Star Wolf Rising
Everytime, that I, Wolf o'Donnell, battle that despicible Star Fox I lose! But not this time, this time I will win!
Decending into Katina, Wolf thought to himself, Fox wont be able to resist helping the Cornerian army, then will I will defeat him. The roar of the Wolfen, which was upgraded to have a personal shield and a better engine, helped calm him before the battle. Not that he was nervous for fighting Bill and his puppy squadren, but about Star Fox. "Leon, Pigma, Andrew... begin the attack!"
The Cornerian fighters were no match for Star Wolf. By the time Bill entered the battle, half of his sqadren were downed.They don't even put up a good fight, Wolf thought. At the very least, Bill will give some resistance.
"General Pepper! Were under attack by Star Wolf! We need help, fast!" Bill screamed through the communicator.
"Were sending Star Fox, ETA 20 minutes, hold on Bill!" General Pepper Replied.
Leon sped past Wolf and shot 3 lasers, all of which hit their marks. "Heh, not so tough after all?"
ETA: 10 Minutes
Bill shot Andrew twice, Andrew did a barrel roll, reflecting the last shot. "Bow before me, Andrew!"
Disrespectful little... where would he be without me showing him the ropes! I will deal with him later, there is more important things abroad.
ETA: 2 Minutes
"The Great Fox is in sight!" Bill said, elated.
"Gotcha, I am sending you to the kennel! Hahahaha!!!" Pigma exclaimed. He shot Bill's ship 6 times consecutivly, Bill went down.
"Foooooox!!"
"No! Bill! Dang it, we're too late." Fox came in with a rush.
Finally... "Spring the trap, Andrew!" Wolf shouted with glee.
"Whoa, what is THAT!?" Falco asked.
From the north approached what remained of the Venomian Fleet. Squads if fighters tore through the remainder of the Cornerian Army. The Shogun mechs arrived, upgraded as were the Wolfens, shielded and faster.
"Do not make the celebrations untill later." Spouted one of mechs.
Slippy and Falco took the first one down in a barrage of beams. "Upgraded or not, you guys still bite!" Falco said with a sneer. The other mech and 12 enemy fighters closed in. "Oh, I see, you wanna play?" Flaco's confidence drained as Leon dove in.
"Foolish bird, twice you have beaten, me but no more!" Falco went down, taking many of the fighters as well as the Shogun mech with well timed bombs.
Peppy meanwhile was taking Pigma down. "Not this time, Peppy old pal!" Pigma somersaulted and shot Peppy down.
"Sorry guys, I gotta get out of here!"
And yet... something was amiss. Fox, where was he? Wolf screamed, "Where are you Fox!? I will take you down, show yourself!"
"Right here, Wolf!" Fox dove down, using the vacuum that was created by his wings, cut Wolf's right wing off. "You'll be sorry, Star Wolf!"
Not this time, Fox. Not. This. Time.
Slippy noting Wolf's apparant weakness left himself open to attack. "You should've stuck to the pond!" Andrew laughed.
"Wha-? Ahhhhahhhh...." Slippy went down inflammed.
With the right side of his ship burning like his rage, Wolf shot into Fox's ship, shooting as he went. Fox was surpried by the attack and could not manuver out of the way. Fox's ship went down, Fox said, "so you got me, but your ship wont last much longer."
Does not have to, after all... I finally won. I beat Star Fox. Me... Wolf O'Donnell...
Fear the Iron Crown and the Red Eye
The protagonist walks home from his girlfriends house, face a mask of confusion and pain. He has just witnessed the unspeakable, yet he needs to tell somebody of his pain. He would usually go to his best friend, but that's not longer an option, since his best friend is currently in bed with his girlfriend.
"So much loyalty. So much wasted friendship. And so much betrayal."
He continues his trudge back to his apartment. Upon his arrival, he finds an eviction notice in his rusted out mailbox, and his shoulders are to the floor as he shuffles through the door and flops on his futon, the lone sanctuary amidst the rubble and shit strewn on the floor. His shoulders heave with silent sobs as he slowly curls into the fetal position, never crying out, just sitting and letting the tears mix with the dirt of the floor and form a kind of salty mud that can empathize with him.
He jerks up, eyes rolling into his head. He spasms once, twice, and the third knocks him off the futon and onto the floor. His left hand unclenches and a somewhat filthy needle rolls out and shatters next to this shell of a man. He flexes his fingers, letting the concoction of love and hate spread through his body. Still shuddering a little and knowing that he has little time to do much of anything, he picks up a ballpoint pen and a scrap of paper and begins to write his story.
"of all the people that i thought that i could trust it was them, they were the bedrock of my life, and they screwed me. i only wanted to help them and give them better lives and they threw it in my face i hate them i hate th"
as the pen slips from his suddenly loos grasp, he gasps and falls to the floor. He will never have to suffer the earthly pain of betrayal again, but he will never taste the fruits of human love and compassion again, for our protagonist has decided that his stay on this world is nothing but a bitter and utter waste of time, and that he would rather take his own life than stay and help shovel the shit out of his life and the lives of the people around him.
Click to listen.
Here's my entry - it's *exactly* 4000 words, excluding the Title. I edited it more, so I hope it's more enjoyable.
Song:
Click to listen.
Hopeful, By Podburrys
She blew into her hand, knowing her hot breath would never reach the skin beneath. It was all she could do as her skin frosted beneath the falconer glove; she hated how she had to remove her Yak wool mitten to wear this leather monster. Still, Birendra would be back soon, and once they returned she could remove it.
She scanned the skies for the Laggar Falcon, and shrieked to him. Perhaps he would hear and return, perhaps he would not - Birendra, however, was not a timely bird and she doubted he would change that today. Still, his way-ward calls from above annoyed her to no end. Enjoying yourself?
She sighed, her vapor trailing it's way to the thick white clouds above.
She really couldn't blame him though. She had never seen the mountains, not like he did every day. She often wondered what, to her, the typical scene of jagged snow-capped peaks looked like to him, what distant mountains of marbled brown and grey looked up close. Would the rock be like here? What would grow there, more sparse woodland? And the endless fog that swept itself around the mountains' bottoms only held more uncertainty.
But only Birendra knew the answers to any of it - from here, the mountains always looked the same, and Indra despised that they had grown plain in their beauty.
The sky was a faded yellow, what little of it could be seen, and in the far distance was the ever impressive Cho Oyu. The scene reminded Indra of an oil painting she had seen in the village's store, but less remarkable. Indra had never been more than an hour away from the village, in part due to duty but mainly the recalled stories told of those claimed by the endless mists. Only experienced trekkers could go into the beyond. Not that the others minded. The lucky ones though, had brought back stories about different people, and Cho Oyu. How the foreigners flocked to it to make 'instant paintings' to take with them, or to climb it. Still, she had always wanted to see what all the foreigners saw in the mountain, because although an impressive giant, she could not really...
She frowned. She did not like when she used those mythical words. That word. 'Giant'.
It always brought back to her stories told as a little girl; her grandmother would tell her all the wonders of the mountains and the secrets they held. Right now, she recalled that the mountains themselves were massive people in a near eternal slumber, with the mighty Cho Oyu the only one awake to look after them all. "Just incase", Grandmother would say with a cracked smile. But that was back when she was little, before she knew of the world beyond the Himalayas and how 'stable' Grandmother Jana's beliefs were regarded by most of the village. These mountains didn't hold anything great for her. She bitterly realised she had been too hopeful ('wishing for the impossible' - something her late mother often warned her of) and shook her head of the recent thoughts. She lost herself too often up here as it was, among these lifeless chunks of rock and the biting wind. It did not to help anyone imagining what could be or in her case, she thought looking over the humped mountains below, what is not.
Giants, indeed.
Another sigh, and another shriek. Where was that bird?
A larger shriek sounded in reply, and a large grey bird plummeted from the skies above.
Finally, you silly bird.
She held out her arm, and it landed. She gave it a displeased look, and after it's twitching head came to face her, the bird lowered it's head in an apology.
Alright, but don't do it again tomorrow. I mean it!
She put on it's hood and stroked it's underside. He had been able to catch some prey this time, which meant more money for Grandmother's medical supplies.
Good boy. Let's go home.
She readjusted her woolen hat, tightened so it would not blow off in the wind. Indra was about to turn when she noticed something in the sky. Something bright, and moving faster than any bird. Or 'plane'. She began watching as the bright light streaked across the sky above and down somewhere in the distance. It was wonderful, but the sun was still high.
Wasn't it too early for a shooting star?
The sight was beautiful, but Indra forced herself away from the fading smoky trail and hiked back towards the village. Lest she become hopeful.
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It was the voices that woke her, and Indra was furious. She did not have to gather herbs or do her chores until noon, one of the rare days she had been permitted by Grandmother to sleep longer - a break in the routine. She rose from the quilt and, quieting Birendra's concerned hissing, quickly clothed before heading to give whoever it was a suggestion. Or the receiving end of Birendra's refuse bucket if said suggestion was not followed.
She was halfway through a length of thought on what to say depending on whoever it was, when she saw him. In the middle of what appeared to be the entire town, stood a man. Although in plain wear and of a similar tan to most, his was a face she did not recognise.
Now she understood.
Such things usually meant trouble; unless someone from the village formerly introduced strangers to the town during a called meeting, then a stranger could be seen as a Nomadic Tribe's scout or a representative from the ever increasing Yuan. Neither were good, but the village had been raided before. Chinese investors were an uncertain - but not unknown - threat. She watched the others around him, blocking him from any possible escape. All the men were standing defensively, asking what his intent was, with some of the town's larger women surrounding them incase the stranger made a run for it. Indra thought they looked like a giant woolen coat surrounding him like that. She looked to him though, and something about him caught her. He opened his mouth, but Indra could not make out the words through the low rumbling of warnings and inquiries. She made her way to the small crowd's outer rim to hear better.
When she was closer, she was finally able to see what about him had intrigued her. She assumed it was his unexpected presence, but close as she now was, was able to see it was instead his eyes. They seemed odd for a Nepalese man. Any man. A burnt wood shade, but glistening in the sun like melting snow that had strayed into a house, but brighter, and with different colours at times. The man's eyes looked coated in oil, and Indra wondered how he was able to see through the film.
"What are you doing? I am sorry, but I do not understand."
The man's voice was grittier than she expected of a man her own age, and tinged with an unusual accent.
"You do understand, outsider; Why are you here, what business do you have with our village?"
That snarled voice, however, was undeniably that of Mayor Krishna. His tall, hulking frame tried to loom over the stranger, but it appeared the intimidation tactic did not work. Not that it usually did. This stranger didn't appear to really understand the gesture, which made Krishna's face glow hot. Indra found her interest in this young man growing. Something about those eyes...
"As I have said, Sir, I do not understand what it is I am doing wrong. Am I unable to be on this land?"
"Exactly," called seamstress Deuba curtly, "we aren't selling. You're looking for a way into Nepal and it won't be through our village, Yuan!"
"You heard her," chimed food vendor Sher, "Now go home!"
The man continued to inspect the people quizically, before opening his mouth. His head moved rather slowly, but seemed quick at the same time.
These movements, so odd...
"Then I shall leave. I thank you for your tolerance."
Hearing these words, the villagers looked to themselves and made a silent agreement accompanied with several nods. They slowly backed away from the man and gathered infront of him, forming a wall between the man and what was thought of as the town centre - a small area between the store and Indra's home, the Medicine House. The man cocked his head from side to side, examining those before him, before turning and walking in a walk that almost resembled how Birendra would scuttle along his perch. Others watched on with uncertainty, but Indra had found something appealing in the man's unusual nature. He was different. Almost like something she had herd in a story...
"Please, stop."
She had spoken the words before really thinking about them, and felt flush when she realised everyone had turned to her. Including the man.
"I want you to stay."
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There had been a hastily called meeting not long after Indra's invite, followed by a grueling four hour discussion. Although Indra never withdrew her invitation, which by town law was an allowance of visitors, she didn't fight for the stranger either. During most of the questioning she spend her eyes on the strange man and his odd movements. His eyes. In the end, Grandmother Jana had stepped in and used her sway as one of the surviving town's elders. They had decided so long as the stranger promised to be loyal to the village and was under careful supervision, he would be allowed to stay for a while. That night, Grandmother had prattled tales Indra had previously forbidden, by the old tin fireplace near the door. The man seemed eager to learn and she could not bare to begrudge him the rambling tales of an old Medicine Woman, so she too sat and listened.
Indra smiled. Having the man stay also meant he was now Indra's responsibility - he had to stay with her.
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It was morning now, sharp and still, but things seemed different and excitingly foreign. She had not been happy to do her chores in a long while, and found it only fitting to start with the longest first - finding herbs for Grandmother. She could spend more time with the stranger, early. As they gained ground from the chipped stone abodes and the curious whispers, the stranger had even started opening up. He had asked her a manner of strange things, from how the houses were made, to her what were clothes, the trees and even the ice. Although she had been puzzled by his lack of knowledge, she decided to answer everything as best she could. Until finally he asked her something she wondered about herself.
"What are you?"
She had stopped at those words, and played with the jess on her falconer glove, compelled to look away.
"My name is Indra. I am a girl of the village Bahadur, and an amateur falconer. Above us is my Falcon, Birendra."
The falcon screeched above, knowing his name. Vain bird. The pair below waited, and their eyes met. They remained locked and the silence continued - it was not enough.
"I'm someone who loves the mountains, but wishes there was more to them than fog and sparse Imamu herbs. More than even falcons. I want to be able to find something new here, I want to find something, go somewhere..."
The was a pause. He smiled, then began to walk again. No, Stranger, now you.
"What are you, Stranger?"
He turned back to her, smile never wavering.
"I am me, Indra."
It was not a real answer, but for some reason Indra felt he had told her more than she realised. He continued to smile, and she let herself smile back. She moved towards him and took his hand.
It's to guide him. There are hidden rocks everywhere here.
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When they returned to the village it was only noon, and they were carrying a small bundle of Imamu. Grandmother would be happy, as an old woman next door had a bad back that needed ointment. She smiled to her falcon on her arm, to the Stranger, and as they walked into town, another crowd. The smile faded.
"What's the matter, Grandmother? We didn't need a welcoming party."
At the front of the group, stood Grandmother Jana with a solemn face and several tokens adorning her robes. The group had similar amulets, but they also held rifles, shovels and various brooms. Indra felt her throat swell. What was happening?
"Indra."
Mayor Krishna stepped forward slowly, and reached an arm out to her. Indra didn't like how softly he spoke - where was the mighty Tiger in his voice now? "Indra, come here."
"Why?"
"This man," Mayor Krishna breathed and seemed to shiver, but not from the cold. "This thing cannot be trusted. Sher and Pal were hunting elk along the eastern slopes when they came across a strange plane wreck in the snow. They went to look, and found this nearby."
Krishna pointed at the ground before the group and Indra gasped. In the snow lay a corspe, dried and in some places burnt.
It was a familiar corpse.
Indra looked to the Stranger, and back to the man in the snow. The same. Except at the same time, different. Indra felt the Stranger loosen from her hand.
"This man, Indra, is a Mekpt. You remember those, dear?" Grandmother Jana's voice seemed frosted. Yes, Indra remembered Mekpt. "They come from the stars, and they dry the water out of man and animal alike to walk in their form." A story she had oft been told.
"I did not kill the man. When I exited my ship, he was already dead. I just needed something to blend in until my people came -"
"Indra. Come here."
Indra looked to the group ahead of her, then to the Stranger. If Mekpt's were real, what did this mean? Could this mean that other things from Grandmother's stories were true? She was confused, but she wasn't sure if it was from the situation, realising how hopeful she had been or that there really were things to be hopeful about. Did something new perhaps lay beyond here? She looked to the Stranger, those glistening eyes. She felt at ease; she was sure that he was telling the truth. And that he was indeed a Mekpt.
"I don't think he's lying though, Mayor. I don't think he killed that man."
"He's more a threat to us than we realised Indra," Grandmother's voice echoed Krishna's cold reservation, "He seems like a nice man, but there are stories of Mekpt that make me feel otherwise. Cannot trust them, dear. We can't have him here. We can't let -"
"No," Indra yelled, "This one is alright! I can feel it. I don't know how, but I feel it."
"Indra, we don't have -"
"Enough!" It was softer, but it seemed Mayor Krishna had awoken the Tiger. "Indra, move away now!"
Mayor Krishna looked to the other villagers, nodded, and they all advanced. They weren't running, but they would be here to kill Stranger in a matter of moments. She could see it in their cold stares.
The Imamu slipped away.
She looked to Stranger, to the village, to a sadly chanting Grandmother Jana and finally back to Stranger. If they killed him, they would be taking something - someone - beautiful away from the world. Proof that life held new wonders, proof that something lay beyond the known. Proof there was nothing wrong with wanting more. No, Indra thought, I cannot let this happen.
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She was running, and leading Stranger away from the cracking shots and the squelching footsteps behind them. He was too important to die, and although she would be punished for this, it had to be done. Snow blended into rock, frosted tree into snow, sky into nothing as she ran. Birendra was till attached to the falconer glove screaming his head off, but she had no time to shake him off. The pain from the piercing talons and the running did not matter to Indra. Only the running did.
They reached a cliff, which Indra recognised as Falcon Peak, and she almost collapsed under heaving lungs and blood-raw throat. She looked to where they had came, and could hear voices in the distance, but saw no-one. She looked up to Stranger, who seemed perfectly fine for such a long run.
"Stranger. You have. To go. I'm sorry. It turned out like. This, but I want you...to know you will always...stay with me. You have shown me something..."
She blushed, and rose, pants fading. She walked over to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"...something I'll never forget."
The Stranger seemed not to understand, but smiled at any rate. After the moment was gone, Indra felt something clenching her right arm. Birendra was still anchored there. She quickly plucked some tail feathers from the screeching bird, and held them out to Stranger, as Birendra leaped and fluttered off to a tree. She knew he would forgive her, so it did not bother her.
"Take these, and dry them. Take the winds anywhere you want, Stranger, and keep safe."
He looked over the clump of tail feathers and took them into his hand.
"These will do. Thank you, Indra."
The voices grew closer, and Indra saw running silhouette. She looked back to Stranger with urgency. He must leave now.
"Indra, girl of the village Bahadur, amateur falconer. I am not from here, but I do know there is more than the mountains, the goats, what you can see. Would you like to come with me? I would like to show you."
So maybe he had understood after all. She bit her lip, and looked over him. Images of embraces by the fire, of stories, of a lifetime of happiness avalanched through her mind. It was so tempting...but...
"I can't. I'm..." She sighed. Her heart felt like it would heave into her raw throat. "I'm needed here." Grandmother was old, and one day Indra would take the mantle of Medicine woman for herself. She could not flee to the city as her parents had done so foolishly before their accident. Dreams were for dreamers. She had been too hopeful as it was.
"I understand."
Indra felt saddened by those words. She was starting to wish she could hear it recuperated in her voice. Had she perhaps expected more due to his novelty? She had no right to ask such things of such a unique creature anyway. She had to let him go, give others what she now felt.
The Stranger glowed, and he began to shift. It was pure and white, like a mound of melting ice, and something from which she dare not look away. He was becoming like a growing ice sculpture. The arms became wings, the face a beak, glass-like feathers spurting in every direction. It was a wonderful sight. You were worth saving, Stranger.
Finally, before Indra stood a large grey falcon. He looked exactly like Birendra, who scree'd from a nearby tree at the sight. Indra walked over to this new form, and stroked him. It was a beautiful sight, but why had he chosen to be so large? He was twice the size of his human form. Surely -
"Indra!"
She spun around to face a red-faced Mayor Krishna and the group of villagers from before. She cursed herself for forgetting the direness of the situation.
"Indra, get away from that thing!"
"Then," Indra replied, "Let him go! Don't you see? This is proof of the Old Stories! The Stranger is someone who is of the mountain, like us! A living myth -"
"Enough; Fire!"
As soon as Krishna had growled those words, the rifles had cracked. She spun around, snapping in her ears and bullets whipping past. She prayed that the Stranger would be alright. But he was not there.
From the sky came a tremendous screech that hurt everyone's ears. They all held their heads in pain, and before Indra knew it, something large wrapped itself around her and lifted her from the ground.
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How far they had traveled she did not know, but she could no longer recognise the ground below them. Infact, she could barely see the ground below them - she had never really thought how thick the endless fog really was.
She watched the passing peaks, and Indra thought of a picture she had once seen: a yellow place with lots of water and rocks, from somewhere called 'Indonesia'. She had imagined the waves so much in the following months, and the few stories that Grandmother Jana had told her about them. Now, she was flying over a white ocean with ghostly waves that crashed against mountains. An endless ocean that went as far as she could see, just for her. It was so magnificent, and she was envious of Birendra for having keep such sight to himself all these years. She wouldn't berate him for being late from now on though. How could she when she now knew why?
She looked up to the Stranger, who focused on the sky ahead. She felt entirely safe, so she did not think he would dry her. When they landed, perhaps he would become the man he was before. She did not know, and it did not really matter; She would stay with him awhile either way.
His talons softly clenched on her shoulders, making sure she had not slipped without his notice. Yes. He definitely had been worth saving. She watched the ocean below, and wondered what else lay within it's mists. She would have to find out.
She also wondered about his home.
He would tell her about it.
Indra closed her eyes, and carefully spread her arms. She would return home, eventually, but this time was hers. She let the cool, rustling wind wash over her and into her ears. She imagined she was a falcon, flying high about the Himalayas. She saw the mountains below awaken, reach up to her. She saw the great faded giant Cho Oyu ahead, arm out-stretched, beckoning her to him.
She knew she was being hopeful, but saw not reason not to be.
/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/
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Author Note: Sorry if the dash seperators seemed odd, but I submitted the story to a site and they did not allow the symbol I used initially. And I sumbitted the first part here before changing it, so I thought I may as well keep it uniform. Hope you enjoyed.
Click to listen.
: She
The car winged and whined, accentuated mostly due to the bitter cold weather that had swept over the city of Halberg.
"Come on, come on, come on, come on..." Oliver Lynchley urged his car to start as he wrenched the key in the ignition and peddled his foot delicately on the accelerator. "Come on, come on, come on, come on!"
He was not usually an impatient man, however the blanket fog that had encompassed the city seemed to inject its chilling bite throughout the suburbs, growing and evolving as it went, which seemed to bring out the worst in people. It happened that Oliver was feeling the spiteful wrath of the fog now more than ever.
Oliver was a teacher at Halberg Senior High School, and it was there, in the staff car park, long after the other faculty members had parted ways, that he sat in his car praying that his battery was not dead, and that the motor would roar into life at any moment now; upon which result he'd be home basking in the warmth at the hearth of his fireplace. It was to his misfortune that the battery was too stubborn to give, and that he would not be driving anywhere tonight.
With a heavy sigh of defeat, he tugged the keys from the ignition and slumped back on the driver's seat. He was exhausted, perhaps too much so to walk home, but the sun was rapidly falling below the horizon, and too much procrastination would have him freezing to death from the twilight chill. He glanced in the rear view mirror at the pathetic orange-purple sunset, barely peeking through the fog, and he sensed that unwanted presence again. She was nearby, and it sent a bitter, dejected shiver cascading down his spine.
He left his files and workbooks in the front passenger seat, opened the door on the driver's side, and stepped out into the brewing storm. He would come back tomorrow to collect his things, and to try and fix his car. But on this night, he just re-wrapped his coat around himself, lest the cold finds a way of getting in, and he walked out of the car park and down the centre of the ice slicked road, inhaling the thin, misty air as he went.
The wind whispered his name, and echoed off into the darkness, rain drizzled over the concrete playground, shining up the grey surface to reveal her ever present gaze. He maintained his stride, sensing her madness was about, but until the playground was behind him Oliver couldn't hold back his fascination with the face on the surface of the concrete. Black as the night his beautiful wife Amelia died, the face tortured him, with wild, gnashing teeth of a ravenous, hungry mouth, and eyes that bore no resemblance to any others within this world. He shrugged the slack of his coat off his shoulders and tugged the garment tighter across himself, and willed himself to shut her from his thoughts.
This was not the first time he had seen her, felt her unwanted gaze upon his unimposing self, once before he was tortured by her menacing ways. It was the night of the accident, he was driving his Amelia back home from a night out on the town, he estimated it to be about one o'clock in the morning. There was not another vehicle on the road, but he could see not ten meters ahead with the high beams on, as the rain came down in sheets nigh on impenetrable.
The wiper blades ran back and forth, scarcely improving visibility but for a moment, yet he drove on relentlessly, throwing caution to the wind. The car was roaring down the road at speeds unfathomable, least of all in the current condition. Whereabouts on the road he was, Oliver couldn't tell, but he'd thrown a couple of drinks back, and his wife; a couple of dozen. She was passed out, head slumped back uncomfortably in her seat, quite unaware of the madness that had consumed her husband.
He did not usually succumb to such recklessness, but the accident would later be put down to inebriation. However, Oliver was adamant, as he plunged the accelerator hard to the floor, that his drunkenness had not caused this unfortunate event, but rather a sober anxiety, a fear caused by his seeing of a demonic apparition, a vile, torturous devil-woman thrusting her madness into him through the mirrors, the windows, speaking to him through the car's radio, looking at him through his wife's eyes, glowering down upon him from the sky, hammering upon him with the rain, reflecting her image towards him from the road and tearing his soul open with her very own hands had caused the car to skid on the road and slammed heavily into a tree.
Amongst the tangled wreck of metal, wood and flesh, she had claimed her victim, his dearest Amelia. Oliver stepped out of the driver's side with little more than a scratch, and a dull ache coursing through his body. He rested his body against the hood of the car, wallowing in self-pity over her torment, he waited for the sirens to arrive, to interrogate, to apply medicinal practices, and to take Amelia's twisted, mutilated corpse away. Oliver rested against the crumpled hood of his car, suffering the defeat of a merciless demon woman.
That was a little over a year ago. Time had passed, wounds had been covered over and the scars had begun to heal. For a while he felt that he had permanently descended into madness, and that no amount of begging for mercy would bring him back, no amount of pleading could salvage his soul from the colossal pits of hell. But with therapy, he was able to move on, to get his life back on track, go back to the school, and resume teaching again. So it was with the utmost horror that he found these healed scars to be opened up again, and that wretched demonic spirit at his gullet for a second time.
He tried to ignore her, he continued to force his feet one in front of the other, but she was there with him, every step of the way. Her cries echoed through the streets, how one voice sounded like so many, he couldn't comprehend, yet he remained adamant that he was stronger than this, that he could ignore her, to force her out of his life.
"You're not real, you're not... you're just a figment of my imagination" he said mostly to himself. Yet the fog still crept in and lingered around his throat, and the otherworldly howls sent their demonizing vocals penetrating into his eardrums.
"No! You can't hurt me, you're not real!" He spoke a little louder, in an attempt to fool her with false confidence. The wind heaved and whirled with a peculiar polyphonic cackle which almost swept him off his feet.
He returned her laughter, a hearty twinge of madness snapping across his fragile outer-shell. "You can't hurt me any more!" This time he roared his confidences with a loud clarity, so that the whole street could hear. "You've claimed my wife, and you've tried to take my life too, but you won't! I won't let you! I'm stronger than this!" He opened his arms, to represent his discarding of that which he had previously feared.
The wind howled in anger and took the opportunity to sweep his coat open and to nestle its bitter chill deep throughout his body. He ran, hard and fast down the road, far away from the cursed playground, far away from the demented wind, yet the howling of beasts so demonic still rattled about within his skull. He turned down a side street, heading for home, as the heavens unsheathed their fury upon him with much aggression, soaking him to the bone.
It was there in the dirt and the filth and the mud that the wind finally did sweep himself off his feet and to the gutter. With a swelling lip and a gash in his side, he continued to laugh a hollow laugh, and in his madness he felt his grasp on the world before him slip away. The last thing he saw was a wild, large, greyed, stray dog, with amber eyes and elongated fangs and razor claws. It howled its sombre note and trudged across the muddy road. The dog proceeded to bend at his side and with its warm, wet tongue it licked at his wound, the blood feeding the canine with the devil's heat, for Oliver's body now belonged to the she-spirit whom had haunted him, and his blood was hers. That which was him, had now become She.
READ: "A Fear of Great Heights" and other forthcoming adventures right HERE
Signature Picture by: Spartan204
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Title: Points
Word Count: 1158
I'm just walking here, in a straight line, man. This straight line, it's got nothing to it you know. I step forward, on and on with the road in front of me. In my pocket is of course, my wallet. I have all my important credentials in it, ranging from an ID card for the state of California to an arcade card, with all the points I've earned there. One thousand and eighty six points. One thousand and eighty six points of effort that could've gone somewhere more worthwhile.
I admit, I'm a nerd. In fact, I'm so much of a nerd that in a desperate attempt to live a little, I took up the life of a drifter. I packed all my things, bought a decent pistol-- a Walther P90 and I began a cross-state adventure into the unknown. There's of course, something else to this. I mean, a humble nerd doesn't just up and leave his life because he doesn't deem his day to day experience fun enough, right?
"Onwards to the deepest corner of the Earth."
That line suddenly struck me. Early into my adventure, I encountered another drifter, a native American, to be exact. He was middle aged, had wrinkles etched on his face, and a voice raspier than Lou Reed's. We only met for three minutes at a rest stop. After he uttered those words with a half smile and a half glare, he waved goodbye and I never saw him again.
I am still walking. The road ahead is barren and bleak. Cars whiz by with little thought to the humble drifter walking alongside them. His scruffy beard, beady blue eyes and bushy hair tell a sad tale. A tale too sad to touch the pure hearts of the children.
A sign stands in front of me. "10 Miles to San Diego" it says. I remember that place. I was born there. I lived sixteen of my eighteen aimless years on that godforsaken city. I went to a pathetic private school filled with sad, supremacist Mexicans. All the white people there were weak, and the black people were overshadowed by the Mexicans. Us Asians, we were at the bottom rung. Especially me, Jackie Hsu. What with my laughably struggled English and my penchant for all things Bruce Lee. I was a walking stereotype. A permanent constipated expression on my face, straight As, drives a Daewoo. My logic got the best of me, and as a result, I didn't take proper action. But today, I'm going to do back these... bastards.
But before that, let's go back a bit. Back to six years ago. I was a twelve year old lad, merrily chomping on his egg salad sandwich watching Will Smith and his wacky antics on Fresh Prince. My father spoke to me, we were alone in the living room, and his face had an unmistakable expression of anguish.
"Son, I've got to tell you something,"
"Yeah?"
"Well, remember those few months where everyday I came home with a gift from work?"
"Yeah, dad! I remember that BIG teddy bear you got me! I love it so much! I named him Mr. Sni--"
"I need it back, son."
"But Mr. Sniffy is my friend!"
"I need it back. That's an order." My father slightly raised his voice and developed a stoic expression as the sentence ended.
I was crushed at this point, and ran out of the house, tears dripping down my cheeks and staining my Nirvana tee shirt. I came to a sudden halt in front of two menacing men. Who pushed me aside and entered my home. I studied them for a moment then heard a struggle, then a bang.
The memory ended there, and I was tormented for the next five years. It turns out my father was deep into the underground drug trade circuit, and all those toys he bought me were laced with trace amounts of drugs. Mr. Fondle was no exception, he was even laced with a three pound bag of pot, selling for a mighty sum. In fact, that very day he was supposed to give it back to his higher officers; those two men. He had trouble finding it, and the men were hotheaded. After he tried looking for it, they shot him dead when he turned around to get to my room.
As an eighteen year old Asian boy, with a background of martial arts training and a fascination for guns and archery, my next move didn't take much thought. I stormed their residence, guns blazing. After a long year of searching for these ruthless bastards fruitlessly, and even dipping myself in the dirty puddle of the underground drug circuit, I've finally got them.
The steps where I approached their home took forever. I was ecstatic with the thought of getting my typical revenge. I loaded my P90, I picked up some grenades from my military friends and I just savored in the events of this day. I get to tarnish my soul with the burden of killing, I get to throw this pointless life away to be remembered for something actually significant.
No scientific discoveries, no groundbreaking philosophical thoughts to spread. Just a dark, pulsing tale of a clean cut kid suddenly murdering two gentlemen. This would be made even more twisted by the fact that I was a leader in my high school days and that they served their community often. Going to mass every week, donating to the poor, the works. My research told me they were as active as ever in the business though, and they organised a lot of killings as well. And they had a slimeball of a lawyer as well, who got them to jail for only a year for that brutal murder. They mucked around that crime scene and they had a self-defense plea. My father's violent, fabricated record didn't help either.
As I arrived at the doorstep, I pushed the doorbell. I heard a friendly call of "Who is it?" and I answered "cleaning service." The amiable looking black man in his forties answered the door, and I just waved my pistol in his face and pulled the trigger. A hole penetrated through his skull, then his brain and it hit a portrait of him and his colleague right in the middle. The smoke started to emerge from the barrel of my gun, and all the kindness I've kept in my heart vanished as the smoke did. The television was on, and there was breaking news of a building being hit by an airplane of some sort. That's two more deaths today.
The other man, a personable looking Mexican came running towards the doorstep. He spouted some Mexican balderdash and brought out a Glock. I raised mine.
And so, a standoff ensued. I pulled the trigger, the bullet pierced his skull just as it pierced the other man's and he grew limp and died. Blood stained their fine carpet, and I left. I left a different man, and my soul still doesn't have the justice it has sought for so long.
Then, another road. Another thousand and eighty six hours points of effort wasted.
For what ever reason, I always find myself in the loving hands of these sadistic "doctors" as they try and "treat" my "illnesses". I will be free in a few days once they deemed me "cured" and I will most likely be brought in again for erratic behavior. I guess I should make good use of this isolation treatment to plan on what to do with my temporary freedom. Or maybe I should tell you a story about, um, what ever this story is about.
It all started at some bar/club/home/place where I was enjoying three kilos of white gold. Either part of the trip or actually within the realm of my reality, was a group of shapeless men with rapidly morphing faces also partaking in the refreshing aroma of the white gold. Within minutes the whit fluffy goodness was gone.
So I proceeded to make my way to a room where I could come down, but instead, found a face that seemed to be calling out to me. Amongst the sea of blurry objects and distorted limbs, this woman's face appeared to be transmitting her thoughts directly into my head. "C'mere" was the impression. I knew something had to be special here as not only was her face the only thing I could make out (No pun intended;) but it seemed to be amazingly clear and highly detailed, more so than if I hadn't played in the snow moments before. With this in mind I decided to float over to her and with each passing moment rays of light were continuously being emitted from a mysterious light source behind her until her face was nothing more then a shadow. I landed right in front of her and asked "You called for me, sugar?"
The alluring light surrounding this woman's face was starting to fade and I was once more able to see her face. Only it wasn't her face, it wasn't even her. Instead I was greeted with a mans face who's description would fit that of a typical meathead. And now, rather than beautiful light showering over her, or him, crops of ever growing furrows were plaguing this man's face. His, almost instinctual, response was "Excuse me, faggot?" Followed by a haymaker that could feed a stable of horses for a week.
I was never really that good at dancing, but the combination of three kilos of pure white gold sitting on my brain and my recent physical interaction made me fit in real nicely on the near by dance floor. But what seemed like dancing was actually me struggling to stay on my two feet. My creatively deployed dance moves lead me to a dancing side-flower and before I could take a second look at her, my face crash landed in her erotically displayed chest. To my surprise her gender remained the same when I looked up at her, I also noticed the smoothness of her forehead and the inviting smile she had painted on.
I slid my face of her chest and just looked at her, having no idea what to say. Lucky for me she had just the thing to say "I'll give you another shot at that, but this time try aiming for my mouth." The thought of this being a trick or a hallucination did enter my mind, but what is the point of doing drugs if you are just going to run away from everything because you think it's not real? So I closed my eyes and made my move. Fully prepared to open them seconds later to find out I was kissing the ass of a dog, cleaning the the toilet seat with my tongue or maybe another guy. I opened my eyes to reveal nothing of the sort, I was actually a little let down now realizing this was turning in to a normal drug induced adventure, well, normal by the heavy usage of drugs anyway. Also upon the rebirth of my eyes, the lady was pulling me off the dance floor and toward the exit.
We stepped outside where my lungs took in a deep breath of the cleanest air they have seen all night. The next few passages of time were filled with my new lady friend introducing herself as Stella and the pleasure she took watching me hit on the manliest guy in the club, able to laugh about it now, now that my jaw seems to have popped back into its proper location. I also said my first words to her "Hitting on men is like fire to me; I always end up getting burned" She laughed and I smiled. Stella then proposed heading back to her place, but in a manner that would make a German sex slave blush.
Stella's apartment on the outside was respectable and clean and you'd almost think the building itself was emitting a pleasant odor. The apartment building must also be magical or had to have been built on some Indian burial ground, because the halls acted like a portal to an alternate universe. For when we arrived at her front door the condition it was in was screaming some unseen foreboding of things to come. Stella opened the door, no locks or anything, I am guessing the state of her door was good enough to make future burglars over look her apartment, and I followed behind her using her as a human shield just in case some unimaginable creature resides here. Her apartment gave off the impression it was looked after by a retarded, crippled elderly man with no wheelchair.
Stella gracefully dodged the various piles, of what appeared to be junk, that inhabited the floor and made her way into the kitchen where she offered me a drink. Inside my head I had quite the conundrum to sort out: do I avoid her toxic looking drink that no doubt had some version of conscious altering concoction, either by the unsanitary conditions that infected everything or her own doing. Or would it be wiser to accept her offer in the hopes her beverage would make it impossible to remember entering this apartment in the morning?
Looking back at it now I probably wouldn't be here, hugging myself in the corner of some padded cell, if I hadn't took that drink. Than again my previous lifestyle didn't show any promise of avoiding this factory of tortured souls. Any hoot, I only have enough time to get into one story before the "helpful" doctors start to brain rape me.
So as I previously mentioned, I accepted her drink and downed that dirty bastard as quickly as I could, thinking that the quicker I inhaled it the quicker it's side-effects would act. I slammed the glass down on a nearby table and searched for Stella with a newly acquired adrenaline rush. I found she had already injected herself into her oddly colored bed sheets. Without thinking about the various lifeforms that must have grown and populated her bed, I found myself right there next to her. I was able, once again, to just focus on her face and not the quickly disappearing monsters that the corner of my eye always looked for. Before Stella and I could even slide closer, a lump the size of a large fist resurrected itself underneath the sheets near our feet.
I wasn't that surprised that one of Stella's "pets" decided to finally reveal itself, well, at least not until I looked back at Stella to find that the look of shock and horror occupied her face. I just about shit myself, not that you would notice the smell in this place anyway. If someone like Stella could tolerate living in this condition where bacterial cultures amassed to the size of apples, what unimaginable abominations could terrify her? Answer, the very abomination that is two inches from our feet.
The blanket's growth slowly rolled it's way toward us. I looked at Stella hoping her face would tell me what to do, but she just stared right back at me. Fortunately, the slowly advancing lump seemed to take forever to reach us, giving Stella and I plenty of make believe time to react. When we finally did do something we did it in sync, like if we were inside each others minds. Our course of action was jumping out bed and pulling back the bed sheets. Our amazingly simple and instinctual plan was successful, Stella and I both avoided injury from the blanket monster and was able to reveal the... Hamster?
Yup, a hamster. Out of all the things my incredible intoxicated brain imagined what lurks between the sheets, a hamster was probably number 501. The quiet and blissful silence that entered the room when the hamster was discovered didn't last nearly as long as it should due to Stella's shrieking of excitement and thumping up and down of joy.
Everyone is a Joke looking for their Punch-Line.
-CONTINUED-
Stella caught my quizzical expression then started to answer all the question I had popping into my head. She explained how this hamster was named Joy and how she thought Joy ran away or died in some hidden place weeks ago. Taking what I hoped was my last survey of Stella's apartment I noticed many hovels littered across the floor, and in some disturbing cases the wall, that any sort of small creature could crawl into and die from the numerous grotesque stains that decorated her apartment. I'm amazed the little guy could survive one day here, there is however, plenty of crumbs and fungus to feed off of, I came to the conclusion that Joy must have the immune system of a God.
Stella scooped up Joy and got back into bed and shot a look at me that asked "You joining us?" I was just about to tell her Hell no, when that answer quickly left my mind and was replaced with curiosity which was reflected by the smile that was plastered on me now. Instead of replying with my vulgar response, I alternatively went with "Do you have a cage for him? Or are you going to let him watch?" My question caused Stella's face to morph into a playful grin. She placed Joy on the bed next to her where he originally was and then looked at me like that was her answer. Now fully aware of her intentions I told my legs to head for the door, instead my legs went towards the bed. My mind went "Aww fuck."
I sat in the observation booth while I watch my mind argue with some other abstract entity that seemed to have entered through the corner of my head. My mind looked tired and sickly while this new part of me seem invigorated and lively. He, um, it or me, was extremely loud and quick in speech, spitting out insulting obscenities towards my mind followed by disturbing reasons why we or I should continue forth with the love making. What was even more discomforting was the longer this abstract, eccentric being went on the more I was agreeing with it, erm, me, whatever. His most convincing reason was the fact that I have yet to partake in any act of threesome and that any story of minor to extreme acts of bestiality would be one helluva bar story to tell my friends. My mind's rebuttal was anything but, he was so tired or at this point dead looking that only two words came out in each breath, until he finally gave up and walked of into the distance of my head until he faded out completely. My apparently new mind turned and looked at me and proposed that we should have some fun.
Completely unaware of how long Stella must have been looking at me waiting for a response, my body unpaused itself and took those last few steps into bed.
I am not sure if any of my listeners are age appropriate for what happens next so I'll just leave it to your imagination of what took place these next few minutes. If you need help however I would recommend to watch any scene of Debbie Does Dallas, but only add a hamster. I am also a little embarrassed to talk about this with guards closer to my cell now. Yes, that means I am saying this story out loud, the silence of these halls is maddening.
After we had finished committing countless sins, the passion that had been drained from our bodies left all three of us completely fatigued and we quickly went into a deep sleep. My last thoughts before slipping into unconsciousness was my amazement the Joy actually lived through all the godless acts we participated in. Along with Joy's impressive immune system, he must have fed off one of the numerous organisms that acted as some sort of steroid. He was essentially an "unsquishable" ball of meat, even with Stella's weight combined with mine we could not flatten this demigod of a hamster. However, the countless roll overs and endless probing did take a toll on the brave soldier of love. My last image was of Joy laid out on my chest with his tongue hanging out completely exhausted.
I eventually awoke to what I assume was the end to a couple days slumber. Joy must have rolled around in his sleep, because I found him wedged in between Stella and I. Stella was already awake and was looking at me with an infectious smile. I have no idea how I would describe Stella last night, but looking at her through sober eyes she looked like the kind of girl, well the kind of girl you would not expect to live in biological cesspool or to be into mismatched threesomes. As Stella got up and entered the kitchen, I was beginning to realize how much I am starting to fall for Stella and that I must be one seriously perverted and deviant, and generally messed up, person for being able to have such feelings for a person like this, in a place like this.
Stella returned from the kitchen with two cups of mysterious toxic brew and handed one to me. It was warm like coffee, but looked like rotten green tea and smelled like a type of improperly cooked meat. Even with Stella drinking the same vomit inducing beverage I just sat there holding the cup letting it warm my hands while Stella went on about last night. After her praising and gratefulness was over (I assumed she tried this with other guys, guess none of them are as opened minded as I) I got out of bed and looked at her and casually mentioned I should be heading home, like the true player that I was. A small look of sadness took over her face followed up with her quickly jumping out of bed and hopping over to me demanding we do this over at my place. I quickly thought about this as I'm not sure if I would be able to wash out the stains on the walls or if my neighbors would appreciate the very odd sounds we would emit. In the end I decided and responded with "Why not?" Happiness won the battle over sadness on her face, which oddly made me feel a little better. I gave her on final look and made a hasty exit admiring once again the feeling of stepping through a portal when traveling through these halls.
I felt like I was in a different country, looking at my surroundings with a clear mind and with the aid of the sunlight bouncing off the surfaces. I'm amazed at how the darkness of night and the snorted white ice can drastically the world around you. After taking in my second breath of clean air in the last couple of days I began the search for a cab ride home. The search was short, including the ride home. Home.
Saying stories out loud has it benefits, as it just occurred to me if this story of drug usage, fights, the night scene, grotesque environments, sex and bestiality is really about anything, it's overlooking the value and the neglect we have for our homes. For me, it seems, I was able to see the finer beauty and familiar comforting feeling of security and belonging a home can produce when introduced to a place of supreme unfamiliarity. Even now, I sit in wonderment of the word "Home" When thinking of the word alone, it can invoke that feeling of belonging even when I am no where near home.
But alas, I think that is enough reflection and stories for this day, the time for my "treatment" is near. I hope I successfully entertained your time just as I have successfully wasted mine.
-LINK-
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Everyone is a Joke looking for their Punch-Line.
A sad clown is a curious thing. How can such a creature exist? Clowns are brought into this world to make people smile and laugh. And yet this clown sits, alone. The blue tear forever painted on his face. A never moving reminder he shall never laugh. What force could exist to thrust this thing into being? What force is so malevolent to take a symbol of utter happiness and turn it into a visage of eternal sorrow? Yes, the sad clown is a peculiar thing.
Funzo was such a sad clown; a figure alone in the colorful world of wonder and amusement. Day after day, he would sit on his stool inside a ring, slumped with his head hanging low. A long sigh was all the noise he would make as hundreds of children passed by, pointing sticky fingers and laughing at the horribly unfunny clown. Nasty little children Funzo would call them. But Funzo could do nothing to stand against the constant humiliation, for he did not know how, nor knew such a thing existed. All he would do is blink his black eyes, letting the tears drop to the straw below. The salty liquid would pass over the blue tear, never fading it, and never relieving him off his sorrow.
There was no solace in his surroundings beyond the crowd. The tent he lived in was big and dark, and endless abyss that had spots of light filled with equally unhappy folks. To his left, Hammerin' Harold would smash vegetables, getting jeered as the juices splashed on expensive coats. To his right, Juggin' Joe would juggle sharp objects while food was thrown at him. Though they performed so near to Funzo, they would eagerly leave the tent when the show was over, something Funzo would never do. His only true companion was the brass lamp that shined on him. Though it was because of this lamp the crowds could see Funzo, he was comforted by its light when they were gone. This lamp was so special to Funzo he gave it a name; Ricky. And he had become Funzo's big brother. When all the nasty little children were gone, Funzo would tell Ricky many things. Like a good big brother, Ricky stood there, listening intently to every word Funzo whispered. The years would pass, and Funzo would never move from his stool. Ricky would always be there, to watch over him, to protect him, and to light the darkness. To Funzo, life was... good.
But one day, a terrible thing happened...
The nasty little children became nasty little teenagers. One night, five of them came while Funzo was telling Ricky about his big dreams. They attacked Funzo, striking him with Hammerin' Harold's mallet. Mean, little teenagers, why were they so bent on hurting poor Funzo? Terrified, Funzo crawled to Ricky and clutched his base, hoping the light would drive them away. Ricky stood tall, shining his bright light on Funzo. Funzo and Ricky were surrounded by the teenagers. They saw how much Funzo cared for the lamp and an evil grin spread across each of their faces. The one with the mallet, a tall, skinny boy, kick Funzo, rolling him away from Ricky. Funzo watched in silent horror as they pushed Ricky over and stomped on him. The vibrant light that watched over Funzo flickered and died. With hideous snickers they left, leaving Funzo alone with Ricky's broken body.
What the sad clown felt was unimaginable, a feeling that he had never felt before, a feeling so fresh and so new it hurt his head. Driven by this new feeling, he rose to his feet and stepped out of his ring. He walked with a rubbery gait to Jugglin' Joe's ring. There, shining in a faint moonlight was an array of large, steel knives. Funzo marveled at the metal, his black sad eyes wide with amazement. He picked up two of the shiniest knives and studied them carefully. With unnerving calm, Funzo took the shiny knives and moved to the exit.
Outside his tent for the first time, Funzo saw the world. The moon, full and bright in the sky, lit up his path. He waved the knife at the moon in greeting and felt as if the moon waved back. Feeling a wonderful peace within, he followed the five voices in the distance.
He quickly caught up with the teenagers. They had stopped behind a gypsy wagon. One of the teenagers produced a strange white object from his jacket and lit it with a match. He puffed on a strange object, holding it between his thumb and finger and passed it to the next nasty little teenager. They all laughed as they partook of the object, ignoring their surroundings. Funzo approached with cautious steps, hiding the shiny knives behind his back. The nasty little teenagers were unaware of Funzo until he was standing next to the tall, skinny one who had struck him with the mallet. Startled, the teenager coughed and spattered as he fell to the ground. He stood up quickly and shoved poor Funzo. The others moved in and shoved Funzo in many directions. Funzo didn't like being pushed. It was that dislike that caused another new feeling well up inside of him. Without hesitation, he revealed the shiny knives and cut the tall, skinny teenager. Red water began oozing out of the cut. Funzo cut him again, and again, and again. The others froze, watching Funzo cut their friend. Funzo could hear the nasty little teenager cry out. He said words like "please stop" and "Mommy." When the teenager said no more, he leapt onto the next teenager. He brandished the knives, cutting the face and body of the teenager.
One by one, the teenagers fell to Funzo and his knives. He stood in the center of the slain teenagers, covered in the strange red water. Funzo once again felt a new feeling, much different from the one he felt in the tent. He liked this feeling so much his face began to twitch. The frown that had covered his face for years suddenly changed, changed into... a smile. He looked up with his new face and saw the moon, bright and full in the sky. Maybe the moon will be his big brother now. Its light was everywhere, and it shined on him no matter where he went. There were many nasty little teenagers in the world and each of them needed to be punished. The idea spread his grin wider. With the back of his hand, he wiped the red water on his face, fading away the blue tear. With no sadness left in his body and the feeling of a new purpose, Funzo slipped away into the night to find all the nasty teenagers of the world.
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I was crying.
It made me womanly, I realized, but that hardly stopped the tears. A bullet could care less whether you were fat or thin, young or old, male or female... It tore through your fragile, meat sack of a body like paper regardless. It was twilight, I saw, the reddened sky turning the ugliest shade of purple, like a great sagging bruise or a long healing scab. I was running, blindly, as my chest struggled to pull frigid air into my lungs. Behind me, like a great black behemoth, I could hear the steady advance of the army. It sounded like a single entity, footsteps aligning to produce a literal cacophony that spelled only one thing for us...
Death.
Machine gun fire suddenly spilled through the men tailing behind me, their bodies accepting the bullets like long forgotten friends. I knew, within my tortured gut, that I wished for that lead rain as well. I could not end myself, be rest assured, but that did not mean I did not wish for death all the same. Hell, it wasn't just me. I saw it in all of our faces, stumbling, screaming, tearing... Lidded eyes tainted with the view of countless mangled bodies littering crimson stained fields and the inability to forget it. Ever. We were like lambs to the slaughter. Though, differently, we carried the curse of knowing what was on the other side of that plastic-noodle curtain. Most of us just wanted to get it over with. Most of us just wanted it to end.
I, different from the rest, was just tired.
I could not discern what kept me running forward, despite my hollowed form. It was not fear. Machine gun fire sounded again, rowing down another patch of fleeing soldiers. I, watching the whole exchange, man to bullet and bullet to man, realized that I felt numb. Desensitized. Hell, I was watching my comrades getting brutally murdered and I couldn't be bothered to feel anything. I suppose, really, that was why I was crying: I couldn't figure out a better damn thing to do. I suppose, again, that is why I wanted death: it would be easy. Living was a hell of a lot harder than it should be.
I figured, why bother?
In the next moment I heard a scream behind me, a bloodcurdling cry for God or whatever entity just happened to be present, and I turned my head ever so slightly. My gaze became locked to the horizon as a new sound blended seamlessly with the marching army. The heavy, steady, metal thrum of treads made itself known over the slaughterous symphony of the battlefield. I, unaware at the particular moment, suddenly stopped. My legs were soon unable to support my weight as I watched tank after tank spill over the horizon like a great metallic wave. I looked to my left and my right... All of our men stood transfixed at the sight, realizing collectively that there was no longer a point in running.
I swallowed, pulling saliva down my dusty throat. My eyes turned upwards, scanning the sky with a weary, forlorn face. There were no stars tonight, I noticed, and I supposed that was how it should be. Complete darkness was approaching and I figured I would rather die without the knowledge of what killed me. Eh, whatever. Maybe I was just fooling myself. If it wasn't the soldiers, it'd be the machine guns. If it wasn't the machine guns, it'd be the tanks. I suppose there really were not that many ways to die at this point. Still, I found a small bit of solace in the uncertainty. In the face of certain death, uncertainty was almost... nice.
Kakoosh!
Together our eyes turned down the battlefield, watching a silver trail of smoke cut through the air like a blade. Then, an inferno erupted as the missile impacted the ground. The numerous men within the vicinity of the blast went up in fire, earth, and smoke. I nearly felt the thump running through my heart as the round exploded and, in the next moment, I turned my attention toward the tanks once again; we all did. They stood prostrated like a pride of lions on a hill, with their metallic chins glinting in the faded light shining from flickering flames. With us, only our eyes shined in the darkness, large and white and filled with the unspeakable sense that we were prey. That lone shot had only been a warning and a quiet testament to the horror to come.
Fewwwww!
My eyes followed the light before my ears followed the sound. A solitary flare had been launched and bathed us with a faint, red glow. All of us, every single one, stared at it with our mouths held tight together and our brows furrowed. The time had come and we could hardly breathe. Missile after missile after missile was suddenly launched in unison. I could nearly imagine the bastard that had announced the attack, screaming "FIRE" with saliva dripping down his bearded chin. Unlike the first warning shot, the missiles now were being fired from multiple angles. As the first were beginning to strike, behind them bombs were still climbing in the sky. I think, collectively, we all came to the same realization in one startling moment of clarity: run.
We seemed to all regain our breath at once and, turning around, we did just that. Soon machine gun fire joined the sound of missiles tearing through the air and then the shouts of soldiers, of murderers. "Survive," my mind shouted as my legs protested, despite the solid reality. "Survive," my mind screamed as my lungs called for a reprieve. "Survive!" my mind commanded, and my fatigued, listless body suddenly became silent. I realized, then, that even if there was no point we would all keep running. We would continually head for that ever approaching darkness not because we consciously decided to do so, not because it was what we were supposed to do, but simply because it is what we did.
Welcome to Hell, babe, I figure I'll be staying awhile.
--
WC: 1,023.
--
Click to listen.
TANQUERAY ON CHRISTMAS DAY
Christmas, and he found himself in Sharaheesh, downing a Tanqueray and tonic as if it was a line of coke off a hooker's ass. Not one belonging to a street whore, but to one of those classy lays, costing thousands a night and well worth the price. Was this his fourth glass? Fifth? The hell with it - it wouldn't be his last and that was the important thing.
Dissolute men littered the place, lounging in pathetic slumps as they avoided each other's faces and pretended to be interested in the TV. Some had houses, but not homes. Others had women, but not lovers; more than a few had money, but not wealth. A sorry bunch of the forgotten, seeking to forget. He fit right in.
Didn't used to be like this. He never used to drink before a job. Not that it affected his work, but it was...unprofessional. He held out his hand - steady as a rock. Well, he'd always believed fortune favored the brave. He casually stretched and his eyes found the man, easily identified by a stupid blue beret. The poor schmuck was eating dinner. Maybe because it was Christmas, maybe he was a little drunk. Maybe the guy, skinny and bald, just looked damn pitiful. Whatever it was, he decided to let the guy finish his meal before he blew him to hell. Most certainly that was where the asshole was headed and arriving later rather than sooner wouldn't make a bit of difference to the Devil.
Judging by the sizes of the plates, that SOB was gonna be a while. Having made the decision, he signaled for another glass and resigned himself to wait. Ricky, a portly bartender with a long handlebar mustache, nodded and poured.
"Gonna pay my rent this month, John?" Ricky grinned.
"Didn't realize they charged ya for sleeping outta cardboard boxes." John shot back in a New York accent he had carefully cultivated for this assignment. Cultivated as carefully as he had his shabby appearance of an overworked, but wealthy, stockbroker. In his line of work, it was important to leave the right kind of memories. Ricky would recall a stoop-shouldered man with graying brown hair and thick, wire-rimmed glasses; a man who stopped in occasionally over the past few weeks and today was carrying a shopping bag with a wrapped gift for a stepdaughter who didn't really exist.
Scowling and about to retort, Ricky was forestalled by the door opening. A woman entered. Both men watched the newcomer with practiced surreptitious glances. Ricky's eyes gleamed with appreciation for the kind of customer rarely seen in the usually all-dick bar; John's with caution.
Cautiously was how he viewed all women he didn't pay for services. This woman had on a dark, wide-brimmed hat, held low, covering most of her face. Strategically though, it left her lips, plump and luscious, for all the men to gaze hungrily at. John smiled wryly. He bet a woman like that knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on the other patrons. She was so-so tall, and though it was a little difficult to make out beneath her flowing coat, well-stacked , with long red hair. She didn't so much walk as slink to the booth, her back to John. What a shame, he thought ruefully. He would have liked a peek at a face he knew would be stunning.
Ricky walked to her table and handed over a menu. John noticed curiously that whatever the woman said in reply made the bartender's face flush a cherry-red. John was impressed - Ricky prided himself on his unflappability. When he returned, he whistled silently to John.
"That's some woman." The bartender murmured, almost to himself. John raised his eyebrows, but didn't bother to respond. The woman turned her head to look out the windows and he had to content himself with staring at her backside. Hell, he didn't much mind the view, he thought as his gaze roamed appreciatively over her curvy ass.
Reluctantly, John turned his attention back to the Tanqueray, scanning the seats to make sure his target hadn't finished with dinner. He hadn't. Dumb bastard was taking his sweet time. The woman stirred up a memory and the liquor loosened it free. A reminiscent smile, slightly bitter, curved his lips as he stared into the clear spirits.
Goddamn, how long had it been since he last thought of her? Not long enough, by God.
That had been during his glory days. He'd been untraceable and invincible. People thought it took a lot of guts or smarts or shit like that to make it big in the profession. It didn't. Sure, all those things helped, but he knew the two things which distinguished the naturals from those who were merely well-trained: patience and love of the plight.
You couldn't teach it in the fancy schools his handlers had set up. You couldn't panic if you thought someone was going to fry your ass; you had to love it. You had to want to get caught, but you had to want life just that much more. Those morons who could only pull it off on the high were done for from the start. Sooner or later, they'd pull some risky crap, wanting to get close to the target just to prove they could.
John knew there were some assignments you had to sit there, waiting with the patience of Job. Sweat leaking into your butt crack, maybe your bladder was fit to bursting, hunger dogging your heels, and you hadn't slept in four, five days, just waiting for the sweet shot. Yep, couldn't teach that kind of fortitude.
For a long, dark time, he thought he'd be the only one of his kind. It was cold comfort coming back to his remote apartment with only good whiskey and bad TV for company. The big checks made the bed soft, but didn't warm it. Must have been years he went on like that. He only ever felt alive when he was on the job.
Until one day, he'd come home from an assignment which hadn't gone as neatly as he'd wanted, and found a waif trying to jack his ride. That imported 1970s Series III was his love. He'd spent the better part of a paycheck from a well-executed assignment paying off the hefty bill. And here was this seedy bitch (a street whore by the looks of her) using a crowbar to fiddle with the doors of his baby. John admitted he was a little rough with her. He twisted her arm until she yelled and grabbed the crowbar, then yanked her away from the door, coldly demanding answers, and shaking her until she quit fighting. But instead of the tears he expected to see on her dirty face, her eyes crackled with defiance. She watched him coolly, dispassionately, her chin thrust high. Intrigued in spite of himself, he'd persuaded her to come upstairs.
"It'll cost ya," she had snapped at him, popping her bubblegum noisily. She put on a good front, but he could feel her uncertainty and had been amused.
"I don't want sex," he'd responded. With the way she looked, filthy hair in a tangle and face heavily rouged, that was certainly the truth. She probably hadn't bathed in a few days, judging by her briney stench and unkempt clothes.
"Still cost ya." He shrugged. He could afford whatever she charged.
"All right." She surrendered hesitantly. And that was the beginning.
~
She had no name. Her call girl moniker was "Delilah," but when he asked for her Christian name, she glared at him.
"Don't remember it. Been Delilah since I was fourteen. The pimp's idea."
"You need a new name." He watched her as she sat curled up on an armchair in the study. Now bathed and clothed in his baggy pants and shirt, she appeared fresh-faced but scrawny, too thin from living on the ugly streets for so long. Instead of a beaten down hooker, he saw raw potential. He'd paced the apartment, thinking.
"I'll call you Eve," he stated quietly. "That seems to fit."
"Why?" She'd asked baldly, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.
CONT'D
"You'd be the first woman I've ever trained. Maybe too old, but I'm willing to try." He eyed her critically. With wide eyes, she demanded, "What exactly ya training me for, mister?" She drew her legs up in a crouch, fingers clenched, ready to knock his ass cold.
"Not what you think. I want you to be better than what I am, Eve."
"And what's that?" She asked pugnaciously. He noticed she had responded carelessly to the name. It meant nothing to her now, just another role she thought she had to play to appease a client, but in the future, it might be all the identity she had. He wanted her to own it, to be Eve.
"Tomorrow," he replied. "Tomorrow, I promise I'll show you. Eat and sleep. Your room is over there." It was late, but John felt strangely at peace, his entire body humming with purpose.
~
As promised, he did show her. He took her to the home of his next target, bade her sit still, and when the man arrived, shot him point-blank in the heart. It left a mess, but was the quickest guarantee of death. Not as much bone splatter as with a head shot. John noted Eve had choked back a scream and fought well to get away from him. She was untrained and lost the struggle, but she had a fire in her belly and he was relieved to see it. It was impossible to tell how people would react to what she had seen.
At first, to get her to stay, he had to threaten her. He would track her down, gut her, all the good stuff. She bought it in the beginning. Later on, John lured her with the promise of security. She would gain lucrative skills. She would have someone to take care of her. She would be free of the streets. Like he knew it would, that broke her.
It was easy after that. A doctor's visit showed she had some treatable STDs and malnutrition. John gladly paid for the antibiotics and in a few weeks, she checked out clean. He began to train her in earnest and she gulped the information down like water, almost religious about her training. She knew when she needed rest, paced herself, and always gave as good as got. John saw her grow stronger, taut, and honed. If before, she was the loose blade of a knife, now she was also the pearl handle which controlled it. His instincts had chosen well - Eve was a natural.
The first order of business was elocution lessons. No one would take a slang-spitting whore seriously and Eve knew it. Only a few months later, she had cultivated a refined voice and vocabulary John felt would have been right at home in a Sorbonne student.
Eve was weakest in hand-to-hand combat. "Not because of technique, but your build," he'd explained to her. "Not a big deal. Brute strength is nothing compared to endurance, speed, and stealth and you've got those in spades." They trained until she won almost as much as she lost in the matches against him. Many times, she would come out bruised and bloodied, barely scraping free of an ER visit. John wouldn't go far enough to break a bone during practice because that would weaken her in the future, but he pushed her and himself past healthy limits.
Eve enjoyed donning disguises most. The would both dress up and practice accents, mannerisms, and even mundane anecdotes to tell at restaurants, the park, anywhere else which caught his fancy. "You have to be memorably forgettable. They know you were there, but they don't know who. Mrs. Johannsen?" He mimicked a waiter from Tartagnia they were both familiar with. "Sure, sure I remember her. Kinda oldish. Hair color? Shit, coulda been blonde or mighta been a fire crotch." Wistfully smoothing down her skirt, Eve once told him she loved pretending she really was a genteel lady or a struggling student. Sometimes after the exercises, she would fall silent.
When her figure began to fill out from the exercise and good diet, he knew she would be trouble all around. In addition to her firm tits and ass, Eve had waves of dark hair she was proud of and sinful eyes the color of sherry. She wasn't typically beautiful, but she was striking and that was better. As Delilah, she had sold sex. As Eve, she was better than sex because she was anticipation. Before she had even reached a silken hand out to stroke them, men's dicks were already making imprints of their zippers. Studying her complexion and features closely, John had remarked one day, "You're not white, that's for sure." Eve had shrugged, her origins of no concern. The past had no meaning for her and she was only interested in the future she saw as glorious.
It had all seemed so perfect. Eve was everything he could have hoped for in a protégé. He began to let the handlers give her assignments. Easy ones at first. She nailed them all with a professional thoroughness he was proud of and she rapidly began to accumulate challenging targets. That lethal combination of skill and vixen sex appeal was wildly successful. In all ways, she reminded him of himself. John felt he had found a kindred soul and it was inevitable that they would sleep together. Their fucking was exactly what he thought it would be - slightly rough, passionate, and oddly honest. He was hooked; those days, his blood had surged through his veins like an electric current and he was hyperaware of being alive.
He should have known paradise was a pathetic mirage. Eve's flaw became apparent after a series of tedious assignments. She would return to the apartment, restless and quiet. Eve wasn't chatty by nature, but she was usually playful after the assignments, needing to be touched, pulling him to bed. He understood, because hadn't he needed the same when he'd first started? Though he had been mentally preparing for the occasion, when the truth reared its ugly head, he felt the sickening lurch he thought he'd learned to suppress early on.
"I don't want to kill these people anymore." She stated out of the blue one day during breakfast. They were eating lightly, dining on the balcony of the apartment. The city spread out below them as dawn hurried over the skyscrapers. Eve spoke casually, delicately wiping her lips with the linen napkin after a small bite of poached salmon, as if she hadn't just destroyed their halcyon life together.
"Eve. Don't be so fucking stupid," he'd told her harshly.
"It isn't the killing. It's who I'm killing. I don't want to hurt people who don't deserve it."
"Trust me. When they're dead, they're not hurting."
"This isn't a joke."
"Then don't treat it as one! You think you're some caped avenger?" He had sneered at her; that was the wrong move because it riled her up. Someone looking at her wouldn't be able to tell, but he knew because they were of a kind. Her sherry eyes crackled in a familiar way. He stifled the panic growing in his gut. If pushed far enough, hard enough, she would leave.
"I know the difference between murdering a family man who steals from the mob to feed his kids and exterminating a raping politician." She spat at him.
His upper lip lifted in disgust. "You think I don't? What about when that line between black and white bleeds gray? When that same family man crawls into his daughter's bed at night? And the politician donates millions to charity? Which one do you think deserves to be stiffed, Eve?"
Eve didn't respond, but stared at him in rigid silence. He knew an almost stark moment of despair when she curtly informed him that she would be leaving. That it was time for her to be on her own and she thought freelance work would be a better fit for her. Christ, she talked about it like she was a fucking secretary or something.
"What the hell do you think you owe these people, Eve? This world is a shithole. These people are the same bastards who'd fuck you, see you on the streets, and turn their faces away." He raged.
"I know that." She replied heavily. "I know it." He tried another tactic.
"Eve, it was...difficult for me before you. I need you. You know it isn't the same without you." He strove to sound lonesome, to reel her in. But she knew him just as well as he knew her.
"I know it was lonely for you. And it was for me too. I remember you said I would be free from the streets. But I'm not. They just have me on a different kind of chain now." She cupped his chin with a strong, smooth hand. "I'm not like you." She stated it calmly, as though it were a fact, and her fingers fell away.
"It's just a job. Keep your head level. Or can't a woman do that?" John demanded, wanting to hurt her, seething from the blow she had just dealt.
"I'll be a killer, but I won't be a murderer." She responded simply. She stared at him with dignity she must have always had, but he had helped to thrive. The sight was the proverbial last straw because he didn't bother to hold back.
"Then go, Delilah. Get the fuck out of here. You were nothing before I took you off the streets. Just another hooker until I made you into someone. " He said remotely, only his eyes betraying the consuming fury and pain he felt. Strangely, her face became fleetingly vulnerable and her eyes were sad as they caught his.
"What I became is worse than being nothing." She stood with quiet grace and left the balcony. As she passed noiselessly through the double doors, the pale dawn light highlighted the filmy white dress she wore. It had been a birthday present from him. When the sun rose high in the sky, John was alone in the apartment.
~
After that, he heard almost mythical tales of a freelancer who pulled off some impossible assignments. Someone who was running the competition out of business; not just locally, but internationally. No one in his acquaintance could figure out precisely who it was. If his handlers knew, they never let on. He could only shake his head as he heard the moronic stories. Christ.
John began to lose his touch. Not so much that the handlers wanted to terminate him, but enough so that they left the more exclusive assignments to the newer recruits. Fucking amateurs who couldn't tell their daggers from their flaccid cocks.
This assignment was his last. He wasn't getting any younger and the work had become more of a chore than a rush. He longed for the days when the blood in his veins sang and he had a woman who could match him in all the ways that meant something. Goddamn alcohol, making him all maudlin.
The clang of silver and a loud, satisfied burp thrust him back to the present. John saw that his target was finally finished with dinner. How the hell did the fucker eat so much and stay so damn scrawny? Must have been all the anxiety over his black sins. Familiar with the target's habits, John knew he would order some coffee to finish off the meal. He located Ricky, busy jawing with a man down the other end of the bar and casually reached a hand over to slip a laxative into the bone china coffee cup.
It was the standard restaurant algorithm. When the target went to take a shit, he'd most likely want to do it alone, embarrassed about his explosive diarrhea. It was doubtful the remaining men would leave their seats - half of them were dozing into their cups and the remaining ones were still drinking voraciously and would eventually join the first half.
John would walk into the bathroom, unwrap the muzzled gun, and shoot the target dead at close range. He'd pay his tab just as serenely as he always did, chat a little more with Ricky, then leave. By the time Ricky found the body, John the Stockbroker would become Michael the Cabdriver and be long gone from this hellhole of a city. It sucked to die on the crapper like that, but John figured it couldn't have been any better for the people the target had fucked over.
A movement in his periphery caught his eye as he settled back onto the barstool. The woman in the booth stood and walked over to the target. John was annoyed at the sudden flurry of movement and was even more annoyed when she seated herself, blocking his view. All he could see was the woman's gloved and slender hands moving seductively over the man's bony forearm. His target jerked his arm away and the woman bowed her head, accepting the rejection. She stood and John's eyes followed her in fascination as she made her way over to the bar. She seated herself to his right and without preamble, thrust her hands into his coat pocket, groping for his crotch. She scored big there.
"Nice package." She purred in a voice like honey mead, one foot on the wrapped gift and one hand on his dick. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure which one she was referring to.
"You looking for a Christmas present, honey?" He asked wryly.
"Sailor, I've got a presentfor you. Yours for $500 every half-an-hour." He gently removed her clenched hand.
"That's a little steep for me, babe."
The woman drew back, holding herself very still. Then she stood in a huff, pulled her coat tighter (he caught a glimpse of something satin and lace beneath and almost asked her to stay), and whirled out the door.
"What'd you do to piss that bit of sex off?" Ricky asked as he ambled over. John gave him a tired grin.
"Told her I couldn't afford her." Ricky roared with laughter and picked up the coffee tray, walking over to the target. John was about to empty his glass when he heard the clatter of silverware and china.
"Holy God!" He heard Ricky exclaim. John whipped his head around, still holding the unfinished drink. Ricky looked at John with stricken eyes.
"Fucker's dead! Holy shit, David, call 911 for Jesus' sake! Phone's behind the bar!" John pretended to be immobilized with shock in an attempt to study the body. The target's head lolled on his neck and he was slouched down in his seat. Ricky felt for a pulse and shook his head. Negative.
"Probably heart attack." Murmured a fat patron near John. "My cousin looked justlike that guy when he kicked it."
Silently, John cursed his shitty luck. Fuck. And double fuck. Well, screw it. He didn't really need the paycheck. Shit. Too much of that goddamn food, you cocksucker, he thought spitefully. John watched David the waiter fumble with the cordless phone. While the other patrons clamored around Ricky, John thirstily swallowed the last of his drink, tossed down a Benjamin, and slipped unobtrusively out the doors.
"Win some, lose some." He sighed. At least he'd had some damn fine Tanqueray. When he thrust his hands into the coat pocket for his car keys, they came up empty. In mounting disbelief, he sprinted to the parking lot, feeling like a fool with the gift bag bouncing at his side.
John rounded the corner of the building in a spray of dirty ice and his eyes easily found the spot where his sexy Alfa Romeo had been. What lay there now was an empty syringe, neatly arranged atop one of Sharaheesh's trademark napkin. In the flickering white glow of the streetlight, John could clearly make out the imprint of burgundy lipstick on the napkin. He ground the syringe into the asphalt with his heel, then gently pocketed the napkin. Whistling a jaunty Christmas carol, he began to walk the remote streets. By the time the cops showed up, John was long gone and his footprints had been covered by the newly fallen snow.
ONE TWO THREE: EL FIN!
Word count: 4080
Click to listen.
Touhou Faithfuls (Or, A Musically Mad Romp Through The Internet's Most Beloved Shooter Sensation)
Word Count: 1,369
[Warning: This involves the Touhou shooter series. If you're not familiar with the series, it may confuse you. Some notes: "o/" indicates the start of singing, ","s indicate suggested pauses, and "\o" means the end of singing for the moment. Overall: Just follow the beat, and enjoy!]
Within the snowy corridors of Moriya Shrine, three warriors were on the verge of thief apprehension.
Sally: It's over Dramatist. Give us back Suwako's hat!
Dee: You realize that I have both the power AND the authority to blink you out of existence, or should I say wink you out?
Richter: But you never would do that. You'd just sing instead.
Dee: That's absolutely correct! Uh-HUM!!
o/ This hat, belongs, to one as worthy as me,
Who exudes, command and respect.
An orchestrator of the divine arts,
And not a producer of loli bait.
o/ She, does not, even fit the requirements,
Of being, a proper god.
She, only has a fixation for frogs
Which oddly enough I'm starting to have as well! \o
Stan: "Command and respect?" Cheh! Right! You're nowhere near as tough as Suwako is!
Sally: Get 'im!! (Suddenly a man in women's business casual swoops in)
Ex: Yo Dee! I've come to help out!
Dee: Ah, so good of you to drop by Ex.
Ex: Okay, let's get the party started!!
Sally: Crap.
Ex:
o/ Here, comes Ex! Cosplaying as Aya:
The tengu, who fights with a maple leaf.
You'll, get shredded by my cartwheel danmaku,
Don't you think these puffballs make me look cool?
Yes I'm the, Wind God, Hidden in the Leaves,
Prepare, to be smattered by my greens!
Rick:
o/ But all, your attacks are the same for every character,
Stan:
o/ You broke the chain you lousy ****! \o
Ex: Jeez, tough crowd.
Dee: Well what did you expect? They are here to apprehend us after all.
Sally: That's right! (From the side rolls in a wildly spinning loli-gagger)
Nathan: Agh! Could someone please stop me!?
Ex: Hey look. Ol' Nate's trying to play Nitori.
Dee: Rather disastrously from the looks of it.
Nathan: I had just put it on; now help me already!!
Ex: Hahaha.
o/ Dressed like a kappa, but acting like hedgehog,
You spin around like your first name was Ran...
But you be throwing out cucumbers and spitting out oo-ooze,
Yet you're still Candid Friend DADADADADADADA!! \o
(Now appears the whirling Miserables)
Trey: Apotropaic apotropaic apotropaic apotropaic-
Ex: Heh, now Trey is pretendin' to be Hina Kagiyama.
Trey: Pretending? I am always like this, you know that. Apotropaic apotropaic apotropaic, (The mumbling sad man whisks away. Suddenly a storm begins to brew and the sky darkens.)
Stan: What now??
Dee: It seems we're about to experience a 100% chance of serious back-up.
Ex: Yer definitely screwed.
Richter: Great... (The thunder rumbles and the lightning strikes and through a mighty gust a formidable presence touches down on the scene. Out of a veil of turbulent miasma appears a highly decorative god she-male and his blue-white one man entourage)
Cliff:
o/ Now, I'm here, playing Kanako,
Primed, to blow away some punkos.
And with, my assistant Sanae (Played by Romi!)
You will never get a chance to breath.
o/ What? Are you, not even scared?
And you say, it's only props? Pah!
Well these ropes, will bound your smarmy a***s,
And then I shall verily f**k them up!
o/ So, then how, will it all go down?
What will, be the method for your demise?
Go and pick: Rice Porridge, Hunting Ritual,
Or maybe I'll just douse you with my Heaven's Stream.
o/ Oh, what the, you're not satisfied?
Well then I'll, go with Mountain of Faith!
Romi:
o/ But you know, Faith is for the Transient People-
Cliff:
o/ Cram it! Wait for your own solo performance! \o (Just then a group of naked pixilated females float in)
Kanako: There you are!
Richter: What the??
Nitori: These people stole our clothes and all our things except for my optical camouflage.
Nathan: Oops, forgot about that. (Takes the camo; pixels disperse)
Nitori: AIIIEEE!!!
Sally: You monsters!!
Dee: It appears the jig is up, men.
Ex: Cheese it! (The villains at large flee down the mountain, and thus our heroes find themselves partaking in a heated and whimsical chase through Gensokyo)
Romi:
o/ Cut, -ing through, the bamboo forest,
We make, for the mansion Eientei.
Hopefully, it's many corridors,
Will leave our pursuers at a loss.
o/ But, inside, we find to our dismay,
Bunny girls, hopping all around,
But then, there's one, in particular,
Whose Lunatic Eyes might spell our doom. \o
Reisen: I locked all the doors; there's no way out.
Dee: There is but one! Compendium, AWAY! (The odd lot dramatic leap and bust out through the ceiling. Enter the intrepid pursuers)
Richter: Which way did they go? (The speechless Inaba points up at the gaping hole)
Richter: Oh, right. (They leap up in haste. Off in the nearby airspace)
Dee: Quickly: To the lake of Tepes!
Ex: It's just a regular lake!
Nathan:
o/ Now, we head, for the Scarlet Devil Mansion,
And the Magical Library Voile.
Although, the resident is anemic,
She still looks cute in her jamm- \o
Patchy: Back off. (Agni Blast!)
Nathan: WAAH!!!
Cliff:
o/ And, right there, is Sakuya,
Brandishing, her trusty knives.
Though, her World is rather tough,
She can't match the Road Rolla da WRYYYYYYYY!!!! \o (Enter the Scarlet Moon)
Remilia: What have you done to my maid?
Dee: We've disturbed the mistress. Flee. (And they do so. On the lake shore the chosen three watch their quarries jet)
Stan: How are we gonna get them now? (In comes a decrepit turtle)
Genji: Climb aboard; I'll take ya. (The three are snatched and flown off in pursuit)
Sally: I didn't know you were a three-seater! (Meanwhile, in the stratosphere,)
Nathan:
o/ Where shall we go? Where shall we GO!?
Dee:
o/ Shouldn't it be obvious to you by now?
o/ There is one place, and there is no mistake,
It's the Capital City of Flowers in the SKYYY! \o (They bust through the gates of Hakugyokurou)
Dee:
o/ Gliding up all these long stairs,
Beneath the falling cherry blossom petals,
We pass by the gardener swordswoman-
Ex:
o/ Who wishes she were as hot as that chick from Heavenly Sword.
Dee:
o/ Continuing on, we climb ever higher- \o
Goodness, it's the Prismrivers!
(We turn to a live performance of those poltergeist musicians. My just marvel at their transcending majesty: Lunasa, Lyrica and Merlin playing their instruments so finely as though they wish to spirit away my soul oh I have never heard anything as hauntingly incredible as wait a minute CRAP! I forgot to narrate the rest of the chase! Gotta skip to the finale now, dang it!)
The Bad:
o/ So now, you face, The Compendium!
We, will not falter to you.
With, the assistance of fair Yuyuko,
This is where we will make our final stand.
o/ By the glow, of the, Ghost Butterfly,
You will meet, a most Fatal Sin.
Feel, like Getting Lost on a Trackless Path,
As we Reflower to a full 100 percent. (One epic screen rape later)
Dee:
o/ By golly, at last! We have won the day!
Our foes, lay beaten like dogs.
Three cheers, for the likes of ourselves,
For we are nigh unstoppab- \o (All of them get whacked on the head by a newcomer's massive halberd)
Ace: 'Fraid your dabbling privileges have been revoked guys. (Takes spiffy hat off Dee and hands it to a diminutive goddess)
Ace: Sorry for the trouble Ms. Moriya.
Suwako: I would have gotten it back myself if I hadn't put all my powers into it earlier.
Ace: Now there are just the clothes to return. I'll leave the rest up to you Suika.
Suika: Nothing says party like the rhythmic busting of skulls!
Dee: Bother...
END
There is no Mercy, only DoDonPachi
BONUS!! (Remainder of my entry)
Marisa: Oi; how come we weren't in this story?
Reimu: They probably had more than enough people for it. All the better; I actually enjoy not being involved.
Marisa: You would say that even though you're the main character??
Reimu: I didn't ask for that position, and all I'm saying is that it's nice to have a break every so often.
Marisa: Sheesh, and you're already a crummy enough shrine maiden.
Reimu: What was that?
Marisa: Uh, n-nothing!
The real END
Remembering the glamour of musical endeavors,
Even moderators stray from the path of sensibility.
There is no Mercy, only DoDonPachi
It'd be appreciated if the other judges could give a score, a mark or something similar on this.
Click to listen.
Cave
Ouch...
I slowly opened my eyes to my surroundings. My head was on the floor sideways, my right and left arms sprawled out above my head as though I was surrendering to an invisible force . "Where am I..." I thought, as I stared at the walls of my place of resting. It was like a secret unknown cavern, a rock face with pillars of stone coming out of the ceiling, the ground and the surface, but...Bluer. If it wasn't for the lack of any sensation of being cold, I would have assumed I was in some ice cavern in the artic.
Drip...
I turned my head, trying to pinpoint the location of the noise with no luck. The darker blue rock floor led away from myself until it met a pool of water about ten feet away. The water seemed to be the main point of this room with a trail of cobalt around the indoor lake.
As I raised myself to my feet and looked around in confusion, trying to find out where I was, I realised there was something else strange: I wasn't in the clothes I last remembered myself in. I was...With Steve in the pub and had been wearing a collared long-sleeved white shirt and black trousers, with a black belt, and brown formal shoes. I had finished another shift at work and was having a pint of beer with Steve; and then...
Drip...
I studied my clothing to see a dark brown leather sleeved shirt that ended at my forearms, dark brown leather trousers and black...Cloth wrapped around my feet up to half way up my shins. While the cloth felt vulnerable, something about them felt like they'd offer better protection than they look. I also realised my hair was a little bit longer than it was what felt like ten minutes ago and I had stubbles of hair beginning to reach out of my lower-face which used to not exist at all.
Drip...
I searched my surrounding, while feeling awfully vulnerable, for just any weapon or tool to guard myself with just in case. Bits of rocks...Ah! I spotted it a few steps away: A long slender brown/blue stick roughly four feet long. Considering it was a stick, it was strangely smooth with absolutely no sign of bark, as though someone had carved the bark off. I bent over and picked it up, gripping it at one end. Something about it felt powerful but I still wanted (my dag-) a gun.
Drip...
I observed the trail I was on. It appeared I was at a dead-end and would need to follow a winding trail to the only exit that I could reach. There appeared to be a lot of light trying to reach into the cavern through the only exit, but was having very little luck as only a small amount of the sun's rays were creeping in. Enough for you to see, but only just enough.
I crept along the rocky floor, my feet surprisingly not in agony every time I stood on or kicked any loose rock, towards the exit while I tried to work out what happened. "Okay, so I went to work today, and then on the way back, I stopped outside a pub, took my tie off and met...Oh god...Who did I meet...Okay, so I went to work, and...Oh god, who was it that wanted me to meet him at the pub? Okay, so I drove home after and...Did I leave my briefcase in the car? Oh of course I did, but was that all? Then I went all the way home? I went in doors and fed...Something...A dog, cat or a graindof? No!", I kicked a loose stone harder out of frustration of my conflicting thoughts. "Wait! So I got up, brushed my teeth, washed my face, walked to work, went home...What?". I clutched my head and shouted "FOR THE LOVE OF MY FATHER, WHAT HAPPENED?! WHERE AM I?!" My skull hurt. It was like it was three sizes too small for me; as though I had a second brain in my head, interrupting me...Corrupting me...Oh god...What had happened?
Drip...
Suddenly, a creature appeared; taking a few noisy steps in front of me. I quickly darted behind a boulder. I don't think it saw me...I hope it didn't see me...I peaked out. No...It didn't...It was like a walking crimson cockroach on it's long back legs up-right with two thick lobster-like arms which both ended with pincers. Its face, hiding between the back armour and the belly armour, was nothing more than two black beady eyes and a small mouth that remained closed. How could it breathe...It's beyond me...
Drip...
I clutched my wooden "sword" (if you could call it that) by it handle but I could tell, just looking at it, that my stick would be unable to harm it. If I had my (stra-) penknife on me, I probably could sharpen the stick, sneak up on it and jam it into its face and even then it was risky. It relied on it not smelling you, for the stick to cause enough damage to surprise it at least and for you to be able to run away fast enough from it before it had time to react. How many men have those pincers ended the life of...
It took another step, turning around; I made two small steps to another boulder, trying to get around it. Straight after, it took another step. As though cautious of something...Had it smelled me? I took another two fast steps to another boulder. It took a third step, as though hearing something from a boulder in front of it. I took another two. For about four more times, we carried on batting back and forwards, It taking one step to another boulder and me taking two to hide towards another boulder; one closer to my destination. Finally, when I was sure I was safe; I crept all the way towards the entrance, the blinding light finally engulfing me.
I couldn't see anything, my eyes in a little pain due to the brightness with my arms not helping with its desperate and vain shielding attempts. I let out a sigh of relief, although I'm not sure why, as I heard a wave break up onto a shore and then roll back.
This too will pass.
Memento mori
Song:
Click to listen.
Like two storms on the verge of collision, two nations hang on the edges of a field, poised to strike. I sit atop my mount and glance across the meadow towards a group of savages hidden amidst the trees, a small cluster of brutes who wage a useless rebellion. Fools. This hill will provide an excellent vantage point for their decimation - a suitable spot as any since I am not participating in the today's little skirmish.
A low rumble arises along the barbarians' lines as the banging of weaponry and war cries break the morning's silence. My cavalry waits below, cloaked in their gleaming bronze armor and leather hides. Though this battle is not theirs to fight, they calmly hold their horses in formation, ready to overtake this pitiful band of forest-dwellers at a moment's notice. The savages, cloaked in rags and covered in mud, intensify their primal clamor with every passing second. They pound the earth with their wooden tools, crudely mended from our earlier encounters. Encounters which have led to this one morning - their final stand.
A single figure stands at the forefront of the barbarian masses - a bent old man, his pure-white beard contrasting his dark and scarred body. Some say that he is a wizard; others claim him to be a demon - most simply believe him to be this tribe's eldest member, thus their leader. Whichever the case, one notices that this elderly chief possess a strange aura. Standing before a sea of chaotic savages, this lone being remains calm as he peers towards our ranks. Even from this distance, one can see his piercing blue eyes examining the Roman army before him. He does not flinch.
A low voice from behind me: "It is beginning."
I turn in my saddle to see General Artilius standing beside my mount, staring down at the Roman infantrymen that form our front lines. Slowly, these soldiers move into the field, signaling the start of the battle.
"Shall I send my cavalrymen in as well, sir? We could crush them before noontime with both forces attacking," I suggest, though I already know the battle plans for this morning.
My fellow captains and I had pleaded with the general well into the evening, trying to persuade him to end this battle quickly by using the cavalry as well. He had refused, of course, arguing that the infantry alone would suffice - his foolish underestimation of our enemies has cost this army thousands upon thousands of men over the course of the two year campaign. General Artilius owed his success to the ineptitude of our enemies, not his own military prowess (as he so claimed). He was not respected amongst the Captains, but he was the Emperor's cousin and was therefore our burden to shoulder.
"You know the battle arrangement, Marius. I have brought us to the brink of victory today - and despite your constant questioning of my command I shall ride into Rome a hero before this month has passed. Have your cavalrymen stand down." The general turns and walks towards the rear camp, likely intent on spending the remainder of the morning practicing his victory speech. I turn back towards the battle.
Our infantry, now more than halfway across the field, pause when a single loud cry, almost a roar, erupts from the barbarian's woods. Scores of savages stream from the forest into the field, arising from the shadows like demons. They move in blurs as they sprint towards our lines, still pounding their swords and shields together as they run. Disorganized and untrained, the first dozen or so savages that reach our infantry line are quickly disposed of. However, the brutes' sheer numbers and fearlessness soon prove too much for this small band of infantry. The clash of wooden weapons upon metal armor, the shouts and cries of dying infantrymen, the pounding of feet and armaments as an unending stream of barbarians pour from the surrounding woods - it all combines to create a deafening cacophony which sends a chill through my soul. There are too many of them, scores more than we anticipated.
Seeing the massacre developing before my eyes, I quickly turn my mount around and gallop down the hill towards the battlefield. Along our lines, the remaining infantry stand in formation and watch the inevitable slaughter of their fellow soldiers with a callous demeanor. Obedient until the end, these men would rather die than break rank and aid the surviving infantrymen, who are now completely surrounded by the barbarians. I near my cluster of cavalrymen and order them to prepare themselves for battle. My lieutenants survey their men, checking each to make sure they were ready to ride into the fray, then ride to my side.
"Marius, have our orders changed?" asks Caspion, my eldest lieutenant.
Ignoring his rhetorical inquiry, I turn and face the remaining lieutenants: "Let us save who we can." I gallop away before anyone can object, spurring my mount into the field - straight towards the savages and their encircled prey. My men, knowing better than to disobey, charge onto the field behind me.
The barbarians, their attention focused entirely on their easy prey, are not aware of my cavalry's presence until we are slicing into their backs and necks with our swords. Confused and surprised, most of the tribesman turn and sprint back towards the woods - disappearing into the shadows as easily as they had emerged. The rest remain trapped between the beleaguered infantry and my cavalry's flanks. Holding my horseman back, I allow for the infantrymen to seek bloody retribution for their fallen brethren. As they pick their way through the remaining savages, my men and I simply prevent any of the mud-covered mongrels from escape, stabbing those who attempt to flee from the vengeful infantry. The dirty tribesmen beg and plead for mercy in their foreign tongues, but their cries fall on deaf ears. As the field grows muddy with spilt blood, the barbarians' are slowly and methodically hacked asunder. The task finished, we silently ride back to our line and wait for further orders.
***
The night brings merriment, drinking and music to our encampment - as is the custom after any battle. My eyes track the numerous trails of smoke billowing up into the starry night, shimmering in the glow of the flames, until they disappear into the darkness above. I cannot celebrate with my men tonight, for images of the day's massacre still invade my consciousness. Walking out of the campsite, I find myself drawn to the battlefield. The night is cool, and steam rises from the field - still warmed by the blood pooling on its surface. The shadows of corpses surround me, the distant fires lending a hauntingly lifelike glimmer to their glazed eyes. In the dark, it is difficult to discern barbarian from Roman. Not that it matters anymore for these poor souls.
Movement ahead catches my eye and I freeze - a nighttime ambush approaching? Would these savages stoop to such vulgar tactics? No - just one figure moves amongst the bodies ahead, his silhouette defined by a single torch. The shadow wanders the field in circles, turning the corpses one-by-one to examine each. Minutes pass and the figure finally pauses beside one of the deceased. He kneels down beside the remains, planting his torch into the mud.
Likely one of our slaves, I assume, scavenging the dead for jewelry or medals to sell on his return to the capital. Filthy beast. I unsheathe my sword and step into the torch's light, prepared to drag this pilferer back to camp and punish him for this sacrilege.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the glow of the flames, but I quickly realize that this figure is not some Roman thief. The barbarian leader's blue eyes, startlingly bright in the torchlight, cause me to halt mid-step and time slows to a crawl. We stare at each other, the only living souls in this sea of death, neither one daring to move - unsure of how to react. My eyes glance from the barbarian leader to the young man's body lying before him. I immediately recognize the resemblance despite the white beard that covers most of the old man's profile. This is not some ghoul wandering the battlefield for trinkets among the dead - it is a father searching for his son's body, attempting to bring his boy home one last time.
An eternity passes, and I finally return my sword to its scabbard. Stepping backwards out of the torch's glow, I leave this barbarian...this father to grieve in peace. The old man's bright eyes watch me as I depart, his arms cradling his son's body. I don't look back.
***
As I enter the encampment, one of my lieutenants rushes to greet me,"Marius - where have you been?? Artilius requested your presence over an hour ago!" My lieutenant leads me through the scattered campfires towards the general's quarters. I enter his tent and see my fellow captains already seated in a semicircle around Artilius.
"Ah, Marius - so good of you to finally join us." The annoyed general indicates towards a chair and I quickly sit down. Artilius returns his attention to the group once more: "We have an opportunity, my captains, to end this military campaign quickly and with a minimal loss of life. We attack tonight!"
The captains shift uneasily in their chairs, glancing at one another - surely he wasn't talking about a nighttime assault?
"General," the eldest captain, Jehonus, rises to his feet, "A night offensive is against the basic principles of warfare. Even the gods have spoken against it!" The other captains nod their heads, murmuring in agreement.
"Jehonus - sit down!" Artilius spat, "I will not sacrifice this victory, this glory, which is within our grasp simply because of some archaic code of warfare! The gods will not care how we eliminate this barbarian scum as long as it is done for the Empire! And the people of Rome will not be bothered by our tactics once they have witnessed our triumphant return from this campaign!"
Horrified, I look beside me to gauge how the general's words were affecting the other captains. The younger members of the group appear appeased by Artilius' reasoning, yet I see the older captains and myself still share an unspoken uneasiness. This is not how battles are meant to be fought, nor wars won. Through such devious tactics, one would surely gain a victory - but at what cost?
"Gentleman," Artilius announces, smiling, "Ready your troops. We march before dawn."
***
Within the hour, the men have doused their fires and are now moving silently out of the encampment. My men and I ride behind the main infantry, carefully guiding our horses around the fallen warriors strewn about the field. With only starlight to guide us, we approach the woods. The shadowy forest, dark and unwelcoming, looms ahead.
Slipping inside this dark interior, the infantry begins ascending the hill. Scouts have reported that the enemy's main village lies just over the peak. I dismount and embark up the incline, leading my horse carefully in the dark so as not to make a sound. The thought of intentionally falling or startling my horse into crying out crosses my mind - anything to avoid this shameful act of cowardice we are marching towards. But I am a Roman soldier. Obedient until the end, I continue on.
***
Above me, a single cry shatters the dark silence of the night. Our soldiers have arrived in the village. I mount my horse and gallop past the straggling infantrymen, reaching the crest of the hill just as the first hut is set ablaze. In the light of the flames I see men, woman and children rushing throughout the small encampment, pursued by infantrymen with their swords drawn. Most of the soldiers are already drenched in blood though the attack has just begun. I draw my sword and spur my horse onward, intent on carrying out my duties.
My stead crushes villagers beneath its hoofs as I gallop through the narrow corridors of the village. Slashing and hacking at every life that comes into my path, my world blurs into an unending stream of blood, fire and wailing. Woman, children, elders - all fall beneath my blade. Within moments, all of the huts are ablaze. The ash stings my eyes, yet I continue my slaughter as more and more villagers rush past me. I hear screaming all around me, and even my own men stare in horror as I bring my sword down upon yet another unarmed mother. Soon, only the dead surround me, yet the screaming continues to ring in my ears. As Roman infantrymen stare up at me, wide-eyed, I realize that the screams that fill these woods are my own. I silence myself and an eerie hush surrounds me. The crackling and hiss of the surrounding fires are all that can be heard.
"Romans - there is one more!"
A shout from outside the village sends men rushing towards its source, bent on removing all trace of this foreign people. I turn my horse and follow the crowd of soldiers, noticing that the infantrymen stumble over one another to avoid my path. Not a single one meets my gaze as I pass by.
A cluster of soldiers form a circle around an old wooden table, crudely constructed just outside the village perimeter. The scene is lit by dozens of miniature torches dangling from branches overhead. I spot the elderly leader standing beside the table, his calm expression unfit for the slaughter which he has just witnessed. The body of his son lies on the platform, washed clean of all remnants of battle.
The men are hesitant to approach this old man - they are tentative to test the rumors regarding this man's supposed magical capabilities. Finally, three soldiers rush the elderly leader and bring him down with repeated hacks from their swords. Not a single cry is uttered. The last trace of this people's existence slips noiselessly into the next world and we turn towards our camp in silence.
***
I trail behind the soldiers, choosing to walk beside my stead through the battlefield alone. The early dawn light is just coming through the trees to the east, its rays illuminating the bodies that lay scattered about. The gory scene before me calls to mind the terrible nature of war. Its futility and ruthlessness are evident in the bloodied and mangled corpses I stride over with every step. There are always more wars to be fought. More enemies to eradicate. More men to sacrifice for some greater good.
Lost in my thoughts, I do not notice a messenger rushing towards me. "Marius! Captain Marius! I bring urgent news from the Eastern campaign. Your General Artilius and his troops have been order to reinforce General Jarvus' campaign in the marshlands - you must leave at once!"
"Good lad," I say with a forced smile, "Now go ahead and deliver that message to General Artilius. I will be along shortly." The boy turns and begins to trot off towards the encampment. So much for the general's glorious return to Rome.
"Wait!" I shout, "Take my mount - he will get you there much faster. You must be tired." The young boy takes the reins and nimbly leaps astride the horse's back. "Take good care of him," I say, patting the horse's side, "And he will return the favor tenfold."
The boy rides off towards the camp, his words of gratitude lost in the wind. I watch the pair move over the battlefield, carelessly crushing the dead beneath them. When they disappear amongst the tents of the encampment, I turn once more towards the rising sun, which now hovers above treetops. I unsheathe my sword and examine the scars which mar its surface, testament to the blade's faithful service over the past years' battles. My eyes return to the morning sun as I grasp the hilt and aim the weapon towards my chest. Images flash through my mind: my blade tearing the flesh of mothers and children as their homes burn beside them, the smug certainty of Artilius' speech as he destroys any ounce of morality which had once remained in warfare, the elderly father cradling his dead son in his arms - no longer a faceless "enemy" to be disposed of, but a victim of brutal intolerance. Our brutal intolerance.
I see all of my errors, my prejudices, my evils - all lain out before me with new eyes. I perceive the man I truly am, the life I truly live. I am repulsed and shamed. With a thrust of my sword, I fall to the earth and leave these haunting memories behind. I become another nameless warrior lost in this sea of decay, doomed to be forgotten amongst the multitude of solders sacrificed in this futile venture. As I feel the life draining from my chest, I find relief knowing that, for once, there will be no more battles to be fought, no more massacres to be rationalized, no more evils to be perpetrated. I am free.
Click to listen.
The dream of a simpler life always haunted Henry. Every evening, the dream continued with the smell of fruit trees below permeating the air as he floated by. The stars above him shone brightly as if they were getting closer, hanging just above his head like they could be picked like an apple.
He was not floating, he was flying. Flying with large swam wings that sprouted from his back like unfurling fronds. The wings unfurled, larger and longer and he drifted steadily toward the lake. The sweet blue lake in the distance faded into a deeper purple as he approached. His wings grew larger, longer, changing shape and molting feathers. The feathers rained down onto the fruited trees, speckling them with white down.
Suddenly, light flashed through as if it were day. The lake sparkled, crackled, and then enveloped the brightness as if it had swallowed something whole. Steam swiveled upward dancing in the air.
The lake emitted a golden light, as if it were a beacon. He charged closer, flapping his wings more frantically to catch up to his prey. His legs grew sharper claws, bringing down long talons. His wings turned brown at the tips with long flight feathers. He smelled in the air a faint scent of fish above the fruit.
His nose drew him down to a diving stance. He could see the beacon; smell it calling to him. Invisible scent lines pulled him downward, faster, deeper. It seemed there was something calling his name, calling out "Henry", like some siren song at the end of an invisible tether. He called back, a long falcon roar, and dipped down into the deep maroon water.
With the splash, his feathers shed, leaving a brown mottled crown on the still water surface. His talons rubberized. He felt his legs, like jelly, expanding with the currents of the water. Still, he continued his decent to he beautiful bright light. His fins spread further, guiding his deeper and faster, into a long stroke propelling him further with each stride.
The beacon seemed to go deeper, further out of reach. Yet, he could still hear it calling to him. It was not a sound like a usual underwater muffled call, but a sense, like a vibration of his name.
He had to reach it; the light was growing stronger as he gained on it. The beacon, the tether between, seemed to tighten and pull him down like an anchor.
He could see it now, almost an orb of light, glowing, smoldering and bubbling as the water rushed past the surface. It seemed as though the water were polishing it, making it brighter, shinier, golden.
Click to listen.
Remorse. I woke up to the same feeling I'd known so many other
days, haunting the dim and empty spaces of my early morning
psyche. It came with the territory. I forced myself out of bed,
like always, because I had to. Pulled on the same black suit and
neck tie and took my briefcase and .38 special. I remembered a
few loves lost and people I had to kill. But as I looked in the
mirror, I saw my smile coming back. I walked away with a
funkadelic swagger, but turned back. "Looking good there,
handsome," I said aloud, tipping my hat at the Adonis in the
mirror, before I was off.
Then there I was like magic, in the middle of another gunfight,
another chase. Dancing around civilians and trying to keep up.
Today it was an arboretum. I was surrounded by cheap dates,
families having a quiet afternoon, and a few of this guy's
shipment, forced Chinese prostitutes. This guy knew Kung-fu, but
I knew Judo. And I did know that I had a gun. I ran past a tall
girl in a Chinese dress snapping a shot of a maple when I saw my
man. I thought I almost had him when a bullet whizzed through my
afro. "Fuck," I said, trying to keep some composure. I picked him
up by the shirt and and coldcocked him. One hit, lights out. I
put a pair of handcuffs on him and put him in the back of my van.
I'm not a cop, but hell if I ain't stocked better than one. I
drove off before anyone else knew what had happened, counting as
I always did on people taking certain facts for granted.
As I drove that unmarked 1980's van back to my hideout, I had to
wonder once more whether I was doing the right thing. Signs on
the street passed me by, and all the earmarks of city squalor.
Protesters held signs decrying bank practices, a certain type of
discrimination they favored. Five blocks down was one of my
favorite smoky jazz clubs, some of the last civilization before
the long empty road to my mountain interrogation facility. I
thought about slapping this piece of shit around with the back of
my pistol, and I felt a grin as wide as I'd known for weeks. "Oh,
yeah!" I said slowly and smoothly, turning to his duct tape
gagged face. "Ha ha!" The road was as quiet as a casket, with
nothing around but trees for miles. In the long spaces of silence
there was little to fill the void but my pleasant thoughts of
vicarious redemption, and the spotted memories of those events
that lead me to this. Bittersweet.
Back in that hot and sticky cinder block room, old pissed off
Chinaman strapped to the chair, brass knuckles in my pocket. The
women were all free. State or federal law enforcement would stop
there. I ripped off his duct tape and pulled out another tooth
with my pliers. "Screaming will only make it worse," I said, and
it was the truth. He'd only damage his gums. I pulled off the
latex glove that kept his rancid blood off my hands. I was never
satisfied with what the system could do, and I was sick of
watching it fail. I looked at this man once more, disgust
dripping down my face, turned out the bare bulb above his head
and walked away. The sight of him just pissed me off. It was
something I dealt with day after day, something I forced myself
to face. I sat down in the much more comfortable living room to
enjoy a warm beer and loosen up. I put on some music, but I could
barely hear it, drifting in and out of my thoughts. I wasn't sure
why I was so introspective today. I guess looking at it as if
from the outside made it seem easy. I sat there a second, then I
laughed it off. "Shit. It is easy."
There was a sound at the front door. I grabbed my gun again, gave
it a little kiss. For luck. Took the last swig of my fine Mexican
beer. Then I stood right where I was and waited, ready for
action. My finger twitched off the trigger. My eyes bounced
around the room, dry enough to crack. Then they came in. A whole
bunch of ninja motherfuckers. And then they were on the floor. I
breathed again, feeling nothing but relief. I returned to
business, knowing there would be more, knowing I'd have to
abandon this place, too. I had others. It was still worrying. I'd
always have to watch my back, sleep in the closet, hug a gun like
a kid holds their teddy at night. But shit, I live for it. And
there ain't a thing I can do now to change that, even if I wanted
to. "Ha, like I ever would!" I laughed at a dirty mirror, teeth
still gleaming through the grime. A muffled scream came from the
other room, reminding me to finish up. I turned to that mirror
again and smiled.
Now I was back in my van, passing those same sights only lit up
in sleazy neon and a little more bustling. Mr. Human Trafficker
was in a car trunk, about five hundred feet below a cliff. Maybe
his friends would find him there. I didn't care now, but it did
make me smile. The long rows of red brake lights brought back the
notion, and traffic wasn't clearing up too soon. So I decided to
check out one of those clubs, after all. They're no less safe
than my own personal pad, and way more fun. I settled in, the
music growing louder and my patented charm working as soon as I
stepped in the door. But there was always the feeling that no
happiness could ever last. That is, unless it came from someone
else's beatdown. Oh yeah!
Click to listen.
God fucking dammit, I swear if Nesani doesn't return my fucking magazine tomorrow, I'll kill him. I'll yank his eyes out, put my fist through his throat, suffocate him from the inside, and chew his penis right out. I'll then force his bloody member into his trachea, if I were so inclined. Don't get me started on the finishing blow, it is so graphical and violent beyond imagination. Wait, what were you saying? Someone's behind me...?
...oh...Hello! Didn't see you there. As you can see, I am a bit tied up at the moment so I can't really help you. Come back in 10-20 minutes. By that time, we will have already sorted out what needs to be sorted out so that we can sort out what you need to sort out. So please, don't come back in 10-20 minutes. It is for your own satisfaction. Enjoy your stay at the Arkham Hotel!
Now where was I... ah, yes! That sister of mine was a fine singer. She was one of the most powerful figureheads in the operatic industry. I have always loved her, from the way she used to sing me lullabies when I was a wee child, to the times she would always help me through rough spots when I was in my teenage years.
I remember how, when I was so sad because our parents died when I was 7, that she promised to take good care of me. She asked me what I wanted to have. I guess I just replied that I wanted her. She giggled at my reply, and lifted me so high above the ground, it's as if we were reaching for the sun. We had a good 9 years together. And when I was always down in the dumps, she always told me to move forward. To reach for the sun. To take to the skies.
I guess I haven't been able to do that.
Some really evil men put poison in her before-show drink. When she drank it, her voice became raspier than a broken speaker. However, she knew that the show had to go on. She took the stage in all her glory, got the microphone, put it near her mouth, and spoke.
No words came out of her mouth.
She tried hard to sing. To speak. To yell. To scream out loud. But she only managed to cry. She wanted to please the thousands of people in the audience right now. Instead, she only managed to make them throw rocks at her. Disgrace rained from the skies, and my sister got hit with every drop.
The next day, I found her in her room, dangling from the ceiling.
This affected me radically. She was my role model. She was my guide. She was my beloved sister. She was my everything. I couldn't live without her. Which is why I wanted my then-girlfriend to have her voice. I wanted them to have her hair. I wanted them to have her eyes, her lips, her skin, her bosoms, her ass... I wanted them to be her.
At the start, she was very permissive of dressing like her. She knew I was a troubled man, so she wanted to please me. I saw, before my eyes, a carbon copy of my sister. From head to toe, I knew she was my sister. I knew she was my beloved.
Soon, however, she was becoming more and more convinced that I was borderline crazy. So she left me. My girlfriend of 3 years left me. My sister left me. The thought of that drove me insane every night. I can't bear the nightmares of me being raised so high in the sky, then suddenly dropping to the flaming abyss that is hell. I can't bear the thought of isolation, being disconnected from society with no one to talk to, just like everyday furniture.
So I kidnapped her.
I turned her into my doll. My very own personal doll. I can dress her any way I want, any time I want, anywhere I want. That last part I can't exactly do, since I have her gagged and bound in my apartment. But still, it's nice to feel like I have my sister around. Whenever I play with her, I feel like I was 7 again.
When I try to talk to her, though, she just sits there, looking at the floor. I don't like her not talking to me. It reminds me of how my sister became mute. I don't like getting reminded at how my sister became mute. So I threatened her with a gun. If she doesn't talk, I shoot her. If she does, I fuck her. I have always wanted to fuck my sister, but I never got the chance.
She did talk. She uttered the words "I want to die."
Her face is as blank as when my sister lifelessly dangled from the ceiling. Her face reminded me of my beloved sister hanging herself in her room. Her face... was ugly.
So I shot her.
Her lifeless body just sat there, expressionless. Her body teased me, like a stripper beckoning me to spend my money on her. Her body wanted me. I knew it in my mind. I knew she wanted to fuck me.
So I did.
I put it in her vagina. It was a wonderful experience, fucking a lifeless body and all that. It was like masturbating over pictures of my sister, only much more rigorous. And I'm the only one doing all the work.
Soon, however, I heard police sirens. They knew I killed my ex-girlfriend. They knew it from some guy who called 911 when he heard my AK47 going into overdrive. I asked myself why I didn't put a silencer, and threw the body out the window into the dumpster below my apartment. I then tried to clean up the mess. When police stormed my apartment, they saw no trace of her. At that moment, I felt like I'm gonna be able to escape arrest.
That is, until they looked at my pants. There was blood all over my crotch. I pleaded with them that it was just an experiment with ketchup gone wrong, but they wouldn't listen. Plus, they saw blood dripping from over my windowsill. At that moment, it was obvious.
I killed my sister.
I then spent the next 7 years of my life in this shit hotel. I can't believe it, I killed my sister and I got an apartment in a hotel. And I can stay for as long as I like! If this was paradise, I plan on staying forever. And I think this is paradise. A paradise I can't escape.
Well, it is sleep time, so come back tomorrow for another episode of "Ruminations of the Crazy Guy in Room 10-B"! It's always on at 1:00 pm, the time when the hotel doctor regularly checks my health. So please, continue to support my show! I love you all!
...did he leave already? Okay, now where was I? Ah yes, let me tell you about the story of my sister... wait, I was saying something about a Nesani? I don't know no Nesani, so shut up as I tell you the story of my beloved sister...
Did i make the deadline?
Click to listen.
Entry in here since post was too long
total words = 1764 accoring to http://www.wordcounttool.com/
I'm a native french speaker so please excuse my very possible mistakes^^'. Unfortunately, my story is only 800 words long but please consider it was made after a beautiful and very inspiring... 3:15 long song^^''I don't think I'll win anything but since I worked like mad on this, even if it's not 1000 words long, I still wanted to submit it.
Click to listen.
Meeting with Fate
Walking on the path of small stones and dirty roots I am heading toward my peaceful and precious haven. It's really a beautiful and quiet place... especially when the sun sets... but it seems so empty for some unknown reasons. Sometimes, I feel I'm the only one who can reach it at all. It's a beach. A lovely and pleasant beach... where every grain of sand looks like pure gold as the sun shines. The sea is full of life and so clear...as if it's never been exposed to the putrid touch of humanity.
The only thought of this little but so pure paradise of mine is enough to make my heart pounding faster in my chest.. I quickly walk down the narrow path as I feel this urge growing inside of me. What a beautiful feeling! I can't wait to be there, to escape from my job, my responsabilities... everything! Even if it's just for a moment...I want to enter my own little world. I want it to so badly...I want to see you.. I want to hold you once again.
Then, the path comes to an end. I'm welcomed by the wonderful sight of the colors in the sky, reflecting on the water like a sea of fire. I feel the warmth of the last rays of sun and I listen to the soft melody of the waves...
However, here lies a secret. An unexplanable thing... I never wondered why it is that way. I never tried to figure it out. I just never could explain it...
Why is it that you appear right after twilight comes... without a word...without a whisper...a sound...
You're a wonderful and graceful being walking on the water, far from the shore; so sweet, so beautiful... like a lost angel! You're lonely here but you look so happy...I wonder if it is because of me? I was so surprised the first time I saw you. You were dancing, your long wavy dress floating in the wind like wings. Then...you saw you had a visitor... and started walking towards me. Your long fingers touched mine and I felt dragged into the deep water. My heart started running so fast... I thought it was going to burst.
Deeper and deeper in the ocean, you held my hand leading us below, far below in the dark abyss and we kept on swimming and swimming faster and faster, round and round, like a spiral slide always going down. I could breathe like I was breathing seconds ago on the ground, but I couldn't hear any sound not even the beats of my heart and darker and darker it got all around as the moon and stars were now but tiny whites spots above, far above the ground. The water felt colder and colder and my body was becoming heavier and heavier but nonetheless I never felt stronger before. I felt I was dreaming. Your long, silky hair was dancing as coloured fishes followed us all around, your eyes were shinny, your pale skin looked so soft but your grip was so strong, as if you would never ever let me go. Your sight gave the me strenght to keep going on and on holding on to your hand. I somehow felt you were so close to me, that you were trying to tell me something with so much insistance but couldn't.
You looked at me and you drew closer...It was then I felt your lips on mine...we stopped swimming... we were slowly going back up. I closed my eyes and held you firmly in my arms for a short while. Then you opened your lovely blue eyes and you smiled. You were smiling but your smile was so full of sadness and pain. I felt you wanted to tell me all of your stories and especially how much you wanted someone to know you were there. You took my hand, put it on your heart and I felt it was beating just like a baby's, for the first time in a long while. I smiled and suddenly, my lids felt heavy... so heavy...
When I opened my eyes, I was back on the beach, as if everything that went on was only a dream. The sun began to rise and as I looked at the sea, I saw your figure, slowly fading in the dawn. You looked at me...'till the very end.
Every day since then, I've been coming back to the beach, watching you. You never noticed me again. There's a moment for everything and one day, I know you will take me again into the deep waters...I'll just have to wait...it's fate.
I will definitly be back tomorrow.
I'll Follow You
"Okay, let's go."
Those were the words I said to her as we slipped out into the crowded street. Clutching her hand tightly, I led the way through the mob of people. Everyone moved directly, wasting no time in reaching their destination. I skirted around others as much as possible, but sometimes we had to cut a path straight through the swarm. We had a destination as well, and we needed to reach it faster than anybody else. The gatehouse loomed ahead, representing what was meant to be the climax of our voyage.
The moment we passed into the shadow of the gates, my heart began to race. I squeezed her hand tighter, but she was pulled away so that her papers could be examined. I handed my papers to the guard in front of me, trying to be casual and to conceal my fear. He scanned the forged documents carefully, checking the seal and the watermark. Sweat was trickling down my face as the guard turned the page. His brow furrowed as he saw what I knew was a flaw in the papers that would give me away. He glanced up at me again, but this time his free hand reached for his whistle.
In my mind I counted, 1, 2, 3, Run!
I darted out of the guard's reach, grabbed her hand, and swung her over the metal barrier. I leaped over it after her. Then we were running, tearing away from the city and up the dirt road towards the forest. Travelers glanced at us in confusion as we raced past, fleeing the soldiers that were pouring out of the city behind us. With the terror and chaos of almost being caught and subsequently chased there came a certain joy. We were free. The wind whipped at our faces, blowing her hair wildly. As the soldiers gained on us, we broke from the road, diving into the thickest parts of the forest as it climbed uphill. Now it was branches instead of soldiers that were trying to stop us, but we broke straight through them. Such was the nature of our escape. We had just fled from a city that would oppress us, and now that we were out, nothing could stop us. The cuts and scrapes that quickly scarred our bodies were ignored as we barreled up the hill, away from the past and towards whatever lay ahead. Running with her holding my hand was all I ever wanted to do.
We reached the crest of the hill and stopped momentarily, the sounds of pursuit fading behind us. Hands on my knees, I took a few deep breaths, exhausted after our magnificent run. She laughed as she looked back at the world we had left behind, and I smiled with her.
A roar erupted from the trees behind them, and our rest was cut short as a bear crashed into the clearing where we had stopped. Turning on our heels, we fled down the other side of the hill. The excitement of running was still there, but this time the fear was back as well. I didn't dare look back, but we could still hear the beast as it crashed through the trees. Faster and faster we ran, trying to put as much distance as possible between us and the deadly creature. As we got lower, the trees thinned, the sound of the bear disappeared, and we found ourselves in a wet swamp.
When her foot touched the putrid waters it began to froth and bubble. Slowly, a dark shape emerged from the swamp. The monster that emerged from the bog was a thing of nightmares. Twelve feet tall, with massive, muscular limbs and a horned head, the creature towered above us and growled ferociously.
I shoved her behind me and drew my sword to fend off the devilish monster. It swung one massive arm at me. I dodged, then I lunged at the beast, but it parried my blade with its bare hands. For several minutes we fought at a steady, even rate; I would attack, it would block, it would attack, I would dodge. The beat that the battle developed allowed me to take advantage. I was learning the monster's weaknesses and openings and developed a plan to exploit them. After avoiding another deadly punch, I moved in close in an attempt to reach the beast's heart.
What happened next I hardly remember. The creature struck me with its horned head and I fell into blackness. The darkness swallowed me, enveloping everything: my senses, my emotions, and my mind. The pain was so immense that I expected to never wake up again. I seemed to be falling deeper and deeper into the black of death, and what was left of my conscious mind began to accept that. A small light appeared, and I began to fall towards it, towards the end.
But as I tumbled, I remembered her. I saw her long brown hair, her massive blue eyes, her pale cheeks and her beautiful smile. I thought about the day I met her, waiting in her father's shop. The wind blowing her hair as we ran up the hill, her tiny laugh as we paused for a rest; everything she ever said and did came back to me in a rush, and the darkness began to clear. A new light shone, brighter than the feeble light that I had been following, and I let it envelop me. I fell into her light and woke up.
Dazed and confused, I looked around the swampy battleground. The beast had vanished, and with him, the girl who had saved me from the darkness. I staggered to my feet and searched the area for any sign of them. After spotting what looked like a used trail, I grabbed my sword from where it had fallen and stumbled after them. I was lightheaded and woozy. Gravity threatened to pull me to the ground with each step that I took. Fighting back the pain, I continued on, my determination to find her deafening all my other emotions. I gathered speed as my legs adjusted to the sensation of walking. I lunged from tree to tree, trying to make up as much ground as much as possible. Soon I was running, and though I still stumbled and my head was still spinning, I was making progress. Nothing was going to stop me. I was determined to reach the beast, to catch him, and to kill him. I was going to take back my love. And then my head spun violently and I dropped to the ground.
I panted heavily, crouching on all fours. I was hopelessly lost. I had no idea where I was going. I would never find her again. Then I looked up, and I saw a necklace lying on the ground. The necklace I had given. I snatched it and whispered, "I'll follow you. I'll follow you to the end of the world."
In that instant, I was on my feet again, charging through the dense forest along the path the beast had taken. My head cleared and my legs regained all of their strength. The determination that had seized me before was nothing compared to this. I was committed. I was going to find her and get her back, and I knew it. With my newfound confidence returned the excitement and the joy of running. No longer was I stumbling blindly through the forest in the impossible pursuit of her; now it was if I was running with her again, hand in hand as we charged away from soldiers and bears and giant creatures. Our arms were stretched and our fingertips were barely touching, but I could still feel that she was there. I refused to lose her, and I ran through the woods to make sure that never happened. Energized, I bounded past trees and over logs, under branches and up hills, avoiding foxes and bees and all the other denizens of the forest. I simply refused to let anything stand in my way, just as we had before. As I ran on, I knew I was getting closer. A scrap of her blouse, a trace of the creature's hair; everything pointed in one direction. This evidence only energized me further, and the obstacles that I had previously avoided ceased to be obstacles at all. I was running through the open forest straight towards her and the beast that guarded her.
I came upon them all at once; the beast towering over her unconscious body. I wasted no time, launching at it sword-first. I slashed at it again and again, each time being deflected, but each time stepping closer as well. Blow after blow bounced off its thick arms, but the monster was stumbling and I was only getting stronger. Each strike came faster than the one before it, and then I managed to break through the beast's defenses. Like lightning, I thrust my blade deep into the creature's vile heart. It ended there, my sword embedded in the monster's chest; the nightmare was over, and the energy of the escape and fight gave way to calmness.
We were free.
Click to listen.
READ: "A Fear of Great Heights" and other forthcoming adventures right HERE
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