THIS POST IS A DRAFT; a more recent version of this story can be found at reido.deviantart.com; this one will not be updated again.
I
A steel flower floats through the darkness of empty space, spinning slowly, it's metal petals pointing in all directions. It is empty, lifeless. It has floated thus for decades, but now its time has come. There is an inaudible vibration as processes start working internally--the petals fan out more evenly, and the flower discharges its seeds: synthetic metal pods, wrapped in heat-and-impact shielding. Carriers. Lifeboats. Hundreds of them, thrown in all directions. Barren now, the flower begins once more to spin, a monument to a scientific venture on a scale only partially comprehended by its creators.
II
An artificial seed flies through space, propelled by momentum. Its sleek shielding protects it from the cold of space, and the errant radiation of the stars in the distant void. It is one of many. On its random path, it reaches a belt of frozen asteroids. At first, the seed is lucky, and slips through without harm. But this luck does not last, and the seed impacts a solid mass of roughly equal size to itself, crumpling on impact and splitting in two. The halves float, broken, and spill their electronic and bio-organic contents into the emptiness.
III
An artificial seed flies through space, propelled by momentum. It passes just close enough to a small planetoid to be pulled in by its weak gravity, but its velocity is too much and it slingshots around, speed increased exponentially. At this speed it reaches a planet--a lush paradise of water and plants, or air and life, a place perfect for for the seed to grow--and slips thunderously through the atmosphere. But the speed is too much: parachutes deploy in preperation for a landing that will end disasterously, but the high-tension cording that attaches it to the seed snaps. The seed strikes solid ground and is flattened, bits of synthetic steel flying in all directions as it shatters and crumbles into itself. The parachute descends into the crater like a token of mourning, covering the wreckage in its white cloth.
III
An artificial seed flies through space, propelled by momentum. It vanishes into a massive, burning star, and it, along with its contents, are vaporized instantly.
IV
An artificial seed flies through space, propelled by momentum. It never stops doing so.
V
An artificial seed flies through space, propelled by momentum. It reaches a lush planet of plants and water, air and life. It slips through the atmosphere with a boom as the air of the world parts before it. The parachute opens, slowing the flight, and the seed drifts slowly to the ground amidst a dense forest. There it rests for several hours, testing the air, tasting the soil, drinking the water. It finds the air toxic, the soil poisonous, and the water deadly. It incinerates its contents and shuts down, little more now than a piece of rubble on a forest floor.
VI
An artificial seed rests in the vastness of a desert. It tests the soil and the air, but finds no water--and it, too, destroys its contents.
VII
An artificial seed breaks atmosphere, deploys its parachute, and sinks into a planet-wide ocean. It is eventually crushed by millions of tons of pressure far exceeding anything its builders had expected it to face.
VIII
An artificial seed lands gently on a sloping plain. It tests the soil, air, and water nearby and finds them all satisfactory. With a click and a hum, it begins its next task. A pair of tiny, bio-organic cells are rapidly thawed and charged with electricity. Each, now living, resides in its own capsule within the metal seed, floating in a reddish fluid. The shielding on the cell protects the cells as it protected the seed before, shielding them from the alternating harsh heat and cold, from the shocks of seismic tremors, from the curiosity of the native fauna. Both tiny lifeforms within the seed's inner workings begin to grow and form. The seed conducts very specific electrical charges through them as they mature, shaping and molding them into its creators' form.
IX
Years pass after the seed lands. Eventually, the capsules hatch like eggs and two pink, fleshy creatures, a man and a woman, emerge from the seed, naked but fully formed. They are devoured by local animals before they know how to defend themselves.
X
Years pass after a different seed lands on a different planet. The man and woman of this seed awake and hatch to find themselves buried alive. They die without ever seeing the blue sun of their new home.
XI
Years pass after yet another seed lands on yet another planet. The man and the woman of this seed emerge on a small, isolated island in the middle of a vast lake of fresh water. A violet sun shines down on them, warming their bare skin. They stare at each other. The electrical charges of the seed that guided the forming of their bodies to these human forms also guided the forming of their brains, and they have a basic understanding of who they are. They are the forbearers of culture on a new world. There is a crack and a hiss from the remains of the seed, and it begins to fold in on itself, compressing and overlapping, until it is no longer the seed, but a small cube of leftover parts. It speaks a language whose name is lost across the vastness of the empty sky: "If you are hearing this than your creation and birth has been a success. This is the voice of your creator. There are great plans for you and it is I who will teach you how to survive that you may continue our great cul--" The man smashes the cube with a rock, on impulse. A hundred generations of knowledge is lost in an instant, and a society's dream of being born anew on a fresh world, undespoiled by their vast industry, vanishes. He smashes it again and again, until it has shattered into dozens of metal pieces. A man and a woman stand alone on a lush, habitable island in the middle of a huge, fresh lake.
XII
Years pass for the man and the woman, and eventually their number increases. By the time Orillan, the male, and Merrith, the female, are physically incapable of reproducing, there are twelve humans living on the island in the middle of the freshwater lake. Their skin is tanned a light shade of lilac. Their hair has been dyed by the radiation of the violet sun to a dark, watery blue. Each generation--the original, their four children, and their six living grandchildren--is lithe and fit, having lived on a diet of fish-like creatures, clam-like creatures, and small lizard-like creatures, as well as the local flora: leafy "greens" (they are actually more of a teal-blue color), small melons, and berries. Each of the children was born the same pinkish-white shade Orillan and Merrith bore upon exiting their seed, the color of their creators, but after time in the violet sun each in turn became the same lilac shade. They are strong swimmers, but still, after decades of time spent on the island, the far shore is still too distant to reach. But today is a monumentous day for the family: their simple raft is completed. Today, Gerif will paddle across to the far shore in search of new foods, new living habitats. In truth, he wants to escape the island. He is of the third generation, one of the six still living. There have been many more--but, as genes were mixed and brother mated with sister, these many others were born disfigured, monstrous, imperfect. They were drowned, as an act of mercy, and to keep the bloodline strong. Gerif is the only member of his generation aware of this fact. He steps onto the raft and pushes away from the bank. Old Orillan watches, slightly hunched over, grey-blue hair blowing in the breeze. Soon Gerif is but a speck nearing the horizon, but still the elderly grandfather watches. He watches, as a large ripple appears in the dark water near his grandchild's raft. He watches as this ripple moves, moving alongside the young man. He watches its maker nudge the raft, curiously. He hears Gerif shouting--and he watches the raft overturn, a horror of tentacles and teeth and claws gripping it and tearing it apart, tearing Gerif apart. He sighs, and turns away. The far shore remains too distant to reach.
XIII
Years pass. A fifth generation is born, and Old Orillan and Merrith pass away, replaced at the head of the family by Gerif's parents, Morath and Tew. Today is the day they buried their elders. Orillan and Merrith had arranged previously with their brood where, exactly, their bodies would be covered. It wasn't until the digging was finished that Morath realized why they had wished thus. He holds in his hand something hard and cold, something alien to him. He stares at it--a chunk of the seed of his parents' birth, which they'd buried after pulling it apart. He slides an edge across his palm--and draws blood. And Morath laughs, a deep, masculine bellow, as he realizes the gift he has inherited.
XIV
A year passes. By now, there are thirty men, women, boys and girls living on the island. And still, the bloodline has been kept pure, the malformed drowned on the beaches of their isolated home. Morath stands on one such beach, holding a tiny babe in his hands, beneath the water. The child was born with too few fingers, and a face pinched closed, with eyes that would never have opened, and legs too small to function properly. He can hear the child's mother, Geya, wailing in the distance; she is not as far as he believes her to be, however. When the tiny kicking stops, he lets the body drift away with the tide--and wraps his hands around the only other object on the beach: a weapon. A long stick, taken from one of the island's many trees, with a chunk of the seed attached to the end--a long, slashing blade tipped with a stabbing point. A primitive spear, a primitive poleaxe. Morath has made a dozen of these, and distributed them among the stronger males of his tribe-family. They have built a larger raft, a stronger raft. Today is the day they reach for the far shore, or die trying. Morath will lead them across, but in truth it was Tew, his mate, that made the need known to him: they were rapidly running out of space, and food. Today, they would sail across, all thirty of them, and claim the mainland that has been little more than a horizon their whole lives. Their choice is simple: die slowly of starvation and overpopulation, or die quickly to the monsters of the deep lakewater. The decision was unanimous. They pile onto the wide raft and the younger females begin paddling towards the far shore.
XV
A beast comes from the deep, gripping the side of the wide raft with its tentacles. A young woman is tugged over board and lost, devoured. Morath's only brother is crushed beneath a wide claw. But they fight--male and female both--stabbing and slashing and hacking at the beast as it kills them. And eventually, it sinks away. Twenty-five men and women, boys and girls reach the far shore, their new home. Their leader drops his weapon on the sand and falls to his knees. Morath grins, spreads his arms wide--and spits a gob of blood compulsively as the tip of his own spear bursts, bloody but shimmering, from his left lung. Geya, panting, screams in his ear, rips the spear out, and impales him again, this time hitting his heart and pinning him to the hot, unspoiled sand. Silence descends on the ragged band of lilac-colored survivors. Geya stands over the body of her father, and catches her breath. She turns to the others, and delivers her ultimatum.
XVI
The family splits. Years pass. Then decades. Then a century. Then two and three. Life on the island was lush--life on the mainland even more so. Theirs is a world with few land-based predators, and those that do exist learned quickly to fear the soft, lilac beings. The Geya tribe, having travelled far from the freshwater lake, lives in dugouts in the soft earth. They no longer kill their imperfect young. They have become a people so radically different than Orillan and Merrith that it is difficult to see any family resemblance. They have weathered the storm of their inbreeding and come out a stronger people, larger and broader, less human. They climb the great trees with ease, dig with their broad hands with little effort, and take advantage of everything the land gives them. They have become something close to native, embracing the planet and changing to live upon it. They are no longer what the seed's creators envisioned. Their distant cousins, however, cling unknowingly to the creators' dreams. The Morath tribe, remaining near the lake, have spread out along the beaches. They keep their bloodline pure, as their forebearers did. They are a thin, lithe people, but not physically strong. They do not live long; unknowingly, they have suppressed their own natural adaptations to their environments. They travel far to the distant mountains once a year to mine a material not unlike the metal of the origin seed. These alien metals they forge into new weapons, blades and cudgels of varying sizes and utilities. They are a people of tools, of weapons.
XVII
Genri lies, tied and gagged by vine-turned-rope, in the center of the largest Geya village. Strange men stand over him--huge-armed, small-eyed, small-legged. He is young, and has no idea that these people are his distant relatives. The largest of them--a female, with leaves and something-like-feathers in her hair, exits a deep dugout in the earth and stands over him. She asks him--in his own language!--who he is. Wide eyed, the thin man is unable to answer out of fear. One of the males kneels before the female and presents Genri's weapon--a long blade on a short handle, roughly as long as his forearm. A sword, of sorts. The female takes it by the handle and hefts it, and the blade whistles in the air; she runs it along her palm--it bleeds profusely, but she does not fear it. She says something in a bastardization of Genri's language, and he only understands two words: kill, steal. She kills him with his own weapon, cutting his throat; he feels no pain. That night, she returns to her dugout and uncovers that which makes her queen of the Geya: a spear, still caked with blood. It has been passed down from the tribe's namesake to each leader in turn. It is the spear that split them from the Morath, still marked with the blood of the man who bore that name originally. Every leader of the Geya has been told the tale of the split, though most of their people have forgotten it, forgotten the Morath even exist. The queen, Shicha, knows. And she smiles.
XVIII
The Geya descend on the unsuspecting Morath mining expedition like a fury of flesh and death. Despite their superior weapons, the Morath do not stand a chance. They die to the last man, woman, and child. The cries of the dying, and then of the celebration, can be heard from the Morath villages that line the shores of the lake. Children weep; women fear; men rage. War is coming.
XIX
The Morath strike first. An expedition, armed with the best of their weapons, strikes out into the jungle to find the Geya homelands; hundreds of thin, lithe men work their way through the jungle, and eventually come across a village of dugouts, of misshapen people, of Geya. They slaughter them in their sleep.
XX
The Morath retreat into the mountain from which their weapons come. The flee into the caves, the smell of their burning homes still fresh in their nostrils. The Geya come soon after, screaming for revenge in a language half-shared between brothers and sisters of such distant relation. The Morath reach a dead-end and are forced to turn and fight. Their numbers are equal, and in that cave, the remains of both tribes are snuffed out, blade and rock and fist smashing bone and skull and life. The progeny of Orrilan and Merrith bring about mutual genocide.
XXI
There is a crack and a hiss from the remains of the seed, and it begins to fold in on itself, compressing and overlapping, until it is no longer the seed, but a small cube of leftover parts. It speaks a language whose name is lost across the vastness of the empty sky: "If you are hearing this than your creation and birth has been a success. This is the voice of your creator. There are great plans for you and it is I who will teach you how to survive that you may continue our great culture." The man and the woman listen, laying on their backs on smooth green grass, under the light of a green-yellow sun.
Thursday, December 7
Wednesday, October 11
68. (Brother and Sisters, Continued)
Part Three: Deception (Mara)
They say, sometimes, that when your life is about to take a sudden and drastic turn for the better or worse, you have a feeling for it. In Mara Ado's case, this is simply not true. She sits in her room in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. Small in frame and stature, the 13-year-old looks like her only brother: black hair, black wings; but instead of blue eyes, Mara's are violet. This same violet can be found in (artificial) streaks in her hair, framing either side of her face.
Her room is everything a princess' room should be: baubles and jewels and everything she could ever wish for, a huge bath, a massive four-poster bed. Here and there hover or glow or hum or whistle various pieces of arcane miscellany: some toys, some tools, a few weapons.
The mirror she gazes into is an example of this: when a knock sounds at her door (which is carved of the richest, darkest, most exotic wood she could find), Mara waves a hand and the mirror ceases to exist--it had had no form in the first place, simply a bend in the light, a little thing that only a most powerful arcanist could master. It is her favorite trick.
The girl rises from the cushion she had been sitting on and approaches the door. "Who is it?" she asks.
"Subcommander Lorrin," comes the reply. With something like a sigh of relief, Mara waves her hand again, and the door swings open easily. The tall, blonde-haired and white-winged man on the other side bows slightly. "Your highness, there's been an attack on the palace. Your parents have ordered that you and your siblings be gathered up and brought to them for safekeeping. Commander Ado and the young princess are already in the throne room. They sent me to fetch you." He bows again, smoothly.
Mara cocks her head to the side slightly. "You realize I'm perfectly capable of getting there myself, yes?" she asks, haughtily.
"Of course, highness. I come only at the request of your parents."
"As you wish, then." The two set off through the long, twisting corridors that lead down from the tree branch Mara's room is located in to the heart of the palace, where the throne room is located. The halls are strangely empty. Mara can hear the clang of metal coming from the kitchen, but the noise is slightly off. She pays it little mind, assuming the chefs are just hard at work with some new delicacy.
"What was the nature of the attack?" Mara asks, tossing her hair back away from her face.
"A group of men from afar infiltrated the palace and attempted to assassinate the king. We killed several, but a few may have escaped; this is why the king and queen want you close by."
"I see. What city were these men from?"
"I do not know, princess. They appear to have been hired sellswords."
Mara frowns, misses a step. "How strange. Who would want to kill my father?"
"I have no idea, highness." They walk in silence after that. The path to the throne-room is long and twisted; it takes them some time to reach their goal. When they reach it, she pushes both massive doors open and strides confidently into the room, bathing in the light of the glorious sunset as it pours in the huge gallery windows that make up the back of the room, the view of the horizon framing the docking tree and its airships.
And Mara Ado misses her second step of the day. Her hands and lower lip tremble. She sucks in a breath. "Subcommander--" she stammers. "We're not--" and the pommel of his broadsword slams into the back of her head. The sky erupts into glorious, beautiful light, first orange, then blue-violet. Mara falls to the polished floor, slumping, "... safe... Erie's ship?" and in plain view of her dead parents, of her dead sister, of the bodies that little the floor of the throne room, she loses herself in unconsciousness.
"My lady," she hears, stirring. "My lady, wake up."
"Lorrin?" she mumbles, eyes half-closed, head throbbing. "What has happened? Have you found the attackers?"
"Found them?" The subcommander of the grins at her. Grins.
"Oh no," Mara whispers.
"Don't pass out, my lady. I want you to feel this. I'm going to cut out your eyes."
She screams. And, thankfully, the darkness goes deeper than her eyes.
Mara thinks she wakes. The polished floor is cold to the touch, and slick with blood--her blood. She cries, then stops herself. She's alive. She's alive. But she's not alone. She can hear noises throughout the palace. Fighting, coming closer. She can hear her heartbeat. She struggles to stand. The heartbeat speeds up, flutters in her chest. They're coming for her. Where's Lorrin? Why did he leave her alive? Her hands touch something. An arm? A leg? No, an arm. She feels up the length of it, finds a hand, feels the other direction. Female. Slim. Young. Sarah. Her little sister. The youngest of her family. She's cold.
The fighting is coming closer--then, suddenly, silence. Footsteps. They're coming for her now. Mara forces herself to her feet. She remembers where Sarah was when she came in. She rises and faces the door, trembling with the exhertion of it. Her face, sticky with blood, throbs. Her head throbs. Her heart throbs. But through it all, she prepares herself. A few words in the old tongue. A few hand-gestures. She's ready.
Footsteps coming closer. Voices. Familiar? Can't tell. Can't be. She's alone. Completely alone. Something thumps against the throne-room door. Mara whimpers, bites her lip. The door creaks open.
A last old word. A last flick of her wrist, and she feels the burst of heat on her face as the ball of flame leaves her fingertips, propelling her arm back. It only takes an instant. She hears the whoosh of the air being sucked out of the balls path, devoured by the fire. She hears someone--Reid!--shout her name--"Mara!"--the sound of a scuffle. A sick sort of knowledge enters her mind then, through the pain, through the fear, through the anger. Her hand falls to her side as she hears the fireball strike, hears a woman scream, smells the immediacy of burning flesh, hair, and feathers. And she lets the darkness take her again, and doens't even feel her head land softly in her dead sister's lap.
They say, sometimes, that when your life is about to take a sudden and drastic turn for the better or worse, you have a feeling for it. In Mara Ado's case, this is simply not true. She sits in her room in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. Small in frame and stature, the 13-year-old looks like her only brother: black hair, black wings; but instead of blue eyes, Mara's are violet. This same violet can be found in (artificial) streaks in her hair, framing either side of her face.
Her room is everything a princess' room should be: baubles and jewels and everything she could ever wish for, a huge bath, a massive four-poster bed. Here and there hover or glow or hum or whistle various pieces of arcane miscellany: some toys, some tools, a few weapons.
The mirror she gazes into is an example of this: when a knock sounds at her door (which is carved of the richest, darkest, most exotic wood she could find), Mara waves a hand and the mirror ceases to exist--it had had no form in the first place, simply a bend in the light, a little thing that only a most powerful arcanist could master. It is her favorite trick.
The girl rises from the cushion she had been sitting on and approaches the door. "Who is it?" she asks.
"Subcommander Lorrin," comes the reply. With something like a sigh of relief, Mara waves her hand again, and the door swings open easily. The tall, blonde-haired and white-winged man on the other side bows slightly. "Your highness, there's been an attack on the palace. Your parents have ordered that you and your siblings be gathered up and brought to them for safekeeping. Commander Ado and the young princess are already in the throne room. They sent me to fetch you." He bows again, smoothly.
Mara cocks her head to the side slightly. "You realize I'm perfectly capable of getting there myself, yes?" she asks, haughtily.
"Of course, highness. I come only at the request of your parents."
"As you wish, then." The two set off through the long, twisting corridors that lead down from the tree branch Mara's room is located in to the heart of the palace, where the throne room is located. The halls are strangely empty. Mara can hear the clang of metal coming from the kitchen, but the noise is slightly off. She pays it little mind, assuming the chefs are just hard at work with some new delicacy.
"What was the nature of the attack?" Mara asks, tossing her hair back away from her face.
"A group of men from afar infiltrated the palace and attempted to assassinate the king. We killed several, but a few may have escaped; this is why the king and queen want you close by."
"I see. What city were these men from?"
"I do not know, princess. They appear to have been hired sellswords."
Mara frowns, misses a step. "How strange. Who would want to kill my father?"
"I have no idea, highness." They walk in silence after that. The path to the throne-room is long and twisted; it takes them some time to reach their goal. When they reach it, she pushes both massive doors open and strides confidently into the room, bathing in the light of the glorious sunset as it pours in the huge gallery windows that make up the back of the room, the view of the horizon framing the docking tree and its airships.
And Mara Ado misses her second step of the day. Her hands and lower lip tremble. She sucks in a breath. "Subcommander--" she stammers. "We're not--" and the pommel of his broadsword slams into the back of her head. The sky erupts into glorious, beautiful light, first orange, then blue-violet. Mara falls to the polished floor, slumping, "... safe... Erie's ship?" and in plain view of her dead parents, of her dead sister, of the bodies that little the floor of the throne room, she loses herself in unconsciousness.
"My lady," she hears, stirring. "My lady, wake up."
"Lorrin?" she mumbles, eyes half-closed, head throbbing. "What has happened? Have you found the attackers?"
"Found them?" The subcommander of the grins at her. Grins.
"Oh no," Mara whispers.
"Don't pass out, my lady. I want you to feel this. I'm going to cut out your eyes."
She screams. And, thankfully, the darkness goes deeper than her eyes.
Mara thinks she wakes. The polished floor is cold to the touch, and slick with blood--her blood. She cries, then stops herself. She's alive. She's alive. But she's not alone. She can hear noises throughout the palace. Fighting, coming closer. She can hear her heartbeat. She struggles to stand. The heartbeat speeds up, flutters in her chest. They're coming for her. Where's Lorrin? Why did he leave her alive? Her hands touch something. An arm? A leg? No, an arm. She feels up the length of it, finds a hand, feels the other direction. Female. Slim. Young. Sarah. Her little sister. The youngest of her family. She's cold.
The fighting is coming closer--then, suddenly, silence. Footsteps. They're coming for her now. Mara forces herself to her feet. She remembers where Sarah was when she came in. She rises and faces the door, trembling with the exhertion of it. Her face, sticky with blood, throbs. Her head throbs. Her heart throbs. But through it all, she prepares herself. A few words in the old tongue. A few hand-gestures. She's ready.
Footsteps coming closer. Voices. Familiar? Can't tell. Can't be. She's alone. Completely alone. Something thumps against the throne-room door. Mara whimpers, bites her lip. The door creaks open.
A last old word. A last flick of her wrist, and she feels the burst of heat on her face as the ball of flame leaves her fingertips, propelling her arm back. It only takes an instant. She hears the whoosh of the air being sucked out of the balls path, devoured by the fire. She hears someone--Reid!--shout her name--"Mara!"--the sound of a scuffle. A sick sort of knowledge enters her mind then, through the pain, through the fear, through the anger. Her hand falls to her side as she hears the fireball strike, hears a woman scream, smells the immediacy of burning flesh, hair, and feathers. And she lets the darkness take her again, and doens't even feel her head land softly in her dead sister's lap.
67. (Brother and Sisters, Continued)
Part Two: Destruction (Eri)
Some half-an-hour beforehand, half-an-hour before Eri is to become heir to her brother’s newfound throne, the flagship of the Royal Air-Navy lumbers into the sky over the city, its boat-like form bulky and clumsy. It is both the largest ship in the fleet, and the largest ship at the docking tree, with twice as many blue-violet Arcan Drive blisters holding it in the air.
As the huge airship, the Ado’s Wing, slides slowly towards its docking branch, Sky Admiral Eri Ado stands at the stern, looking out over the cramped metropolis. The whole of Cal Aeros is located within the bowl of what was once a volcano so huge its eruptions had a global impact. Now it is simply an oddly-shaped mountain with a city on top of it. The city itself is made almost exclusively out of trees, grown with the magic of Eri’s people, each massive and twisted—but none so massive and twisted as the palace tree that sprouts from the center. The citizen’s of Cal Aeros, referred to as aeryyns, flit from one tree to another, wings carrying them through the air. They spend most of their time off the ground, rarely walking from place to place.
Looking at Eri, it is hard to see the family resemblance between herself and her brother Reid. Where he is lanky and awkward, she is lithe and graceful. Where his hair and wings are black, hers are a golden, lustrous brown. His eyes are blue, but hers are a dark shade of crimson. Reid dresses casually, and usually in black—Eri dresses formally to a fault, usually in her Sky Admiral’s uniform: a maroon jacket, open at the front to reveal a simple white shirt, with tails hanging down to a point at her knees, form-fitting black pants, and folded maroon boots and gloves. She is the picture of a seafarer, minus the sea itself, and the pointed hat.
She is staring, blankly, out over the city when her first mate, Thohr, crosses the deck behind her and gets her attention: “We dock, cap’n. You go see family, Thohr get crew workin’. No worries, yeah?” Of all the crew of the Ado’s Wing, Thohr is the only one who still refers to Eri with her original title, that of captain of the ship; he is also the only one who has been with her since she was a captain. In addition to this, he is the only troll not only in the crew, but in the navy, and in the city itself. Ten feet tall, broad and rippling as one would expect a troll to be, and the dark green of pine needles, Thohr stands out in a crowd.
“Have us ready to leave in three hours,” says Eri. She doesn’t look at her first mate, but at the palace tree, at her home. She has a bad feeling. In fifteen minutes it will be a feeling that is resolved in violence and bloodshed; in fifteen minutes she will move up a rung in the ladder of inheritance; in fifteen minutes the number of her family will be cut in half.
Thohr salutes as Eri turns to walk down the gangway to the landing platform. “As you were, captain.” She gave him the rank herself; he still refuses to acknowledge it, but smiles hugely when she uses it verbally. They are as close friends as two people of such violently different backgrounds can be.
Eri grew up in the palace. At age 20, the age her parents had decreed would be the age the Ado children would be put to work (they refused to let them grow fat and lazy on palace living), she was given the training—and then the post—of Sky Captain of the Aeros Pride, a much smaller ship than her current vessel. Eri chose the Royal Air Navy; years later, when he turned 20, Reid chose to join the Royal Guard (his casual black dress is, in fact, their uniform), and not long after that, Mara chose to join the Royal Arcanist Brigade—nearly a decade earlier than she was required. Mara was, is, ambitious to a fault. Eri simply excelled at the task she chose for herself. She had no ambitions to become Sky Admiral, it was simply how things happened.
Thohr grew up in a forest somewhere. He didn’t know where, exactly, but it was far from here. He didn’t know how old he was. He didn’t know his parents. It wasn’t that Thohr was dumb; it was just that the information had never been presented to him. Not long after he had reached what trolls see as maturity, the village he lived in was raided, most of his people were wiped out, and Thohr was taken as a slave by a human. He served in the city of Derranan (he didn’t know this name, either, but Eri had managed to figure it out from the way it was described) under a lord who beat him. When he beat the lord back, he was jailed for what was probably a decade. Eventually, Thohr was placed on an airship in the Derranan Air Navy (a pale comparison to its aeryyn counterpart); when Derranan went to war with Cal Aeros, Eri and the Aeros Pride crippled Thohr’s ship and freed the slaves and prisoners. The troll has been beyond loyal to the princess-turned-officer ever since.
It is ten minutes later when Eri lands lightly on one of the upper platforms of the palace tree; she folds her wings against her back easily in one smooth motion. Without missing a step, she strides across the flat, level surface towards the door—and the two door guards. Her bad feeling persists. A cool breeze wafts across the platform, playing with her hair. The two guards salute, clicking their heels—then, unexpectedly, lower their spears and bar her path. “Make way, privates,” Eri commands, blinking but not losing her regal, commanding stance.
“I’m sorry, Sky Admiral, but I have to ask you to turn away,” says the taller of the two guards. Eri looks at him quizzically and asks, confused and tired,
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“The palace is on lockdown. Please return to your ship and wait there for further orders.”
“Orders?!” Eri inquires, growing more and more confused. “There are only two people who are of rank to give me orders, private. Now make way or I’ll have you arrested.” Her hands, idly, stray to the handles of the twin sabers that hang from her belt at either hip. “That is an order.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the private replies, nervously. Beads of sweat dot his brow. “I’m very sorry,” he says in a low voice. “If you leave now, you might make it out of the city.”
Eri perks an eyebrow at this.
And at that exact moment, the roar and rumble of an explosion rocks the city. Eri spins and faces the docking tree, which has blossomed into red fire—which is quickly and immediately replaced in a larger blast with blue-violet flames as Arcan Drives meet flame and explode. The explosion is far larger than should be possible—were it not for the presence of the massive Ado’s Wing with its Arcan Drive blisters much, much larger than any other ship present. The airship, Eri can barely make out amongst the flames, burns and sinks, broken in two, and crashes into the base of the docking tree, where a third, but smaller, explosion blooms. “By the Angelis!” she mumbles.
“I’m sorry,” the more vocal of the two privates whispers. “I have a family to think about. Most of us didn’t have any choice.”
To Sky Admiral Eri Ado’s credit, she does not kill them. Her blades flash in the light of the sun, and she leaves them bleeding and scarred, but she does not kill them. She has realized, too late, what is happening. She rushes inside, and the doors slam closed behind her in the same heartbeat that Reid becomes the king, and Eri becomes his heir.
In her trek from the entrance to the throne room, which takes twenty minutes, Eri is accosted no less than four times. Each time, multiple attackers come at her, and each time she tears through them like a golden-winged hurricane, barely missing a step. It is painfully clear to each adversary she comes across why she was meant to die in a fiery ball of arcane energy and wooden debris—in terms of blade work, there is not a single person in all Cal Aeros who can match her. While her promotion to Sky Admiral was something that simply happened, something she did not actively seek, her mastery of bladed weapons was her passion, her love, her life. A childhood and lifetime spent in practice, honing her skills for hours upon hours each and every day until her technique reached perfection, her speed became unmatchable, and her physical strength was that of someone in a much larger body than her own slender form.
Neither she nor Reid realize it, but more than once on their respective journeys through the palace in search of each other they are within a mere ten feet, separated by little more than walls and doors. It isn’t until two young servants with wings like seagulls sprint past her that she finds him, just around the corner, running away from her down the corridor. The hall is a bloody mess.
Eri calls out to him and Reid skids to a stop, spinning, drawing his blade—which goes limp in his wrist when he sees her; he drops to his knees, exhausted, relieved to have finally found one of his sisters.
The Sky Admiral addresses him formally: “Commander Ado, what’s the situation?” she asks, though she already has a good idea.
Reid, however, is too tired to hold his rank, too tired to stand and salute his older sister as he should. “Mom and Dad are dead, Sarah too. Someone in the guard has taken over, turned them against us. A friend warned me, but couldn’t help any more than that. They’re being coerced forcefully. The guards.” He does not try to hide his grief. He is barely more than a boy.
“And the Archmage?” The Archmage Ado, that is, the 13-year-old Mara. Once the second-youngest of the Ado children, now the youngest.
“I thought she’d be with you,” Reid mumbles.
Eri frowns and slips her sabers back into their scabbards. “They blew up my ship,” she says quietly. “They’re not fooling around here, Reid.”
“I know.”
“We need to find Mara. Now.”
Their sister is, however, in far more dire straights than either of them realize.
Some half-an-hour beforehand, half-an-hour before Eri is to become heir to her brother’s newfound throne, the flagship of the Royal Air-Navy lumbers into the sky over the city, its boat-like form bulky and clumsy. It is both the largest ship in the fleet, and the largest ship at the docking tree, with twice as many blue-violet Arcan Drive blisters holding it in the air.
As the huge airship, the Ado’s Wing, slides slowly towards its docking branch, Sky Admiral Eri Ado stands at the stern, looking out over the cramped metropolis. The whole of Cal Aeros is located within the bowl of what was once a volcano so huge its eruptions had a global impact. Now it is simply an oddly-shaped mountain with a city on top of it. The city itself is made almost exclusively out of trees, grown with the magic of Eri’s people, each massive and twisted—but none so massive and twisted as the palace tree that sprouts from the center. The citizen’s of Cal Aeros, referred to as aeryyns, flit from one tree to another, wings carrying them through the air. They spend most of their time off the ground, rarely walking from place to place.
Looking at Eri, it is hard to see the family resemblance between herself and her brother Reid. Where he is lanky and awkward, she is lithe and graceful. Where his hair and wings are black, hers are a golden, lustrous brown. His eyes are blue, but hers are a dark shade of crimson. Reid dresses casually, and usually in black—Eri dresses formally to a fault, usually in her Sky Admiral’s uniform: a maroon jacket, open at the front to reveal a simple white shirt, with tails hanging down to a point at her knees, form-fitting black pants, and folded maroon boots and gloves. She is the picture of a seafarer, minus the sea itself, and the pointed hat.
She is staring, blankly, out over the city when her first mate, Thohr, crosses the deck behind her and gets her attention: “We dock, cap’n. You go see family, Thohr get crew workin’. No worries, yeah?” Of all the crew of the Ado’s Wing, Thohr is the only one who still refers to Eri with her original title, that of captain of the ship; he is also the only one who has been with her since she was a captain. In addition to this, he is the only troll not only in the crew, but in the navy, and in the city itself. Ten feet tall, broad and rippling as one would expect a troll to be, and the dark green of pine needles, Thohr stands out in a crowd.
“Have us ready to leave in three hours,” says Eri. She doesn’t look at her first mate, but at the palace tree, at her home. She has a bad feeling. In fifteen minutes it will be a feeling that is resolved in violence and bloodshed; in fifteen minutes she will move up a rung in the ladder of inheritance; in fifteen minutes the number of her family will be cut in half.
Thohr salutes as Eri turns to walk down the gangway to the landing platform. “As you were, captain.” She gave him the rank herself; he still refuses to acknowledge it, but smiles hugely when she uses it verbally. They are as close friends as two people of such violently different backgrounds can be.
Eri grew up in the palace. At age 20, the age her parents had decreed would be the age the Ado children would be put to work (they refused to let them grow fat and lazy on palace living), she was given the training—and then the post—of Sky Captain of the Aeros Pride, a much smaller ship than her current vessel. Eri chose the Royal Air Navy; years later, when he turned 20, Reid chose to join the Royal Guard (his casual black dress is, in fact, their uniform), and not long after that, Mara chose to join the Royal Arcanist Brigade—nearly a decade earlier than she was required. Mara was, is, ambitious to a fault. Eri simply excelled at the task she chose for herself. She had no ambitions to become Sky Admiral, it was simply how things happened.
Thohr grew up in a forest somewhere. He didn’t know where, exactly, but it was far from here. He didn’t know how old he was. He didn’t know his parents. It wasn’t that Thohr was dumb; it was just that the information had never been presented to him. Not long after he had reached what trolls see as maturity, the village he lived in was raided, most of his people were wiped out, and Thohr was taken as a slave by a human. He served in the city of Derranan (he didn’t know this name, either, but Eri had managed to figure it out from the way it was described) under a lord who beat him. When he beat the lord back, he was jailed for what was probably a decade. Eventually, Thohr was placed on an airship in the Derranan Air Navy (a pale comparison to its aeryyn counterpart); when Derranan went to war with Cal Aeros, Eri and the Aeros Pride crippled Thohr’s ship and freed the slaves and prisoners. The troll has been beyond loyal to the princess-turned-officer ever since.
It is ten minutes later when Eri lands lightly on one of the upper platforms of the palace tree; she folds her wings against her back easily in one smooth motion. Without missing a step, she strides across the flat, level surface towards the door—and the two door guards. Her bad feeling persists. A cool breeze wafts across the platform, playing with her hair. The two guards salute, clicking their heels—then, unexpectedly, lower their spears and bar her path. “Make way, privates,” Eri commands, blinking but not losing her regal, commanding stance.
“I’m sorry, Sky Admiral, but I have to ask you to turn away,” says the taller of the two guards. Eri looks at him quizzically and asks, confused and tired,
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“The palace is on lockdown. Please return to your ship and wait there for further orders.”
“Orders?!” Eri inquires, growing more and more confused. “There are only two people who are of rank to give me orders, private. Now make way or I’ll have you arrested.” Her hands, idly, stray to the handles of the twin sabers that hang from her belt at either hip. “That is an order.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the private replies, nervously. Beads of sweat dot his brow. “I’m very sorry,” he says in a low voice. “If you leave now, you might make it out of the city.”
Eri perks an eyebrow at this.
And at that exact moment, the roar and rumble of an explosion rocks the city. Eri spins and faces the docking tree, which has blossomed into red fire—which is quickly and immediately replaced in a larger blast with blue-violet flames as Arcan Drives meet flame and explode. The explosion is far larger than should be possible—were it not for the presence of the massive Ado’s Wing with its Arcan Drive blisters much, much larger than any other ship present. The airship, Eri can barely make out amongst the flames, burns and sinks, broken in two, and crashes into the base of the docking tree, where a third, but smaller, explosion blooms. “By the Angelis!” she mumbles.
“I’m sorry,” the more vocal of the two privates whispers. “I have a family to think about. Most of us didn’t have any choice.”
To Sky Admiral Eri Ado’s credit, she does not kill them. Her blades flash in the light of the sun, and she leaves them bleeding and scarred, but she does not kill them. She has realized, too late, what is happening. She rushes inside, and the doors slam closed behind her in the same heartbeat that Reid becomes the king, and Eri becomes his heir.
In her trek from the entrance to the throne room, which takes twenty minutes, Eri is accosted no less than four times. Each time, multiple attackers come at her, and each time she tears through them like a golden-winged hurricane, barely missing a step. It is painfully clear to each adversary she comes across why she was meant to die in a fiery ball of arcane energy and wooden debris—in terms of blade work, there is not a single person in all Cal Aeros who can match her. While her promotion to Sky Admiral was something that simply happened, something she did not actively seek, her mastery of bladed weapons was her passion, her love, her life. A childhood and lifetime spent in practice, honing her skills for hours upon hours each and every day until her technique reached perfection, her speed became unmatchable, and her physical strength was that of someone in a much larger body than her own slender form.
Neither she nor Reid realize it, but more than once on their respective journeys through the palace in search of each other they are within a mere ten feet, separated by little more than walls and doors. It isn’t until two young servants with wings like seagulls sprint past her that she finds him, just around the corner, running away from her down the corridor. The hall is a bloody mess.
Eri calls out to him and Reid skids to a stop, spinning, drawing his blade—which goes limp in his wrist when he sees her; he drops to his knees, exhausted, relieved to have finally found one of his sisters.
The Sky Admiral addresses him formally: “Commander Ado, what’s the situation?” she asks, though she already has a good idea.
Reid, however, is too tired to hold his rank, too tired to stand and salute his older sister as he should. “Mom and Dad are dead, Sarah too. Someone in the guard has taken over, turned them against us. A friend warned me, but couldn’t help any more than that. They’re being coerced forcefully. The guards.” He does not try to hide his grief. He is barely more than a boy.
“And the Archmage?” The Archmage Ado, that is, the 13-year-old Mara. Once the second-youngest of the Ado children, now the youngest.
“I thought she’d be with you,” Reid mumbles.
Eri frowns and slips her sabers back into their scabbards. “They blew up my ship,” she says quietly. “They’re not fooling around here, Reid.”
“I know.”
“We need to find Mara. Now.”
Their sister is, however, in far more dire straights than either of them realize.
Tuesday, October 10
66. (Brothers and Sisters)
Part One: Insurrection (Reid)
He runs, boots clunking clumsily against the polished-wood floor. A left, and a right, and another right, peeking his head into this room or that with as much quickness as he can muster. He is Reid Ado, and for the last ten minutes he has been the king of the sprawling city of Cal Aeros; eleven minutes or so ago he was only the heir. His skin is fair, his hair is black, and his eyes are a shade of blue that would make one think they’re artificially colored. He is of moderate height, but lanky in build, all arms and legs and awkward angles; from between his shoulder blades sprout two wings, black and feathered like a raven’s.
He runs, because he is now the king, and because somewhere behind him, somewhere above him in the tree-made-palace, men are hunting him. He can hear them shouting as they fight the guards--what few are still loyal--tooth and nail. Those guards told Reid to run, to flee, to find his sisters and get to safety. He knows they'll be dead soon, outnumbered and nearly caught unaware.
He runs, because he does not want his reign to end in his early demise. He is, after all, only twenty-two.
Someone behind him shouts his name—an unfamiliar voice—and Reid dives into the first door he comes across, narrowly avoiding the rain of arrows that shower the corridor behind him. He springs to his feet and kicks the door closed, bars it, turns—and realizes that he has trapped himself.
Reid curses under his breath. He also realizes that he is not alone: cowering in the corner of the room, clearly aware of the events of only a mere fifteen minutes ago, are two of his parents’ younger servants—a boy and a girl, no more than thirteen. Mara’s age. Their wings are like those of a sea-gull, white with grey tips.
There is a pounding on the door behind him. He scans the walls wordlessly, hoping beyond hope that somewhere there is a door that he did not see, but hope is lost as only smooth walls greet him.
“Prince Reid!” the male servant hisses, pointing. The door behind him is splintering now. Reid closes his eyes, forces himself to concentrate. Something slides across the floor to his feet—a sword! The servant children look at him hopefully. It’s an old blade—the Angelis know how long it’s been forgotten in this one-of-many rooms in the palace-tree—but Reid picks it up deftly and whips it out of its scabbard.
The child, as children often are, was wrong about Reid's title. In addition to no longer being the prince, but the king, his official title of Commander Ado, of the Royal Guard. Like his siblings, other than poor, poor Sarah, Reid was not allowed to simply languish in the royal riches. Instead, he was asked to choose his role. Like both Eri and Mara, he went military—and, as Ados typically do, excelled and rapidly climbed the ranks.
The attackers come, the door shattering with the force of their axes, and Reid runs—toward them now, blade held high. He’s outnumbered, but they don’t expect him to be armed. The first attacker goes down, spraying blood from where his head should be, and Reid slips his sword through the armor of the next, pushing him back into his compatriots, and everywhere is a mess of tangled wings, floating feathers, and splattered blood. The attackers—he doesn’t know how many, exactly, he’s up against—slip on the pooled blood and fall, and Reid stands over them, sword swinging. His attacks are clumsy—he is the Commander because of his leadership skills, not his prowess with a blade.
But in the end, Reid prevails. He stands over the bodies, panting. The children sprint past him and away, down the corridor. He pays them no mind now—it’s not them the usurpers are after, it’s him.
And his sisters.
Reid slips the sword into his belt and takes all of fifteen seconds to catch his breath. He’s only been the king for twenty minutes—there will be plenty of time to avenge his parents’ death, later, as well as Sarah's. He’s still got Mara and Eri to find.
And so, Reid runs.
He runs, boots clunking clumsily against the polished-wood floor. A left, and a right, and another right, peeking his head into this room or that with as much quickness as he can muster. He is Reid Ado, and for the last ten minutes he has been the king of the sprawling city of Cal Aeros; eleven minutes or so ago he was only the heir. His skin is fair, his hair is black, and his eyes are a shade of blue that would make one think they’re artificially colored. He is of moderate height, but lanky in build, all arms and legs and awkward angles; from between his shoulder blades sprout two wings, black and feathered like a raven’s.
He runs, because he is now the king, and because somewhere behind him, somewhere above him in the tree-made-palace, men are hunting him. He can hear them shouting as they fight the guards--what few are still loyal--tooth and nail. Those guards told Reid to run, to flee, to find his sisters and get to safety. He knows they'll be dead soon, outnumbered and nearly caught unaware.
He runs, because he does not want his reign to end in his early demise. He is, after all, only twenty-two.
Someone behind him shouts his name—an unfamiliar voice—and Reid dives into the first door he comes across, narrowly avoiding the rain of arrows that shower the corridor behind him. He springs to his feet and kicks the door closed, bars it, turns—and realizes that he has trapped himself.
Reid curses under his breath. He also realizes that he is not alone: cowering in the corner of the room, clearly aware of the events of only a mere fifteen minutes ago, are two of his parents’ younger servants—a boy and a girl, no more than thirteen. Mara’s age. Their wings are like those of a sea-gull, white with grey tips.
There is a pounding on the door behind him. He scans the walls wordlessly, hoping beyond hope that somewhere there is a door that he did not see, but hope is lost as only smooth walls greet him.
“Prince Reid!” the male servant hisses, pointing. The door behind him is splintering now. Reid closes his eyes, forces himself to concentrate. Something slides across the floor to his feet—a sword! The servant children look at him hopefully. It’s an old blade—the Angelis know how long it’s been forgotten in this one-of-many rooms in the palace-tree—but Reid picks it up deftly and whips it out of its scabbard.
The child, as children often are, was wrong about Reid's title. In addition to no longer being the prince, but the king, his official title of Commander Ado, of the Royal Guard. Like his siblings, other than poor, poor Sarah, Reid was not allowed to simply languish in the royal riches. Instead, he was asked to choose his role. Like both Eri and Mara, he went military—and, as Ados typically do, excelled and rapidly climbed the ranks.
The attackers come, the door shattering with the force of their axes, and Reid runs—toward them now, blade held high. He’s outnumbered, but they don’t expect him to be armed. The first attacker goes down, spraying blood from where his head should be, and Reid slips his sword through the armor of the next, pushing him back into his compatriots, and everywhere is a mess of tangled wings, floating feathers, and splattered blood. The attackers—he doesn’t know how many, exactly, he’s up against—slip on the pooled blood and fall, and Reid stands over them, sword swinging. His attacks are clumsy—he is the Commander because of his leadership skills, not his prowess with a blade.
But in the end, Reid prevails. He stands over the bodies, panting. The children sprint past him and away, down the corridor. He pays them no mind now—it’s not them the usurpers are after, it’s him.
And his sisters.
Reid slips the sword into his belt and takes all of fifteen seconds to catch his breath. He’s only been the king for twenty minutes—there will be plenty of time to avenge his parents’ death, later, as well as Sarah's. He’s still got Mara and Eri to find.
And so, Reid runs.
Monday, October 2
65. (Writing Exercise #2 - I'll be doing this more often.)
There's nothing I can do to convince you that what I'm about to tell you is true. In fact, you'll probably laugh at me and tell me I'm full of shit or that I've read too many comic books.
But it actually happened. I was there. You can see it on the security cameras if you're lucky enough to find a copy. Go to the First National Bank in L.A. and look at the floor if you don't believe me--under the rug, where barely you can see the palest of red splotches, resiliant even after hours and hours of scrubbing. You'd better do it soon, 'cause they're just gonna replace those tiles eventually.
It started out like any other bank robbery. There we all are, standing around in line, tired and bored and frustrated when these two fucks--let's call them Big Fuck and Little Fuck--no, wait, I'm going to get tired of dropping the F-bomb before I'm done writing this down, so let's call them Big Boy and Little Man--slam the doors closed and draw a couple of huge-ass handcannons from their pants, fire two off at the cieling, and start yelling. We all drop to the floor.
Except this one guy. This... man. Six foot two, African descent, broad-shouldered and smooth-domed. He just stands there staring at them. "Put the guns down and walk away," he says, his voice a kind of low rumble.
"I said get on the fuckin' floor," Little Man screams. Women scream. I can't remember, maybe I screamed too. "Or I'll blow your fuckin' brains out!" See what I mean about getting tired of the F-bomb?
The man just keeps standing there, hands at his side, staring at the smaller of the two idiots as he striders cockily over--and then it happens. Little Man shoots him nearly point-blank right in the chest. Right in the heart. I swear his blood splattered all over me when the bullet came tearing out his back. The man shakes from the impact, his right shoulder rolls back, he stumbles back a couple of steps, eyes squeezed closed--
And then he balances, and opens his eyes, and you can see on the camera all his muscles go real tense.
"The fuck?" I hear Big Boy mutter, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a large body.
Little Man's got these huge eyes now--they're all we can see with the ski-mask or whatever--and his hand's shaking. Then--BAM BAM BAM BAM--he's panicking and squeezing the trigger over and over and emptying his entire gun at the man, and each one hits with sickening accuracy, most hitting him in the chest and stomach, one clipping him in the forehead, all tearing out the back and spraying blood all over anyone behind him--and all this time the bloody man is striding quickly across what little space is left between him and the gunman, barely phased by the gunfire, muscles rippling--
He grabs Little Man by the throat--he's riddled with bullet holes and it doesn't even phase him--and hurls him across the room but by now I'm not even watching the crooks, I'm staring at this big man's back, soaked in blood, and I can see with my own disbelieving eyes the exit wounds closing themselves up. Little Man crumples in a heap against the wall.
"Fuck me!" Big Boy shouts, then roars as he sprints across the room at his partner's assailant--but the black man grabs both of Big Boy's wrists and pulls down and twists--and I can hear the bone snapping and crunching even over Big Boy's screams of agony--and now he's on his knees in front of the man, our defender, our hero, tearing flowing out of his big, stupid, ski-masked eyes--and the hero wraps one hand around his other fist and slams them, together, across Big Boy's face. The crook goes down without a sound.
Hero just stands there for a moment, panting, grinding his teeth. His wounds--even the one on his face, which tore half his head off--are already closed and he just looks like some big dude in a badly fake-bloodied Haloween costume. His muscles relax. He runs a a hand over his smooth dome of a head.
And he walks out the doors and away.
The rest of us just stare as he leaves. We don't get up off the floor, out of sheer shock and disbelief, for at least a whole minute.
Hero's blood is still all over the floor. The janitorial staff can't clean it up. There has been talk about destroying the surveilance tapes. I bet the Feds are involved. But it really happened. I know you won't--don't--can't believe me, but it really happened.
But it actually happened. I was there. You can see it on the security cameras if you're lucky enough to find a copy. Go to the First National Bank in L.A. and look at the floor if you don't believe me--under the rug, where barely you can see the palest of red splotches, resiliant even after hours and hours of scrubbing. You'd better do it soon, 'cause they're just gonna replace those tiles eventually.
It started out like any other bank robbery. There we all are, standing around in line, tired and bored and frustrated when these two fucks--let's call them Big Fuck and Little Fuck--no, wait, I'm going to get tired of dropping the F-bomb before I'm done writing this down, so let's call them Big Boy and Little Man--slam the doors closed and draw a couple of huge-ass handcannons from their pants, fire two off at the cieling, and start yelling. We all drop to the floor.
Except this one guy. This... man. Six foot two, African descent, broad-shouldered and smooth-domed. He just stands there staring at them. "Put the guns down and walk away," he says, his voice a kind of low rumble.
"I said get on the fuckin' floor," Little Man screams. Women scream. I can't remember, maybe I screamed too. "Or I'll blow your fuckin' brains out!" See what I mean about getting tired of the F-bomb?
The man just keeps standing there, hands at his side, staring at the smaller of the two idiots as he striders cockily over--and then it happens. Little Man shoots him nearly point-blank right in the chest. Right in the heart. I swear his blood splattered all over me when the bullet came tearing out his back. The man shakes from the impact, his right shoulder rolls back, he stumbles back a couple of steps, eyes squeezed closed--
And then he balances, and opens his eyes, and you can see on the camera all his muscles go real tense.
"The fuck?" I hear Big Boy mutter, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a large body.
Little Man's got these huge eyes now--they're all we can see with the ski-mask or whatever--and his hand's shaking. Then--BAM BAM BAM BAM--he's panicking and squeezing the trigger over and over and emptying his entire gun at the man, and each one hits with sickening accuracy, most hitting him in the chest and stomach, one clipping him in the forehead, all tearing out the back and spraying blood all over anyone behind him--and all this time the bloody man is striding quickly across what little space is left between him and the gunman, barely phased by the gunfire, muscles rippling--
He grabs Little Man by the throat--he's riddled with bullet holes and it doesn't even phase him--and hurls him across the room but by now I'm not even watching the crooks, I'm staring at this big man's back, soaked in blood, and I can see with my own disbelieving eyes the exit wounds closing themselves up. Little Man crumples in a heap against the wall.
"Fuck me!" Big Boy shouts, then roars as he sprints across the room at his partner's assailant--but the black man grabs both of Big Boy's wrists and pulls down and twists--and I can hear the bone snapping and crunching even over Big Boy's screams of agony--and now he's on his knees in front of the man, our defender, our hero, tearing flowing out of his big, stupid, ski-masked eyes--and the hero wraps one hand around his other fist and slams them, together, across Big Boy's face. The crook goes down without a sound.
Hero just stands there for a moment, panting, grinding his teeth. His wounds--even the one on his face, which tore half his head off--are already closed and he just looks like some big dude in a badly fake-bloodied Haloween costume. His muscles relax. He runs a a hand over his smooth dome of a head.
And he walks out the doors and away.
The rest of us just stare as he leaves. We don't get up off the floor, out of sheer shock and disbelief, for at least a whole minute.
Hero's blood is still all over the floor. The janitorial staff can't clean it up. There has been talk about destroying the surveilance tapes. I bet the Feds are involved. But it really happened. I know you won't--don't--can't believe me, but it really happened.
Friday, September 29
64. (Let's try again.)
"Cold as hell out here," I mutter. She looks at me funny and smiles.
"It's not so bad. It's your own fault for picking such a snow-logged post."
I'm standing knee-deep in the white stuff, smoking one of my last cigars, bundled up on every inch of my body. "They'll be here soon?" I say over the roar of the wind as it whips more snow in my face.
"Probably." Her dress isn't moved by the wind at all, nor is her hair.
I squint and wipe my goggles. "Well, I'm sorry it had to happen this way. I miss you."
"I miss you too."
I shoulder my pulse rifle. Already I can see the lights of their flyers on the horizon. I key in the sequence necessary to heat up the internal workings of the weapon and turn away from her, towards the door leading into the bunker which I am the only guardian. "I'm doing the right thing."
"Your team was green." This isn't something she'd normally say, but it doesn't surprise me. She's not really here. "Young. They'll live another day thanks to you. All you have to do is give them time."
"It just means giving up on you." She's silent now. I don't look back. I say, "Good bye, Miranda. I love you."
A single line of footprints in the snow follow me to the door of the barracks. As I turn around to close and seal the hatch, giving those poor recruits a few extra seconds, I see no one standing in the snow where she'd been.
It only takes the beings in the flyers twenty minutes to find the bunker. I give them hell before I die.
"It's not so bad. It's your own fault for picking such a snow-logged post."
I'm standing knee-deep in the white stuff, smoking one of my last cigars, bundled up on every inch of my body. "They'll be here soon?" I say over the roar of the wind as it whips more snow in my face.
"Probably." Her dress isn't moved by the wind at all, nor is her hair.
I squint and wipe my goggles. "Well, I'm sorry it had to happen this way. I miss you."
"I miss you too."
I shoulder my pulse rifle. Already I can see the lights of their flyers on the horizon. I key in the sequence necessary to heat up the internal workings of the weapon and turn away from her, towards the door leading into the bunker which I am the only guardian. "I'm doing the right thing."
"Your team was green." This isn't something she'd normally say, but it doesn't surprise me. She's not really here. "Young. They'll live another day thanks to you. All you have to do is give them time."
"It just means giving up on you." She's silent now. I don't look back. I say, "Good bye, Miranda. I love you."
A single line of footprints in the snow follow me to the door of the barracks. As I turn around to close and seal the hatch, giving those poor recruits a few extra seconds, I see no one standing in the snow where she'd been.
It only takes the beings in the flyers twenty minutes to find the bunker. I give them hell before I die.
Monday, September 25
63. (With a ring on my finger and joy in my heart.)
Kinda a mushy title, yeah?
Well it's fitting, 'cause I'm married now. Nyah.
Well it's fitting, 'cause I'm married now. Nyah.
Thursday, July 27
Tuesday, July 25
61. (59 days.)
COFFEE ON A HOT DAY.
It's at least 95 out there and here I am, AC'd, working, typing, "working", and drinking a scalding-hot Starbucks (no, I don't prefer it over other coffees it's just what's available downstairs).
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME.
It's at least 95 out there and here I am, AC'd, working, typing, "working", and drinking a scalding-hot Starbucks (no, I don't prefer it over other coffees it's just what's available downstairs).
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME.
Sunday, June 4
60. (My...)
My kingdom for a soda. Or change for a ten.
Which...
Would only go to acquiring said soda.
Attention passengers, we've entered hour 6 of our 9 hour flight. Take refuge in the fact that your shift at the library is more than halfway done.
But that soda is still, like, totally 3 hours away.
God damn it.
Which...
Would only go to acquiring said soda.
Attention passengers, we've entered hour 6 of our 9 hour flight. Take refuge in the fact that your shift at the library is more than halfway done.
But that soda is still, like, totally 3 hours away.
God damn it.
Thursday, May 25
59. (Fiction, life, and dreams.)
So, I just compiled and sent a friend of mine (currently in Europe for the Summer) a copy of all the fiction I've written that I like enough to consider representative of my work. It's 57 pages long, single-spaced, 12-point Times New Roman with 14-point Georgia titles and 12-point Georgia section seperations in one of the stories. It spans three years worth of short stories, from January 2003 to May 2006. It contains:
Need (currently unpublished on the intarwebs)
City
Lost
House
Names
The Blind Bravery of Thieves
And then, on a whim, I printed myself out a copy, three-whole-punched the whole thing, and put it in a binder.
Holding it in my hands gave me chills.
Ω
-Jayson Marsh, writer extraordinaire
PS: if you'd like a copy, I have a digital back-up saved in my GMail that I could easily forward to you. Just let me know.
That is, if there's anyone who actually reads this thing.
Need (currently unpublished on the intarwebs)
City
Lost
House
Names
The Blind Bravery of Thieves
And then, on a whim, I printed myself out a copy, three-whole-punched the whole thing, and put it in a binder.
Holding it in my hands gave me chills.
Ω
-Jayson Marsh, writer extraordinaire
PS: if you'd like a copy, I have a digital back-up saved in my GMail that I could easily forward to you. Just let me know.
That is, if there's anyone who actually reads this thing.
Tuesday, May 9
58. (Neil Gaiman - From Anansi Boys.)
"Er. You're bored with talking to me now, and you're going to let me pass unhindered," he told the dragon, with as much conviction as he could muster.
"Gosh. Good try. But I'm afraid not," said the dragon, enthusiastically. "Actually, I'm going to eat you."
"You aren't scared of limes, are you?" asked Charlie, before remembering that he'd given the lime to Daisy.
The creature laughed, scornfully. "I," it said, "am frightened of nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," it said.
Charlie said, "Are you extremely frightened of nothing?"
"Absolutely terrified by it," admitted the Dragon.
"You know," said Charlie, "I have nothing in my pockets. Would you like to see it?"
"No," said the Dragon, uncomfortably, "I most definately would not."
There was a flapping of wings like sails, and Charlie was alone on the beach. "That," he said, "was much to easy."
(pages 303 and 304)
"Gosh. Good try. But I'm afraid not," said the dragon, enthusiastically. "Actually, I'm going to eat you."
"You aren't scared of limes, are you?" asked Charlie, before remembering that he'd given the lime to Daisy.
The creature laughed, scornfully. "I," it said, "am frightened of nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," it said.
Charlie said, "Are you extremely frightened of nothing?"
"Absolutely terrified by it," admitted the Dragon.
"You know," said Charlie, "I have nothing in my pockets. Would you like to see it?"
"No," said the Dragon, uncomfortably, "I most definately would not."
There was a flapping of wings like sails, and Charlie was alone on the beach. "That," he said, "was much to easy."
(pages 303 and 304)
Monday, April 10
57. (Blah.)
Had Italian sausage in my dinner last night.
It's kicking me in the ass.
Or rather, the gut.
Haiku with a broken first line.
It's kicking me in the ass.
Or rather, the gut.
Haiku with a broken first line.
Friday, February 10
56. (Languages are funny things.)
I was in the coffee shop just a few minutes ago, buying a soda with a borrowed dollar (which is two separate rants for another day, one on my addiction to soda, the other on borrowing money). Behind me, as I bought my Cherry Coke were two conversations: one, a trio of Japanese exchange students, one of which was speaking in rapid Japanese; two, a man, speaking in English, with a high-pitched voice.
I could hear them as I was buying my drink, but when I turned around, the man was speaking in a high-pitched language I had never heard before, and the Japanese girl was silent.
Only nothing had changed at all.
I could hear them as I was buying my drink, but when I turned around, the man was speaking in a high-pitched language I had never heard before, and the Japanese girl was silent.
Only nothing had changed at all.
Wednesday, February 8
Tuesday, February 7
54. (Your Eyes are the Color Of)
Posted a story in nonrevision. Updated things around here and there a little bit.
The story... it's kinda out there, and kinda contraversial. It's for my fiction-writing class. The issue addressed is a heavy one, but it's one that I think is of particular importance in America--and the world--today.
The basic thing that it is trying to say can all be boiled down to a few single theses, if you will:
1) Color-based racism only runs skin deep.
2) Given the proper influence, people are capable of hating anybody.
3) Racism defies logic; to believe that someone is inferior to you based not on actions, but on appearance and background, does not make any sense.
ANYways... It's there--and it's still a first draft, of course, which is due in class tomorrow. At the end of the semester it'll probably get tossed, in full-drafted form, into deviantart. If you read it: keep an open mind.
J out.
The story... it's kinda out there, and kinda contraversial. It's for my fiction-writing class. The issue addressed is a heavy one, but it's one that I think is of particular importance in America--and the world--today.
The basic thing that it is trying to say can all be boiled down to a few single theses, if you will:
1) Color-based racism only runs skin deep.
2) Given the proper influence, people are capable of hating anybody.
3) Racism defies logic; to believe that someone is inferior to you based not on actions, but on appearance and background, does not make any sense.
ANYways... It's there--and it's still a first draft, of course, which is due in class tomorrow. At the end of the semester it'll probably get tossed, in full-drafted form, into deviantart. If you read it: keep an open mind.
J out.
Tuesday, January 17
53. (Free and legal, I swear.)
Okay, ten minutes. Go!
I'm sitting at work and I have absolutely nothing to do and all I want to do right now is go home and relax. School started up again today, joy of joys, but I think that most of my classes this semester will be okay. Nothing like the last two--nay, three--nay, four semesters, in which I had super-irregular attendance because--guess what--I just don't give a damn about school. I really don't, and nothing anyone has done has managed to change my mind. But, it doesn't matter, after this Summer when I pick up my last electives I'll be done and graduated and off to find a 'real' job in the 'real world' and marry my real fiancee. September 22. If you're reading this and I haven't told you, it's probably because we haven't spoken or whatever in a while, or that I just don't want to talk to you, or that I've (forgive me) forgotten that you're someone who would like to know. Well, now you do. I'm getting married to my girlfriend-cum-fiancee Candyce on (hopefully, if the date is still open in a couple weeks) September 22 of this year. A date chosen for several specific reasons, one of which being the season, the other of which being that it puts it safely beyond the reach of school. By that point, I'll be done, which is why I'm stressing and pushing to finish up by the end of the summer. Were I not getting married, I could laze away an extra semester or two and be fine (I'm not complaining, honey, just making a comparison) but on the downside I would feel even more indebted to my incredibly giving parents (I'm sorry we haven't paid rent in a while, Mom and Dad) and that, in the end, would be far worse than stressing out a semester.
Five minutes.
I consider myself something of a compulsive person. I stack books here at the library to a certain, measured height. I pick my nails without realizing it. I soap up in the shower in the same order (arms, chest, stomach, manlybits, back, legs) every time. I have routines. I have systems. And they work. And sometimes I slip out of them or whatever and it's okay, honestly it's no big deal. So I'm a little compulsive, but I'm not crazy. Even if I do seperate all my WoW (World of Warcraft) loot into seperate bags (vendor junk, quest items, food/pet food, leather/minerals, crafted goods) and move said items around while getting pwned (poned) by whatever I'm fighting. I'm picky. Can't help it.
Two minutes.
I'm off work soon, and then this writing will end. I'm writing, literally, for the sake of it. No purpose. Just whatever comes out of my brain and out my hands.
Less than a minute.
And soon this writing will end. Tomorrow I start my first real Fiction Writing class. I'll be sure that stuff gets put in a place where people not around me all the time can read it, either here or on DA or in NR.
And time's up.
I'm sitting at work and I have absolutely nothing to do and all I want to do right now is go home and relax. School started up again today, joy of joys, but I think that most of my classes this semester will be okay. Nothing like the last two--nay, three--nay, four semesters, in which I had super-irregular attendance because--guess what--I just don't give a damn about school. I really don't, and nothing anyone has done has managed to change my mind. But, it doesn't matter, after this Summer when I pick up my last electives I'll be done and graduated and off to find a 'real' job in the 'real world' and marry my real fiancee. September 22. If you're reading this and I haven't told you, it's probably because we haven't spoken or whatever in a while, or that I just don't want to talk to you, or that I've (forgive me) forgotten that you're someone who would like to know. Well, now you do. I'm getting married to my girlfriend-cum-fiancee Candyce on (hopefully, if the date is still open in a couple weeks) September 22 of this year. A date chosen for several specific reasons, one of which being the season, the other of which being that it puts it safely beyond the reach of school. By that point, I'll be done, which is why I'm stressing and pushing to finish up by the end of the summer. Were I not getting married, I could laze away an extra semester or two and be fine (I'm not complaining, honey, just making a comparison) but on the downside I would feel even more indebted to my incredibly giving parents (I'm sorry we haven't paid rent in a while, Mom and Dad) and that, in the end, would be far worse than stressing out a semester.
Five minutes.
I consider myself something of a compulsive person. I stack books here at the library to a certain, measured height. I pick my nails without realizing it. I soap up in the shower in the same order (arms, chest, stomach, manlybits, back, legs) every time. I have routines. I have systems. And they work. And sometimes I slip out of them or whatever and it's okay, honestly it's no big deal. So I'm a little compulsive, but I'm not crazy. Even if I do seperate all my WoW (World of Warcraft) loot into seperate bags (vendor junk, quest items, food/pet food, leather/minerals, crafted goods) and move said items around while getting pwned (poned) by whatever I'm fighting. I'm picky. Can't help it.
Two minutes.
I'm off work soon, and then this writing will end. I'm writing, literally, for the sake of it. No purpose. Just whatever comes out of my brain and out my hands.
Less than a minute.
And soon this writing will end. Tomorrow I start my first real Fiction Writing class. I'll be sure that stuff gets put in a place where people not around me all the time can read it, either here or on DA or in NR.
And time's up.
Monday, January 16
52. (Where?)
I need to start writing in here again. As it is, I really haven't had anything to say.
Um...
Just say 'no'?
Um...
Just say 'no'?
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