Posted: Tue Jan 26, 2010 6:23 am Post subject: |
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Her arm ached. She didn't know whether the pain was real or remembered – and she didn't know which one would be worse. Taking a shuddering breath, she turned over the next card...
~
“Mrs. Ambridge. Again.”
Carey dragged her eyes from the window and studied the man at her bedside. Indian. Small, neat frame, dark eyes, thin lips, white coat, clipboard in his hands. Soft voice, lilting with a native accent, and warm fingers as he turned her palm face-upward.
Did she recognise him? No, not really. Vague memories through the darkness, one face among hundreds. But he recognised her. They probably all did by now. Probably talked about her in the staff rooms, made jokes about season tickets and privileged customer points.
Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. She wouldn't think, wouldn't feel. It was easier that way.
The doctor made a hissing noise of disapproval as he examined the rough stitches up her arm.
“Another scar,” he said. “Ugly.”
Silence. It wasn't the first scar – wasn't even the first time she'd slashed that arm open, along that same line. The bliss of a slowly reddening bathtub, a heartbeat weakening, taking all the thoughts and pain out with it... and then, inevitably, the slide from blackness up to light again. The harsh fluorescents, the panicked voices, the dislocation of painkillers and anaesthetic floating through her bloodstream, and the stitch-up jobs. The bullying from the nurses and...
“You should talk to someone.”
Ah yes. That.
“No,” she said, eyes closed.
“A counsellor. A psychiatrist. We have some very good ones on staff...”
“No.”
“I could have someone sent up, right now, if you...”
“No. Thank you.”
The silence was longer this time. Even without looking at him, she could sense the doctor's frustration. His unvoiced opinion that she was wasting hospital resources, precious time that could be spent on deserving cases, rather than self-indulged nut-jobs like her.
“Your husband is waiting outside,” he said, at last. “I'll send him in.”
She swallowed. “Could you...”
“Yes?”
“Could you... tell him I'm not ready to see him yet?”
“I could. But, like you, I choose not to.”
With that, he was gone. Carey's gaze leapt from side to side, seeking an out. There was the sound of birdsong outside the window, but it was an illusion. Only a tiny crack opened at the top, she couldn't get out, couldn't avoid what was coming. Suddenly the smell of disinfectant cloyed her nostrils like an ether rag. She felt suffocated, smothered in the cool linen of the hospital bed.
Vincent was coming. Oh dear god.
Don't think. Don't feel. Get through it – again.
The door opened.
“Carey?”
Despite everything, her eyes filled with tears.
“Go away.”
He walked into the room, sat on the bed.
“You know I won't. I love you.”
He sat on the bedside. It creaked. He'd put weight on these last two years. And his hair was getting thin and grey on top. Her fault again, she supposed.
“It's gonna be okay, Carey.” He reached out and stroked the limp hair out of her eyes. “We'll get through this. A couple of days, you'll be home again. I'll take some time off work, look after you. Things will get better, you'll see.”
She jerked away, suddenly furious. “Why don't you just give up? I'm nothing! Broken! But you keep dragging me back. Saving me, whether I want it or not.”
“I love you,” he repeated.
“I love you. I love you,” she mocked. “You don't love me. You don't even know me! You just want to add me to your collection.”
His eyes widened. She blazed on, relishing the hurt she inflicted with each word.
“First of all your dad. How many years did you work just to pay your own rent and your mother's? How many hours did you spend cleaning and feeding and changing him, every day every year, no rest, no end in sight. And when your mum started going downhill? Sure. Her too. Why not. You just carried with the Florence Nightingale act. Trying to fix what couldn't be fixed. It's the only reason you proposed to me, back when I was lying in that hospital bed. Because you're just too damned afraid to live your own life, for its own sake! You disgust me!”
The clock on the wall ticked. It was deafening in the silence. Vince stood up, staggering drunkenly. His face was slack, and one hand kept twitching toward it, only to end up at his side again. He took the four tottering steps between her bed and the doorway, before clutching at the handle. The door opened. He stepped into the space between room and corridor, and paused.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Finally, he turned around and took a deep breath. His face seemed to settle again, his mouth grim.
“You're right,” he said, and his voice was so soft Carey could barely catch it. “I've looked after people all my life. Maybe I judge myself by how others see me.”
“I – I didn't really mean...”
“Shut up.”
It was the look in his eyes more than the words that made her close her mouth again.
“At least the people I choose to judge myself by are still alive, Carey. My mum. You. At least my sacrifices actually have a chance of actually helping them.”
His stare measured the seconds, as did the clock on the wall.
Tick. Stacey.
Tock. Penny.
Tick. Liz.
Tock. Olivia.
Tick. Ginny.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
“What's your excuse?” he said and, without waiting for an answer, closed the door behind him.
~
The card hovers in her fingers. Slowly, she tears it down the middle and lets the pieces drop to the table in front of her. She can still read the writing on its two halves.
Name: Carey Ambridge Nee Brucken. Failed suicidal. Again.
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Smee
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| Posted: Tue Jan 26, 2010 6:26 am Post subject: |
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The scarred hand was reluctant to turn another card. The first two hadn't been pleasant. Life in gaol, and his father being murdered before his 8 year old eyes. What could this next one have in store? An unknown force pushed through his hesitation and he flipped the third card over.
~
"Which way?" The darkly clad man signed.
Nathan consulted the mental map he'd memorised earlier. "Left, then first right he signed back, only taking his hand off the pistol for the briefest second.
The two of them moved down the bearly lit corridor in a half crouch, bent over their weapons, senses on high alert. Nathan kept half an eye on his partner, both incase he signed another message, and also evaluating. Trust was hard to come by, and finding someone like Terry, so suddenly, with such an array of skills, smacked a little too much of coincidence. Nathan was wary. It wouldn't be the first time someone had been put in his path to later betray him.
"Halt" Terry's arm indicated. Nathan came to a stop two paces behind as his partner used a small hand mirror held close to the floor to survey around the corner. Nathan kept watch, studying their surroundings. The richly patterned wallpaper seemed odd in an otherwise dilapidated part of the building. Doors hung off hinges, crude, broken furniture was strewn about, and yet the wallpaper. It was the kind of detail missed by others, and yet sent a shiver down Nathan's spine. It was the kind of detail that signalled the difference between just a scar, or death. A glance at his hand reminded him he had his fair share of scars for just twenty five years of life.
'Is it a setup?' He asked himself. His eidetic memory brought back the scene from a few nights earlier. Trading the information from the homeless bum in exchange for a bottle of whisky. Had that been a nervous shift to his eyes, or just the rheumy look of an alcoholic? Details!
The corner was clear, and Terry moved off. Nathan followed, still absorbing everything, trying to catch another hint of something not quite right. The corridor smelt damp, with vague odours of cheap beer, urine and stale tobacco. Someone had definitely been squatting here recently.
Dampness! Yet no sign of peeling wallpaper. The more it churned in his thoughts, the more it came back as something wrong. Already he could feel the chill of adrenaline as his muscles prepared for the fight or flight response.
"Something is wrong here!" Terry suddenly signed as he stopped and turned around.
"You feel it too?" Nathan replied silently.
A year after his father had died, and still no sign of him talking again, his mother had insisted he learn to sign. It was her way of compromising with her son, he didn't have to talk, but she needed some communication. They took lessons together. He'd begun talking again a few years ago now, but he still kept in practice with signing. It served many uses, especially now he'd finally found a partner able to sign too.
I don't know what it is?"
It's the wallpaper... it's not damaged enough.
Terry's eyes, visible above the concealing balaclava, widened at the observation, and he quickly signed his agreement. His eyes suddenly dropped down to the remains of a broken wooden chair, near Nathan's feet.
"What is it?" Nathan signed.
"That chair, the way it's been broken. Look at the splinter points."
Nathan looked down, and quickly saw what Terry was indicating. The ends were clean, fresh looking despite the rest of the wood being dirty and stained. This had been broken very recently. A glance at an inside out umbrella thrown next to it showed clean metal spokes. Not a hint of rust. Details were falling into place, and suspicions filled him.
The click of a gun being cocked behind his head was the final detail.
"My boss ain't too happy with your investigations!" Gone were the signs, Terry's deep voice sounded crisp despite the damp air.
Nathan held completely still, crouched down near the broken chair. The adrenaline from earlier had become a torrent, his heart sounded deafening in his ears.
"The gun... throw it."
Nathan complied, and it clattered away.
"What will you do with me?" he signed.
"Still don't feel like talkin', heh. Well we'll see about that once I get you back t' the Mob. They has people who will tickle a tune outta ya."
"Why the elaborate sham? Nathan asked, his right hand a flurry as he signed. A slight turn of his body, seemingly to help balance for the signing, allowed him to move his left hand unnoticed toward one of the chair legs. He gripped it tightly as Terry answered.
"The Mob knows all about you. All about your signing, and your obsession with details. It amused them to toy with... eugh."
Nathan swung the chair leg in a upward cleave, all the adrenaline from the last few minute powering the motion into a swift arc that crunched into the side of Terry's head. His gun sounded, the bullet blasting harmlessly into the far wall.
It was all over in a second, and it left Nathan panting as energy drained from him. Yet another close call! Yet again information on where to find the Mob's HQ eluded him. But he would find it.
If there was once thing he knew from his father, it was revenge. An eye for an eye. And he intended to collect in full.
~
The card dropped to the table as the latest barrage of memories imprinted themselves. Clear black lettering. "Revenge is in the details"
_________________
The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Fri Jan 29, 2010 10:32 pm Post subject: |
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Tentatively, wondering, she moves on to the next card.
“What is it like, Maggie? Talking to God?”
It is nice to hear Lila Winters-Browne’s voice again. Ever since her stepfather… well, she hadn’t spoken much.
And the poor girl was only fifteen, Magdeline’s own age. After Lila’s mother had died, Magdeline’s father had sued for custody of his niece on ethical grounds. Magdeline remembered that day clearly, sitting in court, as her father revealed what he had learned in his sister’s will.
Sadie Winters-Browne was not a strong woman in life. Things had happened, things that she had been able to stop, in her weakness. And the advanced stage of leukemia had only worsened things.
In the end, it worked out. Lila lived with Magdeline and her family, and, though, she was not talkative, she was making progress.
Magdeline turned to the sound of Lila’s voice, blind eyes open but unseeing. As she opens her mouth to answer, the full meaning of the question hits her.
And she closes her mouth. How could she explain? Some days, she is just an ordinary girl, while others… at other times she is filled with the glory of his presence. Her mind sweeps back to her first contact with His angel, in the burning school. Like Moses, she saw Him first in the flames. And then all that came after.
“I don’t know.” She looks where Lila’s voice comes from, attempting to make eye contact, to show that she is taking the question seriously and truly does not know.
Perhaps she misjudged her cousin’s position, or perhaps Lila simply does not see. Now, in a peevish voice. “What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you His messenger on Earth or something?”
It’s hard to explain. Why can’t she understand? It would be like explaining sight to someone who has always carried the darkness Magdeline now bears.
“It’s… complicated.”
The weight on the bed springs lessens and Magdeline’s door closes with a click. She frowns, sadly.
***
Two days later someone graffitis the New Age Baptismal Church. In giant red letters, across the front doors is the word. Fraud, it screams in fire. Fraud, it proclaims to all who look upon it. Eyewitnesses are present, which means that Magdeline’s parents, among the prominent members of the church as the parents of its prophet, are called even as the culprit flees the scene. Angry rants whirl through the phone-lines, filling the air like an invisible choir, deploring everything from video games to general hooliganism. And in all this, blind Magdeline Winters, the prophet, has a horrible feeling in her gut as she comes, perhaps intuitively, perhaps guided by a greater entity, to an answer.
“Where is Lila?”
A temporary silence breaks over the crowd that has gathered within the Winters living room. Then a hubbub rises as angry shouting over punishment comes to a crescendo.
Some greater being is playing with the dice of fate that night. Be it God’s will, or the workings of the Beast, luck strikes that night in terrible ways.
It is just at that moment, before cooler heads can prevail, as Lila’s name is on everyone’s lips and every person’s anger fans and is fanned by the anger of every other’s, that the despoiler herself creeps into the door. And old Ms. Parson just happens to be looking in that direction, and shouts “There she is!” causing Lila to run into the night, and Magdeline’s father, concern for the blood of his blood overcoming, briefly, anger, drives into the night headlights blazing to find her.
And it is just by chance that Mr. Lee, more than tipsy and not overly attentive to the road as he throws up noisily in the seat next to him veers into the driver side of Mr. Winters’ Camri not a block from the house.
Magdeline hears the crash. And the screams that follow after. And, as news slowly filters back through hysterical crying and cursing, as, in her moment of sadness, as she sinks to her knees beneath the weight of the sadness of having lost both a cousin and a father, she truly sees the path of every prophet. Abraham, whose firstborn, Ishmael, was cast into the wilderness. Moses, who wandered the desert, never setting foot in the Promised Land. John the Baptist, his head was presented to seductive Salome on a platter. The path of a prophet is filled with sacrifice and pain. The life of a prophet can not be lived for a prophet, but only for His Will.
It is ironic in some ways the truth the girl who speaks with God comes to realize that night.
What is it like to talk to God?
Lonely.
Again, she sees a light in her card, the bright white, fuzzy in both eyes now as tears drown the room, a contrast to the pale darkness that blankets the other figures. It is a light it seems that only she can see.
Magdeline Jounee Winters. Prophetess. Alone.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Phantomfan
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| Posted: Sat Feb 13, 2010 3:17 pm Post subject: |
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The woman wipes a tear off her cheek, then reaches out the moistened hand for a third card...
“C’mon Xayne, let’s go!”
Six-year-old Xayne watched her older sister dash out from behind the stack of crates and run over to the end of the alley, where she pushed herself up against the wall. Xayne took a breath and followed, carefully mimicking her sister’s silent and fast style of movement. She reached the wall and pressed herself next to her sister, the two girls practically blending into the shadows. Xayne looked with shining eyes up at her sister, who glanced down and gave a small smile.
“Well done, Xayne. Mom and Dad would be proud.”
Xayne glowed under her sister’s approval. That smile and those words were all that she lived
for.
Ever since their parents had been banished from the city after being caught red-handed with the Duchess’ jewelry in their saddlebags, Xayne and her sister, Joane, had been forced to provide for themselves. Luckily, living on the streets made them so dirty that no guard would ever be able to recognize them as the children of the world’s best thieves—they were just two more nameless street urchins.
For the past three years, Joane had taken advantage of their complete lack of identity and, using the skills their parents had passed down, pick pocketed and stole enough money to keep them alive. Xayne had wanted desperately to help, but her sister had always refused to let her go, claiming her to be too young. “It’s a dangerous world out there for a young girl,” she would always say.
And so, Xayne had stayed in their little wooden shack and practiced everything so that her sister would be proud-- walking silently, blending in with the shadows, using nimble fingers, etc. And every time Joane came home, Xayne would show her beloved sister how much she had improved from the last time, always looking for that smile of approval. It was only yesterday, after Xayne had demonstrated how she could remove a piece of leather from within a pile of metal without making a sound, that her sister had finally agreed to allow Xayne to accompany her.
Now, the two stood at the mouth of the alleyway, gazing upon the huge square beyond, watching people of various size and wealth walk by. Suddenly, Joane tensed, and whispered to Xayne.
“See that one in the middle of the square?”
Xayne nodded, watching the well-dressed, portly man walk across the street. A priest, maybe.
Joane grinned. “I’ll be right back.”
She ran out of the alley, angling her path just so-
And wham! Joane smacked into the portly man and crashed to the ground. Xayne gasped, suddenly fearful for her sister. Was this supposed to happen? Startled, the man stumbled backwards slightly before regaining his composure and turning on the young, dirty girl dressed in rags and sprawled out on the sidewalk.
Xayne watched her sister stand up slowly, hands clasped to her side as if she had bruised it. She could barely hear what the man was yelling at Joane, but his angry tone was quite clear. Joane nodded, a shamed and apologetic look on her face as she turned back around and stumbled back into the alleyway, the man’s angry words trailing behind her.
Once she had reached the safety of the shadows, Joane straightened up with a pleased sigh, caught a glimpse of Xayne’s shocked face, and burst out into laughter.
“Are…are you alright?” Xayne stammered, confused by her sister’s outburst.
Joane nodded, still chuckling. “I’m fine,” she said, grinning. “It’s all part of the act.” She pulled her hands away from her injured side, revealing a small gold pocket-watch clutched in her hands. “You do it right when you crash into them,” she explained. “They’re usually too shocked to realize what you’re doing. And the more hurt or sorry you act, the more likely you are to get away unscathed.”
Eyes wide, Xayne nodded, taking in the words. Joane was still grinning.
“And now it’s your turn, Xayne.”
The woman smiles as she carefully replaces the card onto the table, the memory of that beloved approval brightening her heart. A handwritten message is scrawled on the card.
Take advantage of distractions.
_________________
I've been pulled back from oblivion to lurk about the City once more. Though the music of the night always beckons...
Here's some stuff I started writing a long time ago. Orb. Nexus.
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Sugar Plum F
Tourist
Joined: 27 Dec 2009
Topics: 0
Posts: 19
Location: California
Items
Legends
Fables
Strata-gems
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| Posted: Tue Feb 16, 2010 11:23 pm Post subject: |
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The pale figure reaches for another card, anxious to see what kind of person she turned out to be.
“Ma'am, I need you to calm down. Just tell me what happened so the doctors can help him.”
“I don't know,” Adah sobbed. “He was playing in the back yard and I heard him scream. By the time I got to him he was unconscious. Help him. Oh, please help my little boy!”
“Ma'am, calm down. We're doing all we can for him. I need you to let the doctors take him now. You can't go with them. You need to stay here and fill out these forms.” The receptionist was losing her patience as Adah's grip on the stretcher didn't loosen. “Ma'am, if you don't let go, the doctors won't be able to help him.”
“I can't let go,” Adah screamed. “He's my son! You have to help him. You have to help him!”
The EMT finally pried Adah's hand off and they whisked the little boy through the doors. As the doors swung shut, Adah clung to the last glimpse of her only child's blond head disappearing down the corridor. She sobbed into her now empty hands. Her insides hurt with the deep ache of separation and fear.
The receptionist guided Adah to one of the waiting room's chairs and handed her a clipboard. Adah's sobs slowly quieted and eventually, she could read the paper in front of her. The paperwork was tedious and long, but Adah still had several hours to stare at the stark walls of the waiting room, giving the hysteria time to melt into horror. After nearly three hours, a doctor approached her.
“Ms. Humphrey, I'm afraid I don't have very good news,” the doctor grimly stated. “Your son has severe internal bleeding. If the swelling and bleeding doesn't stop in the next 48 hours, your son's not going to make it.”
Adah stared blankly at the doctor. Her brain simply couldn't assimilate this information. All she could think about was holding her son.
“Can I see him?”
“Yes, but you must be very gentle with him, even his hands have sustained severe injuries.”
Hours later, Adah's hand still curled under her son's tiny bandaged hand. His pale rosy complexion was replaced with dark purple bruises and scrapes all the way down his body. Adah no longer flinched when she saw the stitches just above his left eye. It seemed like she had been staring at him for days. But still there was no improvement. The hours stretched on with no hope in them. Each beep of the life support monitors hammered into her head, driving the thought that her little boy was going to die, deeper and deeper into her mind. When Adah could no longer take it, she turned on the tv, looking for something, anything to take away those thoughts.
The lighting of the screen brought with it shouts of 'Hallelujah!' and clapping. She realized it must be some sort of televangelist show and started looking for the remote to change the channel. Adah had finally located it when the words of the program finally reached her.
You don't have to lose hope. Miracles are all around you! God loves all people. You just have to show him you are willing to follow him. I promise that if you exercise your faith and send a charitable donation to New Age Baptismal, you will see the hand of God in your life within moments! Don't continue in your hopeless ways. Act now! God is waiting for you and so are we. New Age Baptismal can help you experience that miracle!
Call now or send a check or money order to 5563 Washington Street, Tulsa, OK, 54932.
Adah's concentration was torn from the message on the tv when the monitor skipped a beat and then thudded on at an alarming rate. Fear and desperation guided her hand to her checkbook. It had been 30 hours and the doctors had tried everything. Perhaps New Age Baptismal was the little boy's last chance.
Adah took a final glance at her son's sleeping form as she slipped out of the room. She crept down the hall hoping the mail room was close. Upon asking the receptionist at the nearest desk, she found that there was a mail drop by the elevators. Adah scrambled in her purse hoping she had an envelope. She found the power bill she hadn't sent out yet and was happy for once that she was late making her payment. As the envelope slipped silently into the outgoing mail slot, Adah prayed with the fervor of her soul, “Please, God, save my child!”
As she rounded the corner on her way back, Adah saw the doctor and a nurse exit her son's room. Her heart sank as the doctor approached her.
“Ms. Humphrey, we have some very good news. Your son's swelling has gone down and the internal bleeding has completely stopped. He should be awake soon and if he continues to improve at this rate, we'll have him off life support by tomorrow.”
Adah's heart clenched with sudden joy. Her miracle had been granted!
Her heart was still pounding with elation as the figure once again glanced at the card:
Adah Humphrey, devoted follower of New Age Baptismal
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