By R. Velez
_________________
As the rain falls;
tears fall around me.
I never used to get it;
but now its on me.
Puddles are forming;
memories are swarming.
With every rain drop;
my heart stops,
and I can't stop believing;
and I can't stop the bleeding,
for what reason.
Let it rain, let pour;
as I wait for something more.
Let the rains wash away the stains
of the past.
Free at last, but still waiting;
for the storm to pass, but still debating...
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Mike: Glimpses of a Man Part V
Link to Parts I and II
Link to Part III
Link to Part IV
Link to Part III
Link to Part IV
Part V
Nah, his mind was right. I mean, maybe it was strained- eh, it was probably strained. He wasn't blind to the shit around him, ya know? He saw it, he smelled it. Probably better than me. See? He knew feculence when it passed him. Ya like that word? His way about things, ya know, he liked it. Didn't enjoy it. But ya know, some folks, uh ain't meant to enjoy and like at the same time. For real, he didn't need the change. Something changed though, and that shit tore him. He ain't the same since then. Yea, definitely strained.
*******
The pen quivered across the page torn from the notebook now resting in his lap. His eyes briefly amused by a potential misspelling. He dragged the pen across the word and rewrote it differently, and repeated the process, reverting back to the first take. A smile emerged, as he took his focus from the page upwards, and placed the pen behind his ear. His hand favored the slowly burning cigarette resting in the ashtray at his side. As it slid toward his lips, a few crumbs of ash flecked away, falling freely through the grates of the fire escape.
He rested, back against burgeoning brick, summoned from the ground toward a height unknown. Perhaps an overly poetic way to describe his situation. His eyes dabbled with the people below, blots of inconsistency smeared on a concrete canvas. Perhaps that's overly poetic too. His position hardly changed as he lifted his knee toward his chest, the notebook leaning upright. The pages, most frayed with overuse, faded ink smearing some select edges, while others, though few, remained unused. He tossed through the pages, still attached, and retrieved his current scribbling from his side. A hesitant comparison.
His eyes darted across the page, widening as they slid further down. His left hand clenched the metal grate beneath him as his right tightened its hold on the paper. It crumpled with the force, tearing slightly. His eyes relaxed, and he refocused on the street lights below, now dimly lit. He bit his lip- a crooked imprint, before releasing his grip, allowing his prosaic prose of filtered words to descend toward the people below.
*******
What is it that ya love? A person? A place? A thing? He asked it like it was his reason for being, ya know? I jus' told him I had love for all three. He'd show his teeth a bit, kinda like a smile, breathe a little bit harder and usually jus' go away and leave me about my business. One day I asked him what he loved. Try and catch him different. Ya know what he said? He said, he loves specific moments in time, not a person, not a place, not a thing, ya know? He said ya can't love a person a place or a thing unconditional. All you can do is love a moment with a person, a place, or a thing. With some people ya love more moments, maybe all moments, and with others ya love less moments. But ya never love anything specific but those moments. He said all that other shit is just us bending ourselves to some over inclusive conclusion 'bout love, ya know?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Mike: An Unfamiliar Warmth
Scott did a perfect job of explaining the purpose of this exercise in the post below. Check it out...
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Light poured in through the windows against the far wall, reflecting gently off the treaded parquet floorboards. The shades, drawn, revealed the chipped paint of the windowsill. Overexposure perhaps. Flecks of white had fallen to the floor, only to find themselves resting between the cracks of the wood, or periodically swept, cautiously under the heating pipes. The faucets were calm, no drips-no drops. French blinds cast a hesitant shadow, in the next room- vacant.
He sat and stared at the man in front of him, as the sun peeled its way from a cloud. The light glimmered off the rim of his glasses. A slight squint. He watched the man's eyes open and close, first at a rapid pace, and then slower, pausing, grasping for site- mimicking his breath. Drops of blood lined his face with undesired freckles. His right hand retrieved a cloth from a pocket- a smear into his pores. Shortened breaths caressed the palm of his hand as the cloth passed over his cheek.
His breath told a story. No words. There was a fading depth to his pupils. He suddenly understood the inconsistency in the story. He watched the man lift the .44, still whispering smoke and mimicked his smile as he watched the gun retreat to his side. Blood continued to run down the cracks of his palm. He felt the power of the man's cliché.
By the stroke of a trigger-
His mind raced, he could sense the urgency. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, as it speckled the floor- rose petals. He watched an arm, outstretched, reach for him. He reached for it, and felt an unfamiliar warmth. He looked up, and watched as the man's eyes rolled back. Another slight smile. Darkness-
His body fell to the side softly, arm still oustretched. He lurched forward toward the other hand. The mirror shattered as it fell to the floor. The sun's rays refracted off the broken shards of glass illuminating his motionless body.
Vacant, except for a whispering .44.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Scott: Theme Writing: Moving Day
Mike and I were talking not too long ago, discussing a story that Mike had shared. The conversation eventually moved to the topic of death, and the way in which each person copes with the experience of it. We decided on a quick theme for the day: exploring the changes that occur in the human psyche when a person sees someone killed in front of them. It may sound morbid, but I think its an interesting examination of the fragility of the mind. Humans are an amazing species, but not without their chinks in the armor...
______________________
The water flowed out of the shower-head in a tight stream. Nathan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the cascade to hit him in the face. His breath was slow, tentative. the warm water rushed across his face and down his chest, back and arms and Nathan began to let his mind wander. His focus moved in and out: now on the water running hotly across his body; Now on the feeling of the tiled floor at his feet; Now on the water striking his face - hard, hot, almost sharp.
Nathan opened his eyes, and his head instinctively darted around. Glass filled the air, still reverberating from the impact; slicing through the air like incandescent daggers. Fireflys in the night.
Nathan started. He threw himself back quickly, and knocked his head against the wall of the shower, at the same time, blindly reaching and pulling the shower curtain down from its rings.
Now aware of himself, he cursed out loud, and threw the shower-curtain aside onto the floor. Then, quietly, he wrapped his arms around his legs, placed his head down, and cried.
Squinting through a red haze, blood running into his eyes from the cuts on his face, Nathan looked to his right. Into Maggie's eyes. Her mouth shivered lightly, and her hand twitched, her arm trying desperately to reach for him.
Pushing against the side of the shower, Nathan forced himself up and over, moving awkwardly into the wheelchair that sat empty next to the discarded curtain. Mechanically, he dried his body off and reached for his boxers. Sliding back and forth in his wheelchair, Nathan slowly slid them up and around his waist, he looked over at a pair of jeans, and, with visible disgust, ignored them. He did not look into the mirror.
Nathan's face streamed with tears. He reached for Maggie's hand and took it into his own. Her eyes followed his face, and he demanded that she stay awake; demanded that she stay with him.
Slowly, he wheeled himself out of the bathroom, and through the hall. Boxes, some half filled and others taped closed, lined all corners of the apartment, stacked neatly in various corners. When he approached the living room, he rolled to a stop. Samantha stood in the room, rifling through the various odds and ends left on the floor. She turned to greet him warmly, then held up a small framed painting, an explosion of colors and textures pressed behind glass and locked inside a wooden frame.
She tapped the glass encouragingly "Didn't you paint this before, Nathan? It's really good, why do you want to get rid of it?"
Maggie's eyes focused completely on Nathan's own. He watched her, with supreme effort, squeeze his hand with her own. blood trickled down the corners of her mouth, and she coughed briefly. Nathan tried to speak, tried to scream, but could not, his voice choked back with emotion. Maggie smiled weakly, and her hand stopped squeezing Nathan's.
Nathan looked at the painting, then let his eyes drop; he stared off into nothing for only a moment.
"I don't paint anymore."
______________________
The water flowed out of the shower-head in a tight stream. Nathan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the cascade to hit him in the face. His breath was slow, tentative. the warm water rushed across his face and down his chest, back and arms and Nathan began to let his mind wander. His focus moved in and out: now on the water running hotly across his body; Now on the feeling of the tiled floor at his feet; Now on the water striking his face - hard, hot, almost sharp.
Nathan opened his eyes, and his head instinctively darted around. Glass filled the air, still reverberating from the impact; slicing through the air like incandescent daggers. Fireflys in the night.
Nathan started. He threw himself back quickly, and knocked his head against the wall of the shower, at the same time, blindly reaching and pulling the shower curtain down from its rings.
Now aware of himself, he cursed out loud, and threw the shower-curtain aside onto the floor. Then, quietly, he wrapped his arms around his legs, placed his head down, and cried.
Squinting through a red haze, blood running into his eyes from the cuts on his face, Nathan looked to his right. Into Maggie's eyes. Her mouth shivered lightly, and her hand twitched, her arm trying desperately to reach for him.
Pushing against the side of the shower, Nathan forced himself up and over, moving awkwardly into the wheelchair that sat empty next to the discarded curtain. Mechanically, he dried his body off and reached for his boxers. Sliding back and forth in his wheelchair, Nathan slowly slid them up and around his waist, he looked over at a pair of jeans, and, with visible disgust, ignored them. He did not look into the mirror.
Nathan's face streamed with tears. He reached for Maggie's hand and took it into his own. Her eyes followed his face, and he demanded that she stay awake; demanded that she stay with him.
Slowly, he wheeled himself out of the bathroom, and through the hall. Boxes, some half filled and others taped closed, lined all corners of the apartment, stacked neatly in various corners. When he approached the living room, he rolled to a stop. Samantha stood in the room, rifling through the various odds and ends left on the floor. She turned to greet him warmly, then held up a small framed painting, an explosion of colors and textures pressed behind glass and locked inside a wooden frame.
She tapped the glass encouragingly "Didn't you paint this before, Nathan? It's really good, why do you want to get rid of it?"
Maggie's eyes focused completely on Nathan's own. He watched her, with supreme effort, squeeze his hand with her own. blood trickled down the corners of her mouth, and she coughed briefly. Nathan tried to speak, tried to scream, but could not, his voice choked back with emotion. Maggie smiled weakly, and her hand stopped squeezing Nathan's.
Nathan looked at the painting, then let his eyes drop; he stared off into nothing for only a moment.
"I don't paint anymore."
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Mike: Glimpses of a Man Part IV
Link to Parts I and II
Link to Part III
Glimpses of a Man: Part IV
Alone in a crowd of people-
The doors opened slowly and the huddled group pushed its way through the widening hole, a concentrated mass expanding only upon release. A man, probably 35 flows against traffic, tilts sideways and shoulders his way onto the train. His suit, turned to armor. His briefcase, a shield perhaps. He pushes his way through the exiting crowd and clips a young woman across the mouth. She rubs her chin and rotates her jaw as she exits with the rest of the pack. The man sits, restless. His thumbs twitch on his khaki covered knee caps, as he glances at the doors, pouching his lips as he sees people only beginning to enter the train- such an obvious fear that he may not make it to his home of monotony by 6:30, dinner time.
An older man, black, 65-ish, canes his way through the doors as they begin to close. He brushes, hesitantly by me, as I grasp the top third of the center pole. I shift my weight to allow him to pass unencumbered. He sits slowly, his legs barely bending, leaning pendulously- repetitiously, forward and backward until, completion. He rests his chin on the handle of his cane and smiles, staring through the floor, with deep breaths.
The train is silent as it begins to move, except for the intermittent scraping of metal rails. A middle aged couple shares the pole with me, as a curly haired child sleeps in the stroller at their side. They stare at each other, stuck in some vexing stage of love, where they’re able to restrain themselves from touching or talking while the train is in motion. I feel their warmth from the other side of the steel pole that separates us. I close my eyes and let it envelope me. I wonder if they can feel the same from me- they probably attribute it to each other.
“Ici,” the woman whispers, as the train comes to a stop. They release the pole in unison and start toward the closed doors, taking their warmth with them. I peak through partially closed lids as they squeeze through the doors and expand.
Link to Part III
Glimpses of a Man: Part IV
Alone in a crowd of people-
The doors opened slowly and the huddled group pushed its way through the widening hole, a concentrated mass expanding only upon release. A man, probably 35 flows against traffic, tilts sideways and shoulders his way onto the train. His suit, turned to armor. His briefcase, a shield perhaps. He pushes his way through the exiting crowd and clips a young woman across the mouth. She rubs her chin and rotates her jaw as she exits with the rest of the pack. The man sits, restless. His thumbs twitch on his khaki covered knee caps, as he glances at the doors, pouching his lips as he sees people only beginning to enter the train- such an obvious fear that he may not make it to his home of monotony by 6:30, dinner time.
An older man, black, 65-ish, canes his way through the doors as they begin to close. He brushes, hesitantly by me, as I grasp the top third of the center pole. I shift my weight to allow him to pass unencumbered. He sits slowly, his legs barely bending, leaning pendulously- repetitiously, forward and backward until, completion. He rests his chin on the handle of his cane and smiles, staring through the floor, with deep breaths.
The train is silent as it begins to move, except for the intermittent scraping of metal rails. A middle aged couple shares the pole with me, as a curly haired child sleeps in the stroller at their side. They stare at each other, stuck in some vexing stage of love, where they’re able to restrain themselves from touching or talking while the train is in motion. I feel their warmth from the other side of the steel pole that separates us. I close my eyes and let it envelope me. I wonder if they can feel the same from me- they probably attribute it to each other.
“Ici,” the woman whispers, as the train comes to a stop. They release the pole in unison and start toward the closed doors, taking their warmth with them. I peak through partially closed lids as they squeeze through the doors and expand.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Mike: Daily Dose #2 - HoeDown at the Snapple Machine
Daily Dose #2
There’s something about instinct- or maybe reflex – that brings out the best in us. I was 16, and over by the Snapple machine during lunch. I took out my dollar and began feeding it into the machine when an arm came across my face and grabbed my money. I didn’t see who, all I saw was an arm. My instinct was to protect what was mine, so as I saw my money slip from my hand into this hand in front of me, I attempted to take his throat.
Down he went, right into the radiator by the window. As he attempted to get up I pushed his head toward the open window. His friends pulled me off of him. There were 6 of them, all bigger than me. Reason and rationality overcame instinct, and the best of me disappeared. After some words were exchanged, the kid gave me my money back but promised that he and his friends were going to get me after lunch.
The threat reverted me back to a primitive state, watching my corners, focused on the periphery. I had a lot of friends, big friends, mostly football players on a mediocre team. They flanked me as lunch ended and I saw a group of about 12 waiting for me outside of the cafeteria. My fists were clenched, and I was ready to get bloody. As I walked out and they saw the group I was with, they backed down. Apparently rationality can overcome anyone’s instinct.
Sip on some of that sauce.
There’s something about instinct- or maybe reflex – that brings out the best in us. I was 16, and over by the Snapple machine during lunch. I took out my dollar and began feeding it into the machine when an arm came across my face and grabbed my money. I didn’t see who, all I saw was an arm. My instinct was to protect what was mine, so as I saw my money slip from my hand into this hand in front of me, I attempted to take his throat.
Down he went, right into the radiator by the window. As he attempted to get up I pushed his head toward the open window. His friends pulled me off of him. There were 6 of them, all bigger than me. Reason and rationality overcame instinct, and the best of me disappeared. After some words were exchanged, the kid gave me my money back but promised that he and his friends were going to get me after lunch.
The threat reverted me back to a primitive state, watching my corners, focused on the periphery. I had a lot of friends, big friends, mostly football players on a mediocre team. They flanked me as lunch ended and I saw a group of about 12 waiting for me outside of the cafeteria. My fists were clenched, and I was ready to get bloody. As I walked out and they saw the group I was with, they backed down. Apparently rationality can overcome anyone’s instinct.
Sip on some of that sauce.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Scott: Confessions - I was a teenage poet
I know I'm not the only one out there who wrote angst-ridden poetry long before they were old enough to realize that "angst" is really just another word used to describe the impotent rage a young person feels when their horomones ride them for the first few years of high school.
Having said that, I'm going to share a few of the poems I decided to write during my pathetic and overly whiny youth...
---
-Flash-
Moments Between;
Liminal;
Marginal;
Minute;
the infinite no-time between thought and action;
-Crash-
---
Poetry is Symmetry;
symmetry of life and mind.
I'm not the man I was,
nor is my life the same.
A bold revision;
a new direction.
It's time to grow;
apart from youth.
The future -
holds the key.
Dark, Light.
Frowns, smiles.
Before.
After.
---
I breathe in this cold sadness;
inflate my lungs with some half remembered dream;
exhale the hope that died inside my chest.
---
I'm still waiting on that sun-lit shore for you;
pacing back and forth on a dream, staring across an ocean of obstacles;
straining for a glimpse of someday.
---
Having said that, I'm going to share a few of the poems I decided to write during my pathetic and overly whiny youth...
---
-Flash-
Moments Between;
Liminal;
Marginal;
Minute;
the infinite no-time between thought and action;
-Crash-
---
Poetry is Symmetry;
symmetry of life and mind.
I'm not the man I was,
nor is my life the same.
A bold revision;
a new direction.
It's time to grow;
apart from youth.
The future -
holds the key.
Dark, Light.
Frowns, smiles.
Before.
After.
---
I breathe in this cold sadness;
inflate my lungs with some half remembered dream;
exhale the hope that died inside my chest.
---
I'm still waiting on that sun-lit shore for you;
pacing back and forth on a dream, staring across an ocean of obstacles;
straining for a glimpse of someday.
---
Mike: Daily Dose #1: Animosity in the Rearview
I'm going to start writing a little bit of prose here since the fiction I've been writing is trash, that deserves to be instantly incinerated. So these entries entitled "Daily Dose" will just be short little reflections on situations I've found interested, and seem to deserve some commentary.
Daily Dose #1: Animosity in the Rearview
A year back, or something like that, I was driving down a two lane street in my neighborhood and stopped at a red light. I was in the right lane, windows down with some sort of Talib, Mos, or Rakim going. The car behind me starts flashing its high beams, and I look in my mirror. The driver, she’s waving her arms, opens her window, sticks her head out , starts screaming at me, while jamming on her horn…”GO!!!!!!” In NJ it’s cool to turn on red, but only when you need to turn, and I was going straight. I let her steam for a little longer before sticking my head out and said “not a turn only.” I watch her recede into her car, defeated, lights back to normal, horn silent, and see her mouth “oh.”
Smile…and sip on some of that.
Daily Dose #1: Animosity in the Rearview
A year back, or something like that, I was driving down a two lane street in my neighborhood and stopped at a red light. I was in the right lane, windows down with some sort of Talib, Mos, or Rakim going. The car behind me starts flashing its high beams, and I look in my mirror. The driver, she’s waving her arms, opens her window, sticks her head out , starts screaming at me, while jamming on her horn…”GO!!!!!!” In NJ it’s cool to turn on red, but only when you need to turn, and I was going straight. I let her steam for a little longer before sticking my head out and said “not a turn only.” I watch her recede into her car, defeated, lights back to normal, horn silent, and see her mouth “oh.”
Smile…and sip on some of that.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Scott: MAGICLAND: A Beginner's Guide to Dragons (part II)
Link to part I
Just enough time to complete an arcane ritual later…
Mortimer was fast asleep, leaning on his hand and sporting a band-aid over his freshly throbbing nose (He had briefly mixed up the regular band-aids with Ned’s famous invention, “Band-aids of Decidedly Worse Pain” to only vaguely amusing results).
There was a squeal of joy from the back room. Mortimer half opened his eyes as the shop shook at its foundations and The Queen stomped out of the back, joyously carrying a much confused prince over her shoulder. “Sorry, buddy,” He called after the struggling former frog. “But thanks for shopping at Spellsmore’s! Tell your friends!”
“You know Ned,” Mortimer started as the wizard strolled out of the back room “Sometimes I wonder why you keep turning frogs into princes for that…uhhh….woman. I mean, it’s not like they’re *actually* princes, and they’re only going to run, well hop, away when they get the chance.
Ned stroked his beard “You know, Mortimer, sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it too,” he held up a large sack with a dollar sign on it “then she pays me my money.”
“They actually have sacks that look like that?”
“It’s mostly for dramatic effect.” Ned returned. “Notice the size of the dollar sign.”
“You are a strange, strange little man,” Mortimer returned. “Now, let’s talk about fireballs from the eyes, shall we?”
Ned already had his back to Mortimer, taking various knicks and knacks off of the shelves, and gathering them up on the counter.
“I think you might be too busy for us to talk about…whatever it is you’re babbling about. Here, hold this.” He handed Mortimer a parchment, then proceeded to the back room.
Mortimer unrolled the parchment and looked it over, calling after Ned “blah blah blah, evil dragon attacks local townsfolk, no one is safe, citizens flee for their lives, all hope is lost, blah blah blah” Mortimer pursed his lips.
“Ned, what did I tell you about reading gossip parchments – didn’t you learn your lesson after they got your hopes up about that magical, tap-dancing rhino last year?”
Ned was dragging an enormous suitcase out of the back room, shoving at it in a most undignified way.
“The tap-dancing rhino is a well documented phenomena,” Ned replied curtly, his back pressed firmly against the suitcase as he moved it another seven inches.
“Right,” Mortimer sneered as he slapped a hand across the parchment “and even though no one has ever actually seen a dragon, I guess we’re supposed to take it on the Inquisitioner’s word that there’s one in Magicland somewhere, scooping up the citizenry and doing various evil dragon things.”
Ned poked his head out from behind the suitcase (which incidentally, appeared to have slid back several feet from where he had pushed it to) “You know, I would not be terribly upset if he ate you.”
Mortimer crossed his arms in a huff “Luckily, here we are in Capital City, far, far away from any kind of large, exceedingly imaginary reptiles of the giant, magical persuasion.”
Ned snorted from behind the suitcase “sure,” he started “we.” With a mighty heave, Ned pushed the suitcase over onto its side. Immediately, the latches unclasped and the lid flew open. Clearly pleased with his work, Ned took a moment to wipe his brow on Mortimer’s sleeve, and then set about tossing all of the items on the counter into the gaping maw of the suitcase with abandon.
Mortimer (now holding his soiled wizard’s sleeve as far away from his body as he could) raised an eyebrow “Ned, what’s with all this packing suddenly?”
Ned was currently digging through a drawer, his tiny body dangling half-way-in, half-way-out. “trip.” He called back nonchalantly, very clearly consumed with his rummaging.
Moments later, Ned triumphantly hefted a large mace from the drawer, slung it over his shoulder with a loud grunt, and gingerly walked past Mortimer, whose jaw was now literally hanging open. With another heave, Ned dropped the massive weapon into the suitcase; there was a noticeable silence, followed by the sound of the something heavy hitting the ground several hundred feet below.
Mortimer, mouth still hanging wide, stood motionless while his eyes darted between the suitcase, Ned, the suitcase, Ned, the suitcase, Bernie the shrunken head (who was incredibly unhelpful in alleviating Mortimer’s concern), and finally Ned again. “Ned, where did you say you were going again? And precisely why do you need the largest bludgeoning weapon ever conceived of when you get there?” Mortimer pointed down into the endless shaft of the suitcase, taking great care not to get too close to the edge.
“What?” Ned’s head emerged from another draw only briefly.
“Where are you going?” Mortimer called back again. rushing over to the draw; Mortimer peered down into the empty (and exceedingly small) space. Ned’s head emerged several feet away, poking out of a cabinet door. Mortimer dove and managed to grab the Ned’s sleeve before he could disappear again into the oddly enchanted storage unit.
“oooooh no you don’t, Ned! Get outa there!” Mortimer yelled, pulling with all his might. Like a snapped rubber band, Ned came rocketing out of the cabinet, slamming into Mortimer and carrying the duo across the entirety of the shop to land in a heap by the door.
Mortimer groaned. “I see,” he began, his voice slightly muffled by the wooden floor, “that my uncanny ability to end every situation by landing on my face remains intact….”
Ned did not respond. He was dusting himself off slightly, having stuck a perfect landing feet first into Mortimer’s back. After some cajoling (read: anguished screaming) from Mortimer, Ned dismounted and stood in front or Mortimer, standing at the most upright four and two-thirds feet that posture would allow.
Mortimer got uneasily to his feet, and addressed Ned as he attempted to bend his back into its original, non-warped position.
“Simple question, Ned. Suitcase. Large pound-y metal club-thing. Why.”
Ned stroked his incredibly long beard “Well, I guess I can’t put this off anymore, can I? Her majesty…”
“The cow?” Mortimer offered, with a slight frown and two raised eyebrows.
“her majesty,” Ned repeated, undaunted “has asked me to investigate these claims of a Dragon in the town of Utterly Helpless.
“You know, I always did wonder why they named it that…” Mortimer puzzled.
“You can write a letter to the Office of Namerology if you come back,” Ned offered.
“Maybe I will,” Mortimer returned “I mean what an absolutely stupid name for a ….wha?” He stopped mid-sentence and glared at Ned “Survive?”
“Whatintheworldareyoutalkingsurviveyoudon’texpectmetogowithyoudoyou?!”
“With me? No. you’re going to Utterly Helpless to investigate this little ‘Dragon’ thing yourself.” (Ned raised his hands quickly to emphasize the word dragon, by quoting his fingers in the air – something he had wanted to do since seeing it on one of the soap-operas he had taken to watching since installing cable in his crystal ball). “Obviously I can’t go on these dangerous types of missions – what if I were to run into one of those awful things? Dragon might end up singe-ing my good wizarding hat! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a star-topped cap in this day and age? Back when I was a young apprentice *chatter chatter chatter chatter*… ”
Ned suddenly realized that his apprentice was no longer standing in front of him. Instead, Mortimer was in the process of escaping through the front door. Immediately springing into action, Ned placed two fingers to his mouth and blew, his high pitched whistle causing Mortimer to glance back for just a moment. Suddenly, several lengths of rope hanging about the shop sprang to life, uncoiling like snakes and launching themselves at the apprentice before he could make it out of the shop.
“aaaaagh!” Mortimer was unceremoniously scooped up by the ropes, which wrapped themselves around him tightly and finished off with a textbook perfect sheep-bend knot. Immobilized, Mortimer was propped up by three enchanted rope lengths that held him aloft like those of a chair, and scurried the entire package back over to Ned.
“Wrap his mouth up too, would you? I can’t stand the girlish screaming.” Compliantly, the ropes closed off Mortimer’s mouth, silencing the combination of outlandish threats, and tearful whimpering that had filled the shop moments before.
“Look Mortimer,” Ned began “I know this seems a little harsh, but believe me, this is all for the best.” (Mortimer, unable to scream, had begun blinking profusely in Ned’s general direction).
“There might not even be a Dragon, right?” Ned said cheerily. (tears streamed down Mortimer’s face, mostly from excessive blinking, but also mostly from the unimaginable fear of being burned to a crisp).
Ned turned his back to Mortimer, and lowered his voice. “You’ll be fine. Use what you know. If there is a dragon, the people of Utterly Helpless will need you to stop it.” With that, the magical ropes holding Mortimer bucked like a three legged horse and leapt into the awaiting suitcase.
Mortimer tried his best to scream as, high above, the lid of the suitcase closed with a
-click-.
Mental note, Mortimer: Wreak horrible vengeance on Ned, enchanted ropes, and the luggage. Especially the luggage…
_______
The queen’s men soon arrived and carted off the suitcase, which, despite being a suitcase of the decidedly enchanted variety, was nevertheless bucking around at Mortimer’s heroic efforts to free himself.
Ned stood by the doorway of the shop watching the royal guard’s carriage depart for Utterly Helpless and sipping a cup of cotton-candy flavored tea – a concoction he created shortly after his lesser-applauded discovery of cotton flavored tea.
“You know, Bernie,” (Ned had that certain hopeful twinkle in his sunglasses) “I think Mortimer’s going to be just fine. After all, I taught him everything I know about magic; there isn’t a dragon, enchanted rhinoceros, or man-eating-goldfish in all of Magicland that can stand up to the supreme knowledge of the mystic arts he has gleaned under my tutelage.” More than a little pleased, Ned allowed himself a hearty stroke of the beard.
Bernie opened only one of his eyes this time. “Nedric,” the head yelled, “you didn’t teach Mortimer any magic, he’s been sweeping the floors of this shop since you hired him on!”
Ned stood silently for a long moment, gazing into the horizon at where the carriage had just disappeared.
“whoopsie.”
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Scott: MAGICLAND: A Beginner's Guide to Dragons (part I)
“Aaaaiiiyah!” Mortimer yelled as he flew through the air in what could generously be described as a cross between a trip and a dive. Arms outstretched, he wrapped his fingers around a frog in mid-leap and continued on into the unfortunately placed bookshelf. With a -CRASH!- all of the contents of the shelf came tumbling down, and Mortimer was quickly buried under a pile of dusty old books, larger, dustier, older books, and something that may or may not have been a jar of rabbit’s feet.
“It’s fine,” Mortimer muttered aloud to no one in particular. “It’s only my body that’s broken. Still, at least I caught the frog.” He made the whimpering sound of triumph, and pushed just enough books aside so that he could lift his head – just in time to see the bookshelf lean precariously forward.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to NOT fall on me today, eh Mr. Bookshelf?”
The bookshelf leaned even more.
“Right. Well then; on with the screaming. Aaaaaaaaah!”
The massive bookshelf fell, landing directly on Mortimer and dropping a few more dusty tomes on him for good measure. The frog meanwhile, having slipped out of the grasp of a now very unconscious wizard’s apprentice, proceeded to continue its general habit of hopping about and croaking.
Some time later...
Mortimer awoke to the sound of the shop door opening. “Help! H-e-l-p!” He cried.
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE!?” a booming voice replied. “MORTIMER!!!”
“Under the bookshelf, you ninny!” Mortimer replied. “Just get this thing off me!”
There was a moment of silence, and the booming voice became a whisper, lowly chanting in some arcane and suitably dead tongue. The bookshelf stirred, and began to rise, tilting backwards and returning to its normal position. At the same time, the many books also began moving; twisting through the air in a reverse fall and ending up perfectly positioned on the shelf. All that remained on the floor was an undeniably flatter, red-robed figured attempting hold his nose, forehead, and back at the same time.
Mortimer jumped to his feet angrily, and looked almost straight down. He was staring into the eyes (sunglasses, technically speaking) of a diminutive, blue robed man sporting a white beard which easily touched the floor and dragged – just so. In fact, the only thing even remotely tall about this fellow was the enormous pointed cap resting upon his head, which was topped off with a small golden star, causing the impeccably starched wizard’s cap to crook just a little, just a the top (a fact that bothered the mighty sorcerer to no end, mind you).
“You know, would it have killed you to put the pieces of my spine back together while you were at it?!” Mortimer bristled.
The wizard reached his hand up and adjusted his sunglasses. “The fact that you’re not an aardvark right now should make you plenty grateful.”
Mortimer stood motionless, finger in the air and mouth agape. His nose was beginning to look several sizes larger than normal. “Good point, Ned.”
Ned smiled wryly and stepped toward the window of the disorganized shop. All around him, piles of scrolls, books and potions littered the tables and floor, along with various knick-knacks of a no doubt magical nature (excluding, of course, the fern which Ned had added some months ago in an attempt to ‘Spruce up the ole’place). “The queen will be coming along shortly, Mortimer” Ned said after a pause. “I assume you’ve kept our little green friend safe and sound?”
Behind Ned, there was a small crash and the swift movement of feet. By the time he turned around, Mortimer was standing before him, panting heavily and holding a moist, green object inches from the wizard’s face.
The item in question was clearly one of the shop’s spare crystal balls dipped in green paint, and with a set of googly-eyes hastily glue onto it. Even as Ned stared at it, one of the eyes began to slide off of the freshly painted orb. Mortimer quickly pushed it back into place. “One frog, as ordered.”
“Mortimer…” Ned began.
“Yuh huh.” Mortimer returned.
Ned sighed. “Despite the fact that this is an obvious, and terrible, frog forgery, I’m feeling charitable. Before you spend the next several months as the stable-boy’s shoes, I just want to know where my frog went. Is that too much to ask?”
“Amazing!” Mortimer replied, focusing on the, now eyeless, painted crystal ball, “Your frog must have crafted this convincing double while I was busy tidying up the shop!”
The old wizard raised a very bushy eyebrow.
Mortimer’s expression grew sour, and he hurled the crystal over his shoulder without looking. “Fine. I knocked the jar with the frog inside over, and spent the next half-an-hour trying to chase the little guy down.”
“Tell the stable-boy I said hello.” Ned said evenly as he crooked a single finger to point at Mortimer. Mortimer noticed it was his smiting finger.
-Ribbit!-
-Ribbit!-
Mortimer’s own red apprentice cap wiggled just a bit, and Mortimer’s eyes nearly crossed as they looked toward the top of his head.
-Ribbit!-
“Frog.” The wizard said as he held out his hand, obviously more than a little disappointed that his smiting finger wouldn’t be getting a workout today.
“Frog.” replied Mortimer coolly as he reached a hand under the hat on his head and produced the very calm looking amphibian.
As Ned received the frog from his apprentice, a very powerful knock at the door caused it to bow inward. Ned scuttled over and opened it.
“Ahhh, your majesty,” He said with a slight bend. “always a pleasure.”
Mortimer rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly. “Oh dear god what is that thing?”
The Queen was, speaking somewhat graciously, a large woman. Not that there was ever anything wrong with that, however Mortimer was sure that several atrocities had been committed in order to fit her into the tiny shoes upon which she stood. The Queen loomed inside (read: stuck inside like a cork in a bottle) the doorway, glowering at Mortimer.
Mortimer glowered back.
Not to be outdone, The Queen responded with still more glowering.
Ned slapped Mortimer on the back of the head and told him to go get the Door De-Jamming system – in actuality a can of Hog’s grease the wizard used when the queen or some of her more “full bodied” sisters paid a visit to the shop.
Several minutes and an inordinate amount of pushing later, The Queen and Ned had secluded themselves in the back room with the Frog, leaving Mortimer to tidy up the storefront. He grabbed the nearest non-magical broom and began to sweep.
“You know,” He said aloud “when I signed up for this wizard’s apprentice thing, I figured I was going to be learning – I don’t know – magic or something, maybe? None of that ‘fireballs from the eyes’ stuff as awesome as that would be, but conjuring some gold coins, maybe a mansion or two, I wouldn’t mind that. Or anything at all for that matter. I mean, here I am, sweeping the floor of the great Nedric Spellsmore, and I can’t even cast a measly frog catching spell. Where’s the justice in that?!”
One of the shrunken heads hanging from the coat rack opened its eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t so danged lazy, Nedric wouldn’t make you do chores all day to try and teach you some discipline!”
“Like I’m going to listen to what a dried up head has to tell me, Bernie.” Mortimer returned without looking over “You don’t even have a brain anymore, man.”
Bernie raised both his eyebrows and frowned just a little bit “That makes two of us. That’s not the normal broom, Mortimer.”
Mortimer realized what Bernie meant just in time to let the broom go as it went rocketing up, smashing a hole in the ceiling and quickly disappearing out of sight. “I hate brooms.” He said flatly. “Still, it really opens up the shop space, don’t you think? Look at all the light we’re getting now.”
“It’s fine,” Mortimer muttered aloud to no one in particular. “It’s only my body that’s broken. Still, at least I caught the frog.” He made the whimpering sound of triumph, and pushed just enough books aside so that he could lift his head – just in time to see the bookshelf lean precariously forward.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to NOT fall on me today, eh Mr. Bookshelf?”
The bookshelf leaned even more.
“Right. Well then; on with the screaming. Aaaaaaaaah!”
The massive bookshelf fell, landing directly on Mortimer and dropping a few more dusty tomes on him for good measure. The frog meanwhile, having slipped out of the grasp of a now very unconscious wizard’s apprentice, proceeded to continue its general habit of hopping about and croaking.
Some time later...
Mortimer awoke to the sound of the shop door opening. “Help! H-e-l-p!” He cried.
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE!?” a booming voice replied. “MORTIMER!!!”
“Under the bookshelf, you ninny!” Mortimer replied. “Just get this thing off me!”
There was a moment of silence, and the booming voice became a whisper, lowly chanting in some arcane and suitably dead tongue. The bookshelf stirred, and began to rise, tilting backwards and returning to its normal position. At the same time, the many books also began moving; twisting through the air in a reverse fall and ending up perfectly positioned on the shelf. All that remained on the floor was an undeniably flatter, red-robed figured attempting hold his nose, forehead, and back at the same time.
Mortimer jumped to his feet angrily, and looked almost straight down. He was staring into the eyes (sunglasses, technically speaking) of a diminutive, blue robed man sporting a white beard which easily touched the floor and dragged – just so. In fact, the only thing even remotely tall about this fellow was the enormous pointed cap resting upon his head, which was topped off with a small golden star, causing the impeccably starched wizard’s cap to crook just a little, just a the top (a fact that bothered the mighty sorcerer to no end, mind you).
“You know, would it have killed you to put the pieces of my spine back together while you were at it?!” Mortimer bristled.
The wizard reached his hand up and adjusted his sunglasses. “The fact that you’re not an aardvark right now should make you plenty grateful.”
Mortimer stood motionless, finger in the air and mouth agape. His nose was beginning to look several sizes larger than normal. “Good point, Ned.”
Ned smiled wryly and stepped toward the window of the disorganized shop. All around him, piles of scrolls, books and potions littered the tables and floor, along with various knick-knacks of a no doubt magical nature (excluding, of course, the fern which Ned had added some months ago in an attempt to ‘Spruce up the ole’place). “The queen will be coming along shortly, Mortimer” Ned said after a pause. “I assume you’ve kept our little green friend safe and sound?”
Behind Ned, there was a small crash and the swift movement of feet. By the time he turned around, Mortimer was standing before him, panting heavily and holding a moist, green object inches from the wizard’s face.
The item in question was clearly one of the shop’s spare crystal balls dipped in green paint, and with a set of googly-eyes hastily glue onto it. Even as Ned stared at it, one of the eyes began to slide off of the freshly painted orb. Mortimer quickly pushed it back into place. “One frog, as ordered.”
“Mortimer…” Ned began.
“Yuh huh.” Mortimer returned.
Ned sighed. “Despite the fact that this is an obvious, and terrible, frog forgery, I’m feeling charitable. Before you spend the next several months as the stable-boy’s shoes, I just want to know where my frog went. Is that too much to ask?”
“Amazing!” Mortimer replied, focusing on the, now eyeless, painted crystal ball, “Your frog must have crafted this convincing double while I was busy tidying up the shop!”
The old wizard raised a very bushy eyebrow.
Mortimer’s expression grew sour, and he hurled the crystal over his shoulder without looking. “Fine. I knocked the jar with the frog inside over, and spent the next half-an-hour trying to chase the little guy down.”
“Tell the stable-boy I said hello.” Ned said evenly as he crooked a single finger to point at Mortimer. Mortimer noticed it was his smiting finger.
-Ribbit!-
-Ribbit!-
Mortimer’s own red apprentice cap wiggled just a bit, and Mortimer’s eyes nearly crossed as they looked toward the top of his head.
-Ribbit!-
“Frog.” The wizard said as he held out his hand, obviously more than a little disappointed that his smiting finger wouldn’t be getting a workout today.
“Frog.” replied Mortimer coolly as he reached a hand under the hat on his head and produced the very calm looking amphibian.
As Ned received the frog from his apprentice, a very powerful knock at the door caused it to bow inward. Ned scuttled over and opened it.
“Ahhh, your majesty,” He said with a slight bend. “always a pleasure.”
Mortimer rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly. “Oh dear god what is that thing?”
The Queen was, speaking somewhat graciously, a large woman. Not that there was ever anything wrong with that, however Mortimer was sure that several atrocities had been committed in order to fit her into the tiny shoes upon which she stood. The Queen loomed inside (read: stuck inside like a cork in a bottle) the doorway, glowering at Mortimer.
Mortimer glowered back.
Not to be outdone, The Queen responded with still more glowering.
Ned slapped Mortimer on the back of the head and told him to go get the Door De-Jamming system – in actuality a can of Hog’s grease the wizard used when the queen or some of her more “full bodied” sisters paid a visit to the shop.
Several minutes and an inordinate amount of pushing later, The Queen and Ned had secluded themselves in the back room with the Frog, leaving Mortimer to tidy up the storefront. He grabbed the nearest non-magical broom and began to sweep.
“You know,” He said aloud “when I signed up for this wizard’s apprentice thing, I figured I was going to be learning – I don’t know – magic or something, maybe? None of that ‘fireballs from the eyes’ stuff as awesome as that would be, but conjuring some gold coins, maybe a mansion or two, I wouldn’t mind that. Or anything at all for that matter. I mean, here I am, sweeping the floor of the great Nedric Spellsmore, and I can’t even cast a measly frog catching spell. Where’s the justice in that?!”
One of the shrunken heads hanging from the coat rack opened its eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t so danged lazy, Nedric wouldn’t make you do chores all day to try and teach you some discipline!”
“Like I’m going to listen to what a dried up head has to tell me, Bernie.” Mortimer returned without looking over “You don’t even have a brain anymore, man.”
Bernie raised both his eyebrows and frowned just a little bit “That makes two of us. That’s not the normal broom, Mortimer.”
Mortimer realized what Bernie meant just in time to let the broom go as it went rocketing up, smashing a hole in the ceiling and quickly disappearing out of sight. “I hate brooms.” He said flatly. “Still, it really opens up the shop space, don’t you think? Look at all the light we’re getting now.”
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Scott: Metropolis Man. "Does break the day"
Morning. The world.
“You can’t stay here. Get up.”
The words sound in His head as if from a thousand miles away. His mind is reeling, now only dimly aware of the man standing over Him, bellowing for Him to return to the waking world, demanding obedience.
Laughable. This tiny man wrapped up in his tiny uniform, spouting his tiny orders.
The police officer grabs His arm and pulls – hard. Joints pop and muscles stretch beyond the point of comfort. He twists his body to rise up, but both of His knees hit the ground almost immediately.
No strength left. A familiar feeling.
“C’mon, move along if you know what’s good for you.”
Unsteadily, He rises to his feet. He wants to reach out to the man before Him for support, but He thinks better of Himself immediately; there is no support to be had in this. He lets out a low noise – a mixture of grunt and a sigh, and raises one bushy eyebrow as He lifts His head to the world.
The sound of the traffic in the city is almost deafening. Cars speed past – honking, braking and screeching in the violent chorus of rush hour. Disorganized chaos.
He turns His head toward the police officer, who crosses his arms lazily. The officer’s gaze is impatient and he jerks his head to the left, another command to for Him to leave.
“Well?”
He gives a quiet nod and, barely finding His balance, turns away from the officer and begins walking. He sees the end of the overpass He had sheltered himself under – watches the approaching threshold between the comforting cool darkness under and the oppressive heat and light above. He thinks for a moment that it is funny that the ground is shaking; as if the planet itself was bouncing back and forth, unsure of its footing. He soon realizes that it’s not the world that is teetering.
Well, that was not exactly true, He thinks with a sour grin. It might not be the ground that’s unbalanced, but the world IS teetering; one slight push from a fall.
“hrrn.” He puts up an arm and instinctively closes His eyes as He steps into the light.
Blinding. Even through His closed eyes He can see a fiery red glow.
His eyes open slowly. His pupils have trouble dilating – He can’t see. Of course, even if He could see, the pounding in His head and His shaking feet would have prevented Him from walking even remotely straight.
He falls for the second time. Again, He thinks bitterly to Himself.
Lying on the ground, He listens to His own breath for a few moments, contemplating for a long time that He should simply stay down. The noise of passing cars screams at Him, ringing painfully inside His head.
No peace. No sleep.
His slender fingers reach out and press into the ground. Chips of gravel dig into His hand, but He ignores the pain. He pushes against the ground – His muscles straining, pained simply from the effort of standing.
On His feet again, He shakes His head hard, trying to compose Himself. He succeeds only in making His skull throb even more.
He reaches up to touch His head, force it to stop shaking. He pauses briefly at His temple. The scars are long faded, but He can still feel them. Can still feel the sand carried on the wind cutting into open lesions; can still feel the dark, red-black liquid oozing down His face and back; can still feel the blood slicking His hair and running into His eyes.
“hrrn.” He opens His eyes again and looks around; a mere twenty feet from where He started. The police officer is still there, His dark eyes watching; His gaze unflagging.
With a bit more steadiness, He lifts His head high again. In the near distance, spires of steel, glass, and concrete rise into the sky – a crown of decadence set gently upon the horizon. Odd to think that such a deceptively beautiful sight could be such a thing of pain and anguish.
He turns his body toward the city and begins walking, His sense of balance asserting itself ever more.
Idly, He reaches His hand out and runs His fingers along a chain link fence as He goes.
There is work to be done.
“You can’t stay here. Get up.”
The words sound in His head as if from a thousand miles away. His mind is reeling, now only dimly aware of the man standing over Him, bellowing for Him to return to the waking world, demanding obedience.
Laughable. This tiny man wrapped up in his tiny uniform, spouting his tiny orders.
The police officer grabs His arm and pulls – hard. Joints pop and muscles stretch beyond the point of comfort. He twists his body to rise up, but both of His knees hit the ground almost immediately.
No strength left. A familiar feeling.
“C’mon, move along if you know what’s good for you.”
Unsteadily, He rises to his feet. He wants to reach out to the man before Him for support, but He thinks better of Himself immediately; there is no support to be had in this. He lets out a low noise – a mixture of grunt and a sigh, and raises one bushy eyebrow as He lifts His head to the world.
The sound of the traffic in the city is almost deafening. Cars speed past – honking, braking and screeching in the violent chorus of rush hour. Disorganized chaos.
He turns His head toward the police officer, who crosses his arms lazily. The officer’s gaze is impatient and he jerks his head to the left, another command to for Him to leave.
“Well?”
He gives a quiet nod and, barely finding His balance, turns away from the officer and begins walking. He sees the end of the overpass He had sheltered himself under – watches the approaching threshold between the comforting cool darkness under and the oppressive heat and light above. He thinks for a moment that it is funny that the ground is shaking; as if the planet itself was bouncing back and forth, unsure of its footing. He soon realizes that it’s not the world that is teetering.
Well, that was not exactly true, He thinks with a sour grin. It might not be the ground that’s unbalanced, but the world IS teetering; one slight push from a fall.
“hrrn.” He puts up an arm and instinctively closes His eyes as He steps into the light.
Blinding. Even through His closed eyes He can see a fiery red glow.
His eyes open slowly. His pupils have trouble dilating – He can’t see. Of course, even if He could see, the pounding in His head and His shaking feet would have prevented Him from walking even remotely straight.
He falls for the second time. Again, He thinks bitterly to Himself.
Lying on the ground, He listens to His own breath for a few moments, contemplating for a long time that He should simply stay down. The noise of passing cars screams at Him, ringing painfully inside His head.
No peace. No sleep.
His slender fingers reach out and press into the ground. Chips of gravel dig into His hand, but He ignores the pain. He pushes against the ground – His muscles straining, pained simply from the effort of standing.
On His feet again, He shakes His head hard, trying to compose Himself. He succeeds only in making His skull throb even more.
He reaches up to touch His head, force it to stop shaking. He pauses briefly at His temple. The scars are long faded, but He can still feel them. Can still feel the sand carried on the wind cutting into open lesions; can still feel the dark, red-black liquid oozing down His face and back; can still feel the blood slicking His hair and running into His eyes.
“hrrn.” He opens His eyes again and looks around; a mere twenty feet from where He started. The police officer is still there, His dark eyes watching; His gaze unflagging.
With a bit more steadiness, He lifts His head high again. In the near distance, spires of steel, glass, and concrete rise into the sky – a crown of decadence set gently upon the horizon. Odd to think that such a deceptively beautiful sight could be such a thing of pain and anguish.
He turns his body toward the city and begins walking, His sense of balance asserting itself ever more.
Idly, He reaches His hand out and runs His fingers along a chain link fence as He goes.
There is work to be done.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Mike: Glipses of A Man Part III
Part III
Tranquility can stir a sane man to madness-
Humidity seeped through the floorboards as he slept upright in the single seater wedged between the door and the closet. A pile of books, stacked largest to smallest, rested at his feet. He was clean to a fault, except for the overflowing ashtrays around the apartment. But despite drowning in ash, they retained his methodic, ordered, flow. One on each end table. Two across the intolerably long window sill. One more placed in the corner of the fire escape.
The fish tank rested, half empty, centered on an open shelf near the window. The water had evaporated slowly over the months since last in-habitation. The remaining water rippled, rather, reverberated with the beat of his neighbors' apartment doors.
A glass rested in his right hand, ice cubes long melted from the heat. The air around the glass, smelled of gin, masked in chap stick and breath mints. His unconscious fingers instinctively caressed the glass, making their rounds around the brim, polluting the sides with humidity induced fingerprints. Finally he rested the glass, on the edge of the couch, balanced only by his palm, as his left hand began a new beat.
He found consciousness, his eyes spasmed open as the glass injected itself into his still resting body. His mouth fell open, as his hand finally smothered the fly into the wrinkles lining his forehead.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Mike: I'll follow suit with some poetry
1.
Through the tears she cries
The words that led to her demise
Lies dripped, torn from the lips,
Striking heaven's chords to sip.
With Fingertips drawn across the line
Worn Gray by forgotten time,
Over Signed in ink, blood, and rain,
The splattered soul no words could tame.
2.
Silk curtains overlook the dawn
Once seen by you and I.
Passed the sky between the lines
Night gone with each sunrise
But from these little fingertips
Came these city lights.
Washing away what once was here.
The evening shadow's night.
3.
Eyes of the world will fall with sun
As darkness blankets the western seas
Where light is dim and sight is seized
And shadows creep across
The furthest horizon.
Night to end with the new day begun
As life resumes to play
With the sun, comes the light of day
And the night's turn
To run away.
4.
Innocent eyes stare back at me
Through the glass wall in the cage.
With twisted lips she turns away,
These are her final days.
But, "I'm sorry sir, your love is dead,"
Won't heal the fucking pain.
They took her life and ripped her soul
And threw her in her grave.
Through the tears she cries
The words that led to her demise
Lies dripped, torn from the lips,
Striking heaven's chords to sip.
With Fingertips drawn across the line
Worn Gray by forgotten time,
Over Signed in ink, blood, and rain,
The splattered soul no words could tame.
2.
Silk curtains overlook the dawn
Once seen by you and I.
Passed the sky between the lines
Night gone with each sunrise
But from these little fingertips
Came these city lights.
Washing away what once was here.
The evening shadow's night.
3.
Eyes of the world will fall with sun
As darkness blankets the western seas
Where light is dim and sight is seized
And shadows creep across
The furthest horizon.
Night to end with the new day begun
As life resumes to play
With the sun, comes the light of day
And the night's turn
To run away.
4.
Innocent eyes stare back at me
Through the glass wall in the cage.
With twisted lips she turns away,
These are her final days.
But, "I'm sorry sir, your love is dead,"
Won't heal the fucking pain.
They took her life and ripped her soul
And threw her in her grave.
Scott: The Short and Sweet of it
I stare into pools;
turning in the quiet dark;
Sounds: just breath. And beat.
turning in the quiet dark;
Sounds: just breath. And beat.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Anthony: Untitled
Therapy is like doing your laundry. At the end of the day, you got a lot of dirty clothes that sit in a hamper, folded, worn, and hidden in a closet. You put some change into the machine, dump it into the washer, and everything is supposed to be clean. The whole fucking problem is, my laundry fills fast, my clothes keep fading, and I just never have enough quarters...
Mike: Glimpses of A Man - Parts I and II
I'm currently writing short entries revolving around the same character. He's basically my experimental way of getting back into creative writing. I'll update here as I write.
Part I
Fragile-
That's the word I'd use to describe him. Not in the sense that he was a cripple, or he'd break if he fell or some shit like that. The kid was broke...like broke in the head. You know, up here...
*************
The flow of the street was manic. 9:30am. Strange mix of people. Strange. Half the people running like dogs trying to get to work, not realizin' they're already late and that extra five minutes won't buy their bosses affection- or respect. Runnin' ain't worth shit at this point. Late.
Then you got the other half, the lazy fucks. The one's with nowhere to go. Walkin' around with their heads half up their asses proud of themselves for staying one-step away...or maybe ahead of convention. No job. Nowhere to go.
Look at this one. Nicely pressed suit, mirror in one hand, lipstick in the other. Red. Her pace, accellerated beyond the norm. Two inch heels clinging to fleeing feet, until one snaps - caught in the sewer grate. She walks a fine line. I could touch her as she pauses and curses under her breath clutching for the absent heel shaved clean off the torn sole. She's so close. I taste her frustratingly heaving breath, as she lopsidedly - yet hurridly - saunters away. She smells... like roses.
*************
Locked down-
He ain't heard shit in years. I mean, he listened. He listened real good. His eyes could pierce you like a knife. He'd stare, and listen, real close, so you could feel his breath climb up your nostrils. But, like i said, he ain't really heard shit in years.
=============================================
Part II
A realist calm swept over him.
He stepped backwards with a slight stutter, carefully avoiding the line of ants weaving their way through the perilous cracks in the pavement.
A pause-
He lifted his foot and rested the sole softly on the leader. A slight crunch as he shifted his weight from left to right, lips twisting slightly as his eyes trained on the ensuing scurry around the murderous obstacle. They disappeared into the cracks. His cigarette was burned to a nub. He threw it toward the insect’s remains
after salvaging a last breath, stomping on both a little harder this time – charring the body as the smoke wisped away. He let off another smile as he turned his back and started away.
---------------------------------------------
Grizzled – it’s such a cliché to describe a man that way. Half the time they aren’t, and the other half they’re only halfway there. Grizzled, usually connotes imagery of rough looking celebrities- the one’s that walk down the street and get two looks from every girl that passes – first there’s the “eh not bad” look, then the “on second thought dot-dot-dot, double-take.” This faux-grizzled man walks nonchalantly by knowing what transpires behind him as he callously walks away.
He isn’t that, he’s grizzled– in full. His cheek bones, high, meet facial hair, not a beard. Beards require shape and thought. He didn’t have time to think about beards. He shaved when he remembered; at this point it was 4 days. He didn’t get any single takes, or double takes. He blended in, as need be.
-----------------------------------------------------
He watched his feet as they paced the pavement, one foot over the other – repetition in a dizzying fashion. He walked quickly, as to avoid falling into pace with another, no need for unnecessary awkward moments. A group approaching in the opposite direction caught his attention and he refocused his eyes. They walked with a maddening pace, all of them probably in their early twenties. He jammed his hand into his coat pocket as they past. Their varying scents challenged his nostrils as his fingers grasped for a cigarette.
“You got a light?” he turned toward the group as the words ejected from his lips. His voice– unsurprisingly hoarse from under use. The group paused in unison, as if instantly confronted with the edge of a cliff. A necessary awkward moment. The shorter of two girls turned, digging through her purse and after a few moments retrieved a small box of matches. It was one of those boxes found, and often taken from a hotel, inside the drawer of the bedside table.
A harsh flame ignited as she focused on the cigarette perched between his lips, being careful to burn only the end. He inhaled softly as a few bits of charred paper and tobacco fell on his hand. He inhaled. She smiled. She flicked the match with precision into a puddle, trapped between the curb and the street.
“Hiss,” she pursed her lips and walked back to the group, and in unison they resumed.
Part I
Fragile-
That's the word I'd use to describe him. Not in the sense that he was a cripple, or he'd break if he fell or some shit like that. The kid was broke...like broke in the head. You know, up here...
*************
The flow of the street was manic. 9:30am. Strange mix of people. Strange. Half the people running like dogs trying to get to work, not realizin' they're already late and that extra five minutes won't buy their bosses affection- or respect. Runnin' ain't worth shit at this point. Late.
Then you got the other half, the lazy fucks. The one's with nowhere to go. Walkin' around with their heads half up their asses proud of themselves for staying one-step away...or maybe ahead of convention. No job. Nowhere to go.
Look at this one. Nicely pressed suit, mirror in one hand, lipstick in the other. Red. Her pace, accellerated beyond the norm. Two inch heels clinging to fleeing feet, until one snaps - caught in the sewer grate. She walks a fine line. I could touch her as she pauses and curses under her breath clutching for the absent heel shaved clean off the torn sole. She's so close. I taste her frustratingly heaving breath, as she lopsidedly - yet hurridly - saunters away. She smells... like roses.
*************
Locked down-
He ain't heard shit in years. I mean, he listened. He listened real good. His eyes could pierce you like a knife. He'd stare, and listen, real close, so you could feel his breath climb up your nostrils. But, like i said, he ain't really heard shit in years.
=============================================
Part II
A realist calm swept over him.
He stepped backwards with a slight stutter, carefully avoiding the line of ants weaving their way through the perilous cracks in the pavement.
A pause-
He lifted his foot and rested the sole softly on the leader. A slight crunch as he shifted his weight from left to right, lips twisting slightly as his eyes trained on the ensuing scurry around the murderous obstacle. They disappeared into the cracks. His cigarette was burned to a nub. He threw it toward the insect’s remains
after salvaging a last breath, stomping on both a little harder this time – charring the body as the smoke wisped away. He let off another smile as he turned his back and started away.
---------------------------------------------
Grizzled – it’s such a cliché to describe a man that way. Half the time they aren’t, and the other half they’re only halfway there. Grizzled, usually connotes imagery of rough looking celebrities- the one’s that walk down the street and get two looks from every girl that passes – first there’s the “eh not bad” look, then the “on second thought dot-dot-dot, double-take.” This faux-grizzled man walks nonchalantly by knowing what transpires behind him as he callously walks away.
He isn’t that, he’s grizzled– in full. His cheek bones, high, meet facial hair, not a beard. Beards require shape and thought. He didn’t have time to think about beards. He shaved when he remembered; at this point it was 4 days. He didn’t get any single takes, or double takes. He blended in, as need be.
-----------------------------------------------------
He watched his feet as they paced the pavement, one foot over the other – repetition in a dizzying fashion. He walked quickly, as to avoid falling into pace with another, no need for unnecessary awkward moments. A group approaching in the opposite direction caught his attention and he refocused his eyes. They walked with a maddening pace, all of them probably in their early twenties. He jammed his hand into his coat pocket as they past. Their varying scents challenged his nostrils as his fingers grasped for a cigarette.
“You got a light?” he turned toward the group as the words ejected from his lips. His voice– unsurprisingly hoarse from under use. The group paused in unison, as if instantly confronted with the edge of a cliff. A necessary awkward moment. The shorter of two girls turned, digging through her purse and after a few moments retrieved a small box of matches. It was one of those boxes found, and often taken from a hotel, inside the drawer of the bedside table.
A harsh flame ignited as she focused on the cigarette perched between his lips, being careful to burn only the end. He inhaled softly as a few bits of charred paper and tobacco fell on his hand. He inhaled. She smiled. She flicked the match with precision into a puddle, trapped between the curb and the street.
“Hiss,” she pursed her lips and walked back to the group, and in unison they resumed.
Scott: Woefully Poor Sci-Fi from 2005 (read: untitled Schlock)
“The thing about New York City that no ones seem to mention when they talk about it - that little fact that slips the mind of every tourist; every native, when they describe the wonders of the sprawling metropolis...New York Stinks.
It’s not just the smoke pouring out of every factory, or the trash piling up on every street corner, no, at the end of the day, New York smells because of the food.
Business people, street workers, and the cosmopolitan crowd all lined up, waiting on street corners and in diners, pressing against a mass of impatient bodies to get their cup of coffee, or their egg sandwich on whole wheat bread. The old ‘have-it-your-way’ mentality. The guy in front of me has a pancake - me? I’ll take a steak kebab please. All those smells, those aromas get swept up into some ancient ventilation system and mixed around until even the sweet scent of a slice of lemon becomes a putrid assault on the nose.
It’s no wonder that the entire city is built vertically - because down here, at the base, the very core of the city, where all the drugs, crime, and poverty happen, at the end of the day, you go home smelling like a sinner.
Yeah, New York Stinks.”
The bartender had been talking non-stop since she stepped into this dive, going on and on about ‘simpler times’ and ‘old-fashioned values’. It was almost enough to make Emma burst; explode into a tirade about the kind of old-fashioned values he thought he was talking about. Were they the values that allowed a father to rape his sixteen-year-old daughter while his wife lay sleeping in the next room? Were those simpler times he reminisced about the times when a young girl would quietly cry herself to sleep at night, afraid to say anything because of what her father would do to her? She wanted to slam her glass onto the counter-top and yell at the self-indulgent bastard. Let him know that times were no longer simple, and that values were dead and that a little girl from Virginia who used the last bit of money in her piggy bank to escape from hell was not interested in conversing about the past. She wanted to open her mouth and scream.
Instead, she sipped her glass of water and nodded.
There was a dull scraping noise as the bar stool next to her was shifted around. She didn’t even bother to turn her head as a man eased into the seat and ordered a drink.
He motioned over to the bartender, “And get this young lady some fries and a soda - whatever you’ve got in the kitchen.”
She still hadn’t turned to look at him, but she could just tell he was smiling, all the men she had ever known all smiled when they wanted something.
“I’m sorry, you just looked like you could use something to eat is all.” The man offered.
“No thanks, I’m ok. I was just about to leave.”
She started to move in her seat.
“Leave and go where?” the man asked simply. “From the look of your clothes, and no offense the way you smell - you’ve been out here on the streets for a couple of days, am I right?”
Emma stopped moving, and moved her hand through her hair as she cast a glance at him. He was a well dressed young man, maybe in his twenties, with soft green eyes and a concerned look on his face...
She shivered uncontrollably and snapped her eyes away from his, burying herself in the pasta that the bartender had just placed in front of her.
“A week.” She muttered.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma could see him shaking his head.
“Thanks for the food,” she said curtly “I really have to go.”
“Wait, wait!” the man returned, and he placed his hand on her shoulder.
She jumped back and threw the man’s hand off her “Don’t touch me!” she snarled.
“Hey there, are you bothering this little one?” the bartender asked, moving over to the pair.
“No, sorry - I didn’t mean to -” he waved his hand at the bartender “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here on the streets,” he turned his attention back to Emma “but I know of a place you can stay. It’s just a couple of blocks. It’s a shelter.”
Emma started, and then moved her eyes toward the bartender.
The bartender looked at the man hard, and then looked back over at Emma “Yeah, there’s one over on first, just across.”
She stared into the man’s eyes for a moment, and then let out the breath she had unknowingly been holding. A warm shower would be more than welcome at this point. And a warm bed....
She leaned down to grab her bag.
“Fine.”
The man heaved a sigh. “Good, they’ll have you cleaned up in no time at all.”
He motioned his hand toward the door, and preceded her outside. Emma nodded at the bartender as she stepped out, and thanked him for the food with a weak smile.
They strolled for a few minutes in silence, alternatively watching their breath on the cold night air and the rare sight of a car moving along the street.
Sensing that conversation could only make the night feel warmer, Emma slowly opened her mouth and cleared her throat, forcing out a quiet “Thank you.” from between her cracked lips.
“Don’t worry about it,” The man said casually as he put a hand through his dark hair. “This is the most gratifying part of my job.” She watched him for a moment, and finally noticed an odd scent coming off of him.
“Is that,” she breathed in deeply. “Are you wearing perfume?”
The man smiled broad and shook his head slowly “Heheheh, you noticed, huh? It’s sort of a trademark I guess. Actually, I think the smell kind of suits me, don’t you?”
Emma chuckled aloud. “I guess. I really wouldn’t know anything about perfume I guess - I mean, I’ve never really had to wear it or anything.” She pursed her lips together and looked at him quizzically. “Why do you need to wear perfume as a trademark, what do you do for a living?”
The man waved a hand negligently and cast his gaze up at the night sky, his emerald eyes sparkling under the glow of a sputtering street light. “I guess you could say I do collections.”
“Collections? What the hell does that mean? You mean like money?” She brushed her hair away from her face, and cast a sideways glance at him, his handsome smile turning to a slight grimace as he shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess you could say that,” he started. “I do a lot of things. Money, merchandise, people...”
Emma stopped in her steps “What do you mean, people?”
The man cast a glance backwards, and then looked down at the street, finally putting his arms up as if to suggest his innocence. “C’mon, like you don’t know.”
And then he quickly moved forward and shoved her.
She tumbled back instantly, taking several awkward steps back before realizing that there was no building behind her. Emma fell to the ground with a thud, and the man was on top of her. He wrenched her by the hair, and covered her mouth with one hand, half walking, half dragging her further into the alleyway.
He pressed her against the wall with his body, and his free hand found it’s way into his pants
Emma tried to shriek, tears pouring down her face as she struggled, but he was far too strong for her.
“Stop moving you dirty little bitch,”he growled, his voice low and harsh. “It’s only going to make this harder for us both.”
Out of the corner of her vision Emma saw a small sliver of light at his waist, and her face went white.
He lifted the small knife up to her cheek, and proceeded to scrape her face to the bottom of her chin.She continued to weep, and her frightened eyes met his own.
Even in the darkness of the alleyway, his eyes gleamed a bright, inhuman green.
Emma’s heart quickened, and she found herself completely unable to catch her breath.
The man smiled broad again, and brought the blade up to his face, nearly wiping her blood upon his tongue. “Like I said, this is the gratifying stuff.” his smile faded, and he squinted his bright eyes - a terrifying contrast to the dark gulf all around them - into deadly slits.
He brought the knife point to the edge of her left eye, and slowly started to push. His voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind. “Now, this may sting...”
Emma choked as she tried to breath, then let out a scream. Terrified, she shut her eyes tight and slid to the ground, her back braced against the cold concrete wall.
What - oh my god - wha- happened?
Her eyes snapped open, and she glared around frantically, her memories of the past few seconds finally catching up to her.
The pressure upon her eye increased slowly, the blade beginning to tear away at the soft whites. Tears streaming down her face, confused and panicked, Emma barely registered that the pressure was lessening now - and her blurred vision barely saw an arm reach out and wrench her attacker away....
She pulled tear and blood soaked strands of her away from her face as she caught sight of two figures.
One, eyes blazing, she recognized instantly - the knife in his hand lashing out violently before him, in a wild attempt to find his new target.
The other, his back to her, features unrecognizable in the night, moved subtly, almost casually in avoidance; slipping between the cuts of the knife as elegantly as a ballerina, and moving with a speed Emma found very difficult to follow.
The aggressor stabbed again - striking only air. Again, and Again - once, twice, three times, each swipe moments too slow to find its mark.
The other figure slid aside quickly, and grabbed the outstretched hand of Emma’s attacker. In one swift motion, he slammed an open palm into the other man’s shoulder with enough force to make the man scream. Emma could hear the sickening crack of bone as the attacker’s shoulder was crushed.
Moving behind the attacker, the stranger took hold of the man’s head with one hand, and harshly wrenched it in the other direction. There was a popping sound, and the knife -clinked- as it fell upon the cold ground.
She watched her attacker’s body go limp, and drop to the floor in a heap.
Dragging herself to her feet, Emma unsteadily pushed off of the wall with her hand, weaving back and forth dangerously as she attempted to run.
“Wait.”
She stopped dead, and, leaning against the wall for support, twisted her body round cautiously.
The man was straightening up from a crouch - he had been hovering over the body of her attacker, rifling through the corpse’s pockets. He looked at her from over his shoulder as he rose up, and strode slowly toward her, his even breath the only sound in the night.
“Wha - what do you want from me?” Emma asked, her voice quivering nearly as much as her body from fear.
He stopped, and tossed a small object to the ground by her feet, then slowly motioned his head toward the main rode.
“The shelter,” he said simply. “It’s two blocks north.”
Emma nodded obediently and looked down at her feet to find a wallet. She bent down and picked it up, her hands shaking as she reached inside. She removed a wad of bills, and then hurriedly tossed the wallet aside with a troubled flick of her wrist. She rubbed her face with her sleeve, the blood and tears around her eyes already beginning to cake and chaff her skin. She rose up to her feet, and took a long, confused look at the man who stood before her, at the same time shuffling backwards towards the alley’s entrance.
“I - uhh - than- thank you...” She said lowly.
Without responding, the man turned and began walking in the opposite direction.
Still unsteady, Emma put a hand against the wall as she left the alley.
It’s not just the smoke pouring out of every factory, or the trash piling up on every street corner, no, at the end of the day, New York smells because of the food.
Business people, street workers, and the cosmopolitan crowd all lined up, waiting on street corners and in diners, pressing against a mass of impatient bodies to get their cup of coffee, or their egg sandwich on whole wheat bread. The old ‘have-it-your-way’ mentality. The guy in front of me has a pancake - me? I’ll take a steak kebab please. All those smells, those aromas get swept up into some ancient ventilation system and mixed around until even the sweet scent of a slice of lemon becomes a putrid assault on the nose.
It’s no wonder that the entire city is built vertically - because down here, at the base, the very core of the city, where all the drugs, crime, and poverty happen, at the end of the day, you go home smelling like a sinner.
Yeah, New York Stinks.”
The bartender had been talking non-stop since she stepped into this dive, going on and on about ‘simpler times’ and ‘old-fashioned values’. It was almost enough to make Emma burst; explode into a tirade about the kind of old-fashioned values he thought he was talking about. Were they the values that allowed a father to rape his sixteen-year-old daughter while his wife lay sleeping in the next room? Were those simpler times he reminisced about the times when a young girl would quietly cry herself to sleep at night, afraid to say anything because of what her father would do to her? She wanted to slam her glass onto the counter-top and yell at the self-indulgent bastard. Let him know that times were no longer simple, and that values were dead and that a little girl from Virginia who used the last bit of money in her piggy bank to escape from hell was not interested in conversing about the past. She wanted to open her mouth and scream.
Instead, she sipped her glass of water and nodded.
There was a dull scraping noise as the bar stool next to her was shifted around. She didn’t even bother to turn her head as a man eased into the seat and ordered a drink.
He motioned over to the bartender, “And get this young lady some fries and a soda - whatever you’ve got in the kitchen.”
She still hadn’t turned to look at him, but she could just tell he was smiling, all the men she had ever known all smiled when they wanted something.
“I’m sorry, you just looked like you could use something to eat is all.” The man offered.
“No thanks, I’m ok. I was just about to leave.”
She started to move in her seat.
“Leave and go where?” the man asked simply. “From the look of your clothes, and no offense the way you smell - you’ve been out here on the streets for a couple of days, am I right?”
Emma stopped moving, and moved her hand through her hair as she cast a glance at him. He was a well dressed young man, maybe in his twenties, with soft green eyes and a concerned look on his face...
She shivered uncontrollably and snapped her eyes away from his, burying herself in the pasta that the bartender had just placed in front of her.
“A week.” She muttered.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma could see him shaking his head.
“Thanks for the food,” she said curtly “I really have to go.”
“Wait, wait!” the man returned, and he placed his hand on her shoulder.
She jumped back and threw the man’s hand off her “Don’t touch me!” she snarled.
“Hey there, are you bothering this little one?” the bartender asked, moving over to the pair.
“No, sorry - I didn’t mean to -” he waved his hand at the bartender “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here on the streets,” he turned his attention back to Emma “but I know of a place you can stay. It’s just a couple of blocks. It’s a shelter.”
Emma started, and then moved her eyes toward the bartender.
The bartender looked at the man hard, and then looked back over at Emma “Yeah, there’s one over on first, just across.”
She stared into the man’s eyes for a moment, and then let out the breath she had unknowingly been holding. A warm shower would be more than welcome at this point. And a warm bed....
She leaned down to grab her bag.
“Fine.”
The man heaved a sigh. “Good, they’ll have you cleaned up in no time at all.”
He motioned his hand toward the door, and preceded her outside. Emma nodded at the bartender as she stepped out, and thanked him for the food with a weak smile.
They strolled for a few minutes in silence, alternatively watching their breath on the cold night air and the rare sight of a car moving along the street.
Sensing that conversation could only make the night feel warmer, Emma slowly opened her mouth and cleared her throat, forcing out a quiet “Thank you.” from between her cracked lips.
“Don’t worry about it,” The man said casually as he put a hand through his dark hair. “This is the most gratifying part of my job.” She watched him for a moment, and finally noticed an odd scent coming off of him.
“Is that,” she breathed in deeply. “Are you wearing perfume?”
The man smiled broad and shook his head slowly “Heheheh, you noticed, huh? It’s sort of a trademark I guess. Actually, I think the smell kind of suits me, don’t you?”
Emma chuckled aloud. “I guess. I really wouldn’t know anything about perfume I guess - I mean, I’ve never really had to wear it or anything.” She pursed her lips together and looked at him quizzically. “Why do you need to wear perfume as a trademark, what do you do for a living?”
The man waved a hand negligently and cast his gaze up at the night sky, his emerald eyes sparkling under the glow of a sputtering street light. “I guess you could say I do collections.”
“Collections? What the hell does that mean? You mean like money?” She brushed her hair away from her face, and cast a sideways glance at him, his handsome smile turning to a slight grimace as he shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess you could say that,” he started. “I do a lot of things. Money, merchandise, people...”
Emma stopped in her steps “What do you mean, people?”
The man cast a glance backwards, and then looked down at the street, finally putting his arms up as if to suggest his innocence. “C’mon, like you don’t know.”
And then he quickly moved forward and shoved her.
She tumbled back instantly, taking several awkward steps back before realizing that there was no building behind her. Emma fell to the ground with a thud, and the man was on top of her. He wrenched her by the hair, and covered her mouth with one hand, half walking, half dragging her further into the alleyway.
He pressed her against the wall with his body, and his free hand found it’s way into his pants
Emma tried to shriek, tears pouring down her face as she struggled, but he was far too strong for her.
“Stop moving you dirty little bitch,”he growled, his voice low and harsh. “It’s only going to make this harder for us both.”
Out of the corner of her vision Emma saw a small sliver of light at his waist, and her face went white.
He lifted the small knife up to her cheek, and proceeded to scrape her face to the bottom of her chin.She continued to weep, and her frightened eyes met his own.
Even in the darkness of the alleyway, his eyes gleamed a bright, inhuman green.
Emma’s heart quickened, and she found herself completely unable to catch her breath.
The man smiled broad again, and brought the blade up to his face, nearly wiping her blood upon his tongue. “Like I said, this is the gratifying stuff.” his smile faded, and he squinted his bright eyes - a terrifying contrast to the dark gulf all around them - into deadly slits.
He brought the knife point to the edge of her left eye, and slowly started to push. His voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind. “Now, this may sting...”
Emma choked as she tried to breath, then let out a scream. Terrified, she shut her eyes tight and slid to the ground, her back braced against the cold concrete wall.
What - oh my god - wha- happened?
Her eyes snapped open, and she glared around frantically, her memories of the past few seconds finally catching up to her.
The pressure upon her eye increased slowly, the blade beginning to tear away at the soft whites. Tears streaming down her face, confused and panicked, Emma barely registered that the pressure was lessening now - and her blurred vision barely saw an arm reach out and wrench her attacker away....
She pulled tear and blood soaked strands of her away from her face as she caught sight of two figures.
One, eyes blazing, she recognized instantly - the knife in his hand lashing out violently before him, in a wild attempt to find his new target.
The other, his back to her, features unrecognizable in the night, moved subtly, almost casually in avoidance; slipping between the cuts of the knife as elegantly as a ballerina, and moving with a speed Emma found very difficult to follow.
The aggressor stabbed again - striking only air. Again, and Again - once, twice, three times, each swipe moments too slow to find its mark.
The other figure slid aside quickly, and grabbed the outstretched hand of Emma’s attacker. In one swift motion, he slammed an open palm into the other man’s shoulder with enough force to make the man scream. Emma could hear the sickening crack of bone as the attacker’s shoulder was crushed.
Moving behind the attacker, the stranger took hold of the man’s head with one hand, and harshly wrenched it in the other direction. There was a popping sound, and the knife -clinked- as it fell upon the cold ground.
She watched her attacker’s body go limp, and drop to the floor in a heap.
Dragging herself to her feet, Emma unsteadily pushed off of the wall with her hand, weaving back and forth dangerously as she attempted to run.
“Wait.”
She stopped dead, and, leaning against the wall for support, twisted her body round cautiously.
The man was straightening up from a crouch - he had been hovering over the body of her attacker, rifling through the corpse’s pockets. He looked at her from over his shoulder as he rose up, and strode slowly toward her, his even breath the only sound in the night.
“Wha - what do you want from me?” Emma asked, her voice quivering nearly as much as her body from fear.
He stopped, and tossed a small object to the ground by her feet, then slowly motioned his head toward the main rode.
“The shelter,” he said simply. “It’s two blocks north.”
Emma nodded obediently and looked down at her feet to find a wallet. She bent down and picked it up, her hands shaking as she reached inside. She removed a wad of bills, and then hurriedly tossed the wallet aside with a troubled flick of her wrist. She rubbed her face with her sleeve, the blood and tears around her eyes already beginning to cake and chaff her skin. She rose up to her feet, and took a long, confused look at the man who stood before her, at the same time shuffling backwards towards the alley’s entrance.
“I - uhh - than- thank you...” She said lowly.
Without responding, the man turned and began walking in the opposite direction.
Still unsteady, Emma put a hand against the wall as she left the alley.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Revisiting Fiction
Over the past year three of us, Myself (Mike), Anthony, and Scott have felt confined by the overbearing-ness of law school. We've been cornered by law, and it's midgetized our fictional mindset...aspirations etc. So here we will be writing, straight up fiction....no law, no analysis, nothing remotely close to what we are actually doing in life.
So enjoy.
-Mike
So enjoy.
-Mike
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