What does morning smell like?
Linen a little less clean than the day before. The fading wisps of last night's cool breeze replaced by new dew on the grass. The bitter stale of morning breath.
Hot steam, cool tile. Vanilla soap and foaming shampoo. Egyptian cotton and lavender fabric softener.
Wholegrain toast, strawberry jam. Bitter plunger coffee. No, the home espresso machine. No, wait, barista cappucino, cream, caramel and chocolate! Warm, fresh-baked muffins.
Dusty concrete. Aged upholstery. The gagging sweat of unwashed strangers. Earbud plastic.
Thin carpet with a fine layer of dust. Pine-scented suface cleaner. Burnt ozone of electricity and flourescent lights.
Morning smells like the cycle of daily life.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This was the first and only writing prompt I picked up from there.
PPS - Maybe I should look for others when NaNoWriMo is over.
Showing posts with label fridayflashfiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fridayflashfiction. Show all posts
Friday, 21 November 2014
Friday, 28 June 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Supervolcano
"I have to go, you know I do."
"But I love you!"
A single tear of fire escaped Ember's eye and wafted off into the breeze, flickered and died. He brushed her cheek with that warm, soft touch she had grown so fond of.
"I love you too."
He remembered their parting like it was yesterday. The memory of his human lover, Elizabeth, was the only thing that kept Ember going. That, and knowing it was only he, the last fire sprite, who could save the world.
The wind whipped at his hair, and he reached to pull his short burlap cloak tighter around him, before remembering how he had consumed it the night before, for warmth. Across the valley ahead, Ember saw the billows of smoke rising. He could smell the sulphur even from here, and a part of him thought it smelled like home. Ash fell like snow, tickling his nose here. Closer to the supervolcano, it would choke the air.
He checked the egg in its pouch - still intact - leaned his weight on his hiking staff and trudged on down the hard-packed soil.
The valley was dry and dead, covered in a delicate crust of salt. It crunched under his feet and sizzled away, the little trapped moisture evaporating from his body's great heat.
It was painful, like walking on broken glass. Every step, with its pinpricks of water and incombustible salt, sent needles of pain shooting up through Ember's feet to a spot just above and behind his eyes. He grimaced through the pain looking for any breaks in the monotonous salt landscape. Any dried old branch, any clump of withered grass, even just a gap where he could stand on hot sand. There was nothing in sight. Just the salt and its relentless stinging underfoot.
Halfway across the valley, Ember's feet had swollen to the size of footballs. They looked like crystal clubs, with an accumulation of salt on every side. They stung and ached. He felt he couldn't go on, and fell to his knees, the walking staff no longer supporting him. He let out a yelp of pain as the salt bit into his knees and shins, fresh skin that had not yet burned. He whimpered and sat there, wallowing in self-pity. The sulphurous smell of the supervolcano called him on, and the phoenix egg needed to be delivered, but he couldn't take one more step. The only thing he had left to eat was the staff itself, his grandfather's.
He looked at the staff, at the volcano, back to the staff. He noted its intricate carvings, the carefully hand-burnt patterns that coloured them. He took special note of the delicate head, carved somehow in three delicate concentric shells, one inside another, like spiderweb eggs of oak. He would eat that part last.
Among the many things Elizabeth had taught him was to appreciate old things that take time, details and artistry, love of fine work. She was a sculptor who dabbled in photography, and they met while Ember was just a teenager, really, stoking a bush fire with glee. She had been photographing the fire, the damage, the ashes left behind, for a new sculpture on loss. Ember had just been burning everything in sight, consuming old wood and new, houses, trees, bushes, animals, anything he could get his destructive hands on.
She shouldn't have been able to see him, but something caught her eye.
"Who ... what are you?" she asked, blunt and to the point. It was the first thing he loved about her.
He had looked around for a few seconds, trying to decide if she was looking at him.
"Yes, you," she said, with a laugh.
Their giddy romance lasted just a few months before the world started to burn and Ember realised his phoenix egg - his most prized possession - would renew the whole planet if dropped into the supervolcano. And he was the only one who could get close enough to the heat.
While he was reminiscing, Ember noticed, he had eaten most of the walking staff, leaving the delicate head. It had given him enough strength to keep going for now, and the pain in his feet had lessened. He stood and walked on, the salt plain pain feeling like nothing more than a faint tingle now. He clutched the egg protectively and reached the lip of the caldera. The true eruption had not yet begun - the magma was still building pressure below the surface - but it was too hot already for any human to survive. Ember felt the phoenix egg twitching in his fist. It felt the heat, too, and was getting ready to hatch, but he needed to get it deep down first. There was only one way forward. Ember opened his mouth wide and swallowed the egg, being careful not to crack the shell, though really there was little danger of that. He leapt high in the air and dove into the caldera, burrowing into the earth with his internal heat, burning up and pushing aside soil and rock like the volcanic flow he was going to meet.
When he broke through to the high-pressure magma, he was spent, and it burned through him to the phoenix egg in his belly, whose fire-life infused the molten rock. The magma did flow to the surface, but now it brought life, and the Earth was restored.
A week later, Elizabeth sat in her garden, mourning her lost love, when a young bird, the size of a crow but whose feathers shone in reds and yellows and a strange hint of blues, landed nearby. The way its crest fell to one side made it look just a little like Ember, and she smiled for the first time since he had left.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This very strange combination of events is a result of this Chuck Wendig flash fiction challenge.
PPS - My random draw of elements was "Dying Earth paranormal romance featuring a perilous journey and a mythological bird".
"But I love you!"
A single tear of fire escaped Ember's eye and wafted off into the breeze, flickered and died. He brushed her cheek with that warm, soft touch she had grown so fond of.
"I love you too."
He remembered their parting like it was yesterday. The memory of his human lover, Elizabeth, was the only thing that kept Ember going. That, and knowing it was only he, the last fire sprite, who could save the world.
The wind whipped at his hair, and he reached to pull his short burlap cloak tighter around him, before remembering how he had consumed it the night before, for warmth. Across the valley ahead, Ember saw the billows of smoke rising. He could smell the sulphur even from here, and a part of him thought it smelled like home. Ash fell like snow, tickling his nose here. Closer to the supervolcano, it would choke the air.
He checked the egg in its pouch - still intact - leaned his weight on his hiking staff and trudged on down the hard-packed soil.
The valley was dry and dead, covered in a delicate crust of salt. It crunched under his feet and sizzled away, the little trapped moisture evaporating from his body's great heat.
It was painful, like walking on broken glass. Every step, with its pinpricks of water and incombustible salt, sent needles of pain shooting up through Ember's feet to a spot just above and behind his eyes. He grimaced through the pain looking for any breaks in the monotonous salt landscape. Any dried old branch, any clump of withered grass, even just a gap where he could stand on hot sand. There was nothing in sight. Just the salt and its relentless stinging underfoot.
Halfway across the valley, Ember's feet had swollen to the size of footballs. They looked like crystal clubs, with an accumulation of salt on every side. They stung and ached. He felt he couldn't go on, and fell to his knees, the walking staff no longer supporting him. He let out a yelp of pain as the salt bit into his knees and shins, fresh skin that had not yet burned. He whimpered and sat there, wallowing in self-pity. The sulphurous smell of the supervolcano called him on, and the phoenix egg needed to be delivered, but he couldn't take one more step. The only thing he had left to eat was the staff itself, his grandfather's.
He looked at the staff, at the volcano, back to the staff. He noted its intricate carvings, the carefully hand-burnt patterns that coloured them. He took special note of the delicate head, carved somehow in three delicate concentric shells, one inside another, like spiderweb eggs of oak. He would eat that part last.
Among the many things Elizabeth had taught him was to appreciate old things that take time, details and artistry, love of fine work. She was a sculptor who dabbled in photography, and they met while Ember was just a teenager, really, stoking a bush fire with glee. She had been photographing the fire, the damage, the ashes left behind, for a new sculpture on loss. Ember had just been burning everything in sight, consuming old wood and new, houses, trees, bushes, animals, anything he could get his destructive hands on.
She shouldn't have been able to see him, but something caught her eye.
"Who ... what are you?" she asked, blunt and to the point. It was the first thing he loved about her.
He had looked around for a few seconds, trying to decide if she was looking at him.
"Yes, you," she said, with a laugh.
Their giddy romance lasted just a few months before the world started to burn and Ember realised his phoenix egg - his most prized possession - would renew the whole planet if dropped into the supervolcano. And he was the only one who could get close enough to the heat.
While he was reminiscing, Ember noticed, he had eaten most of the walking staff, leaving the delicate head. It had given him enough strength to keep going for now, and the pain in his feet had lessened. He stood and walked on, the salt plain pain feeling like nothing more than a faint tingle now. He clutched the egg protectively and reached the lip of the caldera. The true eruption had not yet begun - the magma was still building pressure below the surface - but it was too hot already for any human to survive. Ember felt the phoenix egg twitching in his fist. It felt the heat, too, and was getting ready to hatch, but he needed to get it deep down first. There was only one way forward. Ember opened his mouth wide and swallowed the egg, being careful not to crack the shell, though really there was little danger of that. He leapt high in the air and dove into the caldera, burrowing into the earth with his internal heat, burning up and pushing aside soil and rock like the volcanic flow he was going to meet.
When he broke through to the high-pressure magma, he was spent, and it burned through him to the phoenix egg in his belly, whose fire-life infused the molten rock. The magma did flow to the surface, but now it brought life, and the Earth was restored.
A week later, Elizabeth sat in her garden, mourning her lost love, when a young bird, the size of a crow but whose feathers shone in reds and yellows and a strange hint of blues, landed nearby. The way its crest fell to one side made it look just a little like Ember, and she smiled for the first time since he had left.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This very strange combination of events is a result of this Chuck Wendig flash fiction challenge.
PPS - My random draw of elements was "Dying Earth paranormal romance featuring a perilous journey and a mythological bird".
Friday, 7 June 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - A Wolf With a Chainsaw
WARNING: Today's flash fiction is rated MA15+ for graphic violence. Seriously, I feel like apologising for this in advance.
So I've been reading Chuck Wendig's blog, and occasionally he posts flash fiction challenges. I'm a bit behind on these, so this contest has already closed, but I wanted to give it a go anyway. The challenge (found here) was to have two random genres chosen for you from a list of 20 and write a flash fiction piece in the combination of those genres.
I got "splatterpunk" and "fairy tale". Therefore, I present for your disgust "A Wolf With a Chainsaw".
So what do you think? I couldn't really figure out how to write the sound of a chainsaw. Maybe I should have just embedded a sound file.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I'm also pleased with my pig names.
PPS - I could only think of two famous people called "Bacon", though.
So I've been reading Chuck Wendig's blog, and occasionally he posts flash fiction challenges. I'm a bit behind on these, so this contest has already closed, but I wanted to give it a go anyway. The challenge (found here) was to have two random genres chosen for you from a list of 20 and write a flash fiction piece in the combination of those genres.
I got "splatterpunk" and "fairy tale". Therefore, I present for your disgust "A Wolf With a Chainsaw".
"WOLF!" cried the youngest pig as he crashed through his older brother's twig door and slammed it behind him. Before he could explain, the sounds of a chainsaw starting up could be heard coming steadily closer.
RRN-RRN-d-d-d-d! RRN-d-d-d-d!
The pigs looked at each other with wide-eyed terror, considering and dismissing their options with great speed. All the while, the chainsaw sounds grew closer.
RRN-d-d-d-d! RRN-RRN-d-d-d-d!
"He's crazy!" said the younger pig, known as Kevin. "What do we do?"
His brother, Francis, was marginally more calm. "We have to get out of here. Run to safety."
As Kevin was about to ask where they would find anywhere the maniac wolf with the chainsaw couldn't get to them, the chainsaw sound, now right outside, revved up and the walls started splintering.
RRRR! RRRR! The twigs shattered and flew away as the chainsaw carved through the wall and door, making a crazed diagonal slice. After a moment's pause, it poked through the wall again, cutting diagonally down the other way, forming a huge X in the wall. Bits of twig fell away, making some triangular holes, but it was far from a door yet.
"Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!" screamed the maniac wolf, poking his snout through the gaps.
"Get away! What the hell do you want?" asked Francis.
"I want" began the wolf, licking his lips, "dinner!"
At that moment, Kevin smacked a plank of wood into the wolf's exposed snout, which withdrew quickly from the hole, howling in pain. He revved the chainsaw again, and managed to make it sound angry, as much as such things are possible.
The wolf cut more slices in the wall, making a jagged door for himself, and burst in brandishing his motorised weapon, eyes wide and bloodshot, breathing quick and shallow.
Kevin and Francis squealed and ran in opposite directions through the small house, looking for hiding places or a way out. None were good enough to evade the wolf's keen sense of smell.
He found Kevin in the kitchen, trying to shelter under the table, so he raised his chainsaw and brought it down in the middle, laughing hysterically, cutting right through the wooden surface. He had almost reached the terrified pig when Francis whalloped him from behind with a cricket bat.
The wolf yowled, then extracted his chainsaw from the table, turning it on Francis. Francis took another swipe at the wolf, but he was too slow. The wolf dodged out of the way and swung his weapon down, sawing through the pig's left front trotter. The blood sprayed out, and in his panic Francis waved the limb all over, spraying blood in all directions - over the wolf, on the walls, on the floor, over his ruined kitchen table and his younger brother, before he regained enough composure to stuff the stump under his other arm and clamp down to stop the bleeding. The wolf held his chainsaw in just his left paw for a moment to pick up the severed trotter and gnaw on it for a second. He smacked his lips in appreciation.
"Yes, little pig. You'll do very nicely."
Francis yelped and dashed for the front room, aiming for the door or the hole the wolf had made, when the door burst inwards. Francis couldn't see who it was standing there, bow and arrow raised, but it was too much. He stopped dead in his tracks and felt that this was the end. He was going to die.
A woman's voice from the door said "GET DOWN!" and Francis ducked without a second thought. He heard a bowstring release an arrow which thunked into something meaty behind him. Turning to look, he saw the wolf with a hollow shaft protruding from his heart, channelling the high-pressure blood out in great gouts, dripping from the end in blobs and spurts, pooling on the floor in front of him. The wolf, his face still a mask of surprise, his chainsaw dropped by his side, fell to the floor and flopped forwards, pushing the arrow right through and out his back.
Kevin appeared from the kitchen and called out to the shape in the doorway, "Snow White! It's so good to see you! Thank you!"
Snow White smiled. "My pleasure, pig. Now," she nocked another arrow and aimed it at him, "how fast can you run?"
So what do you think? I couldn't really figure out how to write the sound of a chainsaw. Maybe I should have just embedded a sound file.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I'm also pleased with my pig names.
PPS - I could only think of two famous people called "Bacon", though.
Friday, 31 May 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - All Dialogue
I noticed, when editing my novel, that I had a tendency to describe conversations, rather than writing them. So I set myself this assignment: a flash story written entirely in dialogue. The result was this ... unsellable mass. It's still coherent, and it was easier to write than I expected, which probably means I got better at dialogue since the beginning of my first novel, but it was still tricky to pull together.
"What do you see?"
"Over the hill?"
"Yeah."
"A camp. Battle camp."
"How many soldiers?"
"Hard to say. I keep losing count at a few hundred tents. Keep your head down, will you?"
"I'm just trying to see!"
"You'll get your chance in a minute."
"It's cold."
"Didn't they tell you that when you enlisted?"
"I thought it was just to discourage the weak ones."
"They don't do that. They tell you whatever they need to if it will get you to enlist. That includes telling you things that make you think you're tougher than everyone else."
"Oh."
"Hey, don't worry about it. They told me I'd be a captain in three years, with my own squad."
"But you are a captain."
"It's been eleven years."
"Oh. So they just sort of lied?"
"Keep quiet. Someone's coming."
...
"It was over here?"
"Yes, just here on the hill, I swear I saw something."
"There's nothing here."
"I saw something!"
"What did you see? Something shiny?"
"Yes, like a scope or binocs."
"Well I don't see anything."
"I'm telling you there was something here!"
"Look, it was the end of your night shift. You were bound to lose focus and start imagining-"
"I didn't imagine it!"
"Fine. You keep looking here. I'm going back to camp. It's freezing out here."
...
"I thought he'd never leave."
"How come they couldn't see us?"
"The camoflage is pretty good."
"That was more than camoflage. I saw you when I came up just before, and you were camoflaged."
"It's above your pay grade, kid. Let's leave it at that."
"But-"
"Leave it. It's not your concern."
"What are we going to do about the camp?"
"We wait. If Central want us to take it out, we have to know where to hit first."
"So we just keep watching?"
"And waiting for the word. Where did those two goons go back to?"
"I couldn't see. You have the only binocs."
"Dammit."
"Wouldn't they just be going back to the guard tent anyway?"
"That's a good one to know, though. Can help you plan raids."
"So what do we do if Central wants the camp gone? We're just two people."
"We find their command tent, kill their senior officers, grenade a few others, then reinforcements capture the rest."
"Capture?"
"They're all potential recruits, too."
"How many do we get from them?"
"Only about 10% enlist."
"And the rest?"
"Some others can be brainwashed. Most go to Grundig for his experiments."
"I don't like Grundig."
"Most people don't. He's a butcher and a monster. But he figured out the brainwashing."
"But you said only a few can be brainwashed."
"They're getting better at it. Plus the more soldiers they get to test on, the more they learn."
"Still seems wrong."
"It's not wrong on a long time scale. And if we win the war, we write the history."
"That doesn't make it right, though. Just means we get to spin it our way."
"Hey, why did you enlist?"
"Are you sure you want to know?"
"What does that mean?"
"I never said I did enlist, Captain."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I saw you up here, and we hatched a plan to find out directly from you what happens to our men."
"But-"
"We knew you were expecting reinforcements. We got the kid just before he arrived. These are his clothes I'm wearing."
"But the ... All part of the act, then?"
"All part of the act, Captain."
"Well ... this has been a massive balls-up."
"And you'll be coming with us now."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I hope you ... tolerate it.
PPS - I also started writing a new Sister Margaret story this week.
"What do you see?"
"Over the hill?"
"Yeah."
"A camp. Battle camp."
"How many soldiers?"
"Hard to say. I keep losing count at a few hundred tents. Keep your head down, will you?"
"I'm just trying to see!"
"You'll get your chance in a minute."
"It's cold."
"Didn't they tell you that when you enlisted?"
"I thought it was just to discourage the weak ones."
"They don't do that. They tell you whatever they need to if it will get you to enlist. That includes telling you things that make you think you're tougher than everyone else."
"Oh."
"Hey, don't worry about it. They told me I'd be a captain in three years, with my own squad."
"But you are a captain."
"It's been eleven years."
"Oh. So they just sort of lied?"
"Keep quiet. Someone's coming."
...
"It was over here?"
"Yes, just here on the hill, I swear I saw something."
"There's nothing here."
"I saw something!"
"What did you see? Something shiny?"
"Yes, like a scope or binocs."
"Well I don't see anything."
"I'm telling you there was something here!"
"Look, it was the end of your night shift. You were bound to lose focus and start imagining-"
"I didn't imagine it!"
"Fine. You keep looking here. I'm going back to camp. It's freezing out here."
...
"I thought he'd never leave."
"How come they couldn't see us?"
"The camoflage is pretty good."
"That was more than camoflage. I saw you when I came up just before, and you were camoflaged."
"It's above your pay grade, kid. Let's leave it at that."
"But-"
"Leave it. It's not your concern."
"What are we going to do about the camp?"
"We wait. If Central want us to take it out, we have to know where to hit first."
"So we just keep watching?"
"And waiting for the word. Where did those two goons go back to?"
"I couldn't see. You have the only binocs."
"Dammit."
"Wouldn't they just be going back to the guard tent anyway?"
"That's a good one to know, though. Can help you plan raids."
"So what do we do if Central wants the camp gone? We're just two people."
"We find their command tent, kill their senior officers, grenade a few others, then reinforcements capture the rest."
"Capture?"
"They're all potential recruits, too."
"How many do we get from them?"
"Only about 10% enlist."
"And the rest?"
"Some others can be brainwashed. Most go to Grundig for his experiments."
"I don't like Grundig."
"Most people don't. He's a butcher and a monster. But he figured out the brainwashing."
"But you said only a few can be brainwashed."
"They're getting better at it. Plus the more soldiers they get to test on, the more they learn."
"Still seems wrong."
"It's not wrong on a long time scale. And if we win the war, we write the history."
"That doesn't make it right, though. Just means we get to spin it our way."
"Hey, why did you enlist?"
"Are you sure you want to know?"
"What does that mean?"
"I never said I did enlist, Captain."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I saw you up here, and we hatched a plan to find out directly from you what happens to our men."
"But-"
"We knew you were expecting reinforcements. We got the kid just before he arrived. These are his clothes I'm wearing."
"But the ... All part of the act, then?"
"All part of the act, Captain."
"Well ... this has been a massive balls-up."
"And you'll be coming with us now."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I hope you ... tolerate it.
PPS - I also started writing a new Sister Margaret story this week.
Friday, 3 May 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Necradia
Necradia stood back, watching with arms raised like a puppeteer, as her small herd of zombies attacked the bank tellers. Their screams filled the air, drowning out the alarm, and she closed her eyes to savour it.
It was then, just when she was starting to enjoy herself, that a young woman, no older than Necradia herself, managed to scramble across the floor and drop to her knees in front of her. The woman's face was streaked with blood, and her tears had run her mascara down her cheeks, in a look similar to the one Necradia herself had worn last season. _Well, without all the snot, of course,_ she thought to herself. She was about to call one of her zombies back to deal with the woman when she spoke.
"PLEASE STOP IT! For the love of God, call them off! We'll give you whatever you want, just stop it! Why are you doing this?"
Looking down into the woman's pleading eyes, hearing the desperation in her voice, Necradia had just a moment of doubt. As if in slow motion, she looked around the bank, noting the carnage everywhere, and for once she could not stand to take it all in. Her eyes skipped over it, trying not to register the details of the horrific scene she had wrought, but as the alarms kept sounding and the screams burbled down, everywhere she turned it was severed this, dismembered that, pool of coagulating such-and-such. It all looked so ... shocking.
She shut her eyes tight. _What's happening to me?_ she wondered, then felt an unusual warm spot where the woman on the floor was touching her leg. Opening her eyes, she saw a soft, blue-white glow under the palm of the woman's hand. Necradia jerked her leg away, but the nauseating feeling persisted. The room began to spin, and she grabbed onto a hand railing for balance. She turned to the woman on the floor.
"What did you do?" she asked, her voice a mix of awe and dread. Before the woman could answer, the zombies had converged on her, turning any response into more screaming. Though Necradia did, at last, call them off, it was too late. Whatever the mysterious woman had done, Necradia would not find out from her now. She heard sirens in the distance, and recognised that she would or should be feeling like that was the start of the real party, but the feeling wasn't there. She hesitated, then took the handle of just one of the bags of cash from the vault, hovered a short distance into the air to make sure she wasn't still woozy, then flew off, out the door and accelerated to full speed over the rooftops. Her zombies would follow on foot, or distract the cops long enough for her to get away. They'd catch up, or she'd summon more if they died. She started feeling bad for them, then wondered at that. There were always more zombies. Why feel anything at all for these ones?
Whatever that woman had done, Necradia hoped it wasn't permanent, but she had a horrible sinking feeling that she'd been infected with something. Something, she made a face, good, like "compassion".
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Necradia was my favourite of my City of Villains characters.
PPS - She was how I explored the "Going Rogue" expansion.
It was then, just when she was starting to enjoy herself, that a young woman, no older than Necradia herself, managed to scramble across the floor and drop to her knees in front of her. The woman's face was streaked with blood, and her tears had run her mascara down her cheeks, in a look similar to the one Necradia herself had worn last season. _Well, without all the snot, of course,_ she thought to herself. She was about to call one of her zombies back to deal with the woman when she spoke.
"PLEASE STOP IT! For the love of God, call them off! We'll give you whatever you want, just stop it! Why are you doing this?"
Looking down into the woman's pleading eyes, hearing the desperation in her voice, Necradia had just a moment of doubt. As if in slow motion, she looked around the bank, noting the carnage everywhere, and for once she could not stand to take it all in. Her eyes skipped over it, trying not to register the details of the horrific scene she had wrought, but as the alarms kept sounding and the screams burbled down, everywhere she turned it was severed this, dismembered that, pool of coagulating such-and-such. It all looked so ... shocking.
She shut her eyes tight. _What's happening to me?_ she wondered, then felt an unusual warm spot where the woman on the floor was touching her leg. Opening her eyes, she saw a soft, blue-white glow under the palm of the woman's hand. Necradia jerked her leg away, but the nauseating feeling persisted. The room began to spin, and she grabbed onto a hand railing for balance. She turned to the woman on the floor.
"What did you do?" she asked, her voice a mix of awe and dread. Before the woman could answer, the zombies had converged on her, turning any response into more screaming. Though Necradia did, at last, call them off, it was too late. Whatever the mysterious woman had done, Necradia would not find out from her now. She heard sirens in the distance, and recognised that she would or should be feeling like that was the start of the real party, but the feeling wasn't there. She hesitated, then took the handle of just one of the bags of cash from the vault, hovered a short distance into the air to make sure she wasn't still woozy, then flew off, out the door and accelerated to full speed over the rooftops. Her zombies would follow on foot, or distract the cops long enough for her to get away. They'd catch up, or she'd summon more if they died. She started feeling bad for them, then wondered at that. There were always more zombies. Why feel anything at all for these ones?
Whatever that woman had done, Necradia hoped it wasn't permanent, but she had a horrible sinking feeling that she'd been infected with something. Something, she made a face, good, like "compassion".
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Necradia was my favourite of my City of Villains characters.
PPS - She was how I explored the "Going Rogue" expansion.
Friday, 26 April 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Heroics
Dire Sun had been living on his own for three months now. The army didn't seem to have followed him. Nobody from the Red Giant program had shown up to take him away again. His former squadmate, codenamed "EKG", had left as soon as he'd regained consciousness after the escape. Dire Sun hoped EKG was doing well for himself.
He stalked the aisles of the all-night grocery store, feeling out of place, pushing a trolley that seemed just a little too small. His bulky body and ham-hock hands made him feel out of place everywhere, and people tended to stare. His mountainous frame was built for battle, not suburbia. He felt better when he avoided people, hence the all-night grocery store at 1am.
As he was trying to decide between some different cuts of steak to go with his daily pasta dish, he heard a commotion at the front of the store. He peeked around the end of the aisle to see what was going on. Some punk kid with a knife trying to rob the register. Don't get involved, don't get involved, he thought to himself, eyes squeezed shut. He was wearing his army fatigues just because it was laundry day, so he felt like keeping an extra-low profile today. But when the woman at the checkout screamed, his body leapt into action of its own accord.
Dire Sun rounded the corner of the aisle and bounded down it, picking up speed. The shelves shook and his heavy footsteps echoed all through the store. Halfway down he gave a yell which drew the robber's attention. The kid's head snapped up in surprise, just before Dire Sun's full bulk smashed him into the back wall. He was knocked out cold, and Dire Sun extracted himself from the massive dent he had made.
"Oh, thank you so much!" said the distraught cashier through her tears. She wiped them away and took a better look at her rescuer. "I haven't seen you somewhere before, have I?"
"I ... shop here a lot," he said, starting to squirm. He noticed the kid coming around, so took out a zip tie from his pocket and hog-tied the kid's hands to his feet in a smooth, practised motion.
"I should ... get going," he said, and turned to head out the doors.
"What about your food? Oh, and we should take a picture! For the news or at least for my Facebook. Please?" She was looking at his enormous biceps, which flattered him just enough to get him to pose for the picture. He did go back for his shopping after that, and the police arrived a few minutes later. And even though it was just police procedure, Dire Sun found he liked this kind of attention.
He liked it even more the next day when the press showed up to take his picture and get his story. He especially liked that they kept calling him "hero".
A guy could get used to this, he thought.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - The next stage in the journey of Dire Sun.
PPS - I'm trying him out as a character in the Champions Online MMO.
He stalked the aisles of the all-night grocery store, feeling out of place, pushing a trolley that seemed just a little too small. His bulky body and ham-hock hands made him feel out of place everywhere, and people tended to stare. His mountainous frame was built for battle, not suburbia. He felt better when he avoided people, hence the all-night grocery store at 1am.
As he was trying to decide between some different cuts of steak to go with his daily pasta dish, he heard a commotion at the front of the store. He peeked around the end of the aisle to see what was going on. Some punk kid with a knife trying to rob the register. Don't get involved, don't get involved, he thought to himself, eyes squeezed shut. He was wearing his army fatigues just because it was laundry day, so he felt like keeping an extra-low profile today. But when the woman at the checkout screamed, his body leapt into action of its own accord.
Dire Sun rounded the corner of the aisle and bounded down it, picking up speed. The shelves shook and his heavy footsteps echoed all through the store. Halfway down he gave a yell which drew the robber's attention. The kid's head snapped up in surprise, just before Dire Sun's full bulk smashed him into the back wall. He was knocked out cold, and Dire Sun extracted himself from the massive dent he had made.
"Oh, thank you so much!" said the distraught cashier through her tears. She wiped them away and took a better look at her rescuer. "I haven't seen you somewhere before, have I?"
"I ... shop here a lot," he said, starting to squirm. He noticed the kid coming around, so took out a zip tie from his pocket and hog-tied the kid's hands to his feet in a smooth, practised motion.
"I should ... get going," he said, and turned to head out the doors.
"What about your food? Oh, and we should take a picture! For the news or at least for my Facebook. Please?" She was looking at his enormous biceps, which flattered him just enough to get him to pose for the picture. He did go back for his shopping after that, and the police arrived a few minutes later. And even though it was just police procedure, Dire Sun found he liked this kind of attention.
He liked it even more the next day when the press showed up to take his picture and get his story. He especially liked that they kept calling him "hero".
A guy could get used to this, he thought.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - The next stage in the journey of Dire Sun.
PPS - I'm trying him out as a character in the Champions Online MMO.
Friday, 19 April 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Brothers on the Marsh
Two figures, brothers, trudged across the marsh, tall rubber boots splattered with mud. They travelled without speaking. Any voice could disturb the purpose of their trip. When one stumbled, the other offered a hand to help him up. When they crossed a gully, they helped lower each other down and boosted or hauled each other up the other side.
The ground grew softer with every step. Every metre they travelled took longer than the one before, but they had to go on. Their goal was visible ahead, where the maps had said it would be - a silver-coloured tree in the middle of the marsh, bare of leaves, glinting in the sunlight, standing alone.
The younger brother, who was not younger by much, stepped by mistake into a bog hole, sinking up to his middle. He caught his breath before he cried out in surprise. The elder brother gestured at him to keep still and, in the thick mud around the hole, searched for a solid place to pull his sibling to safety.
The best place was not perfect, not even very good, but it would have to do. He tied a rope around his middle, made his footing as secure as he could, tied another loop in the other end of the rope and threw it to his stuck brother. The stuck man shuffled his shoulders into the loop, secured it as best he could, then gave the signal to be hauled out.
The rope pulled taut and the younger brother in the bog fell forwards, his head submerged for a breathless moment. The other man pulled faster, and his head emerged with his gasp for air. He helped pull himself out, when his arms were free, but his boots had been lost at the bottom of the sticky mudhole.
Both men stood still, trying to decide what to do. The younger brother gestured that the older should go on, the older indicated that they should turn back. It was not safe to travel on the marsh barefoot. The promise of the silver tree and its glassy, miraculous sap would not be worth anything if they could not make it there or back. The younger pleaded with his eyes. The tree was so close, and it would surely be just as treacherous to travel back now as to go on a little further first.
The older brother sighed and assented. They trudged on, even more carefully now, the younger brother getting more exhausted with every step, his boots no longer helping his footing, but they reached the base of the silver tree. The glass-like sap of the silver tree, when conditions were right, could harden into a bead the shape of a water drop, as hard as rock on one end, but explosively fragile if the pointed tip were fractured. It was said to happen only once or twice a decade, and only here on the dreaded marsh. The medicine man had asked for one of the beads as the price for curing their brother. None of them knew whether such a bead would be here, or if the brothers could bring it back intact.
They examined the tree from root to branch tip, searching for the bead of sap, until they finally found one, tiny and delicate, clinging to the tip of one twig. It refracted the sunlight into a little rainbow circle with rays cutting across it. The brothers could see why the medicine man wanted it, and why they were so valuable.
The younger brother, with as much care as he could muster, plucked the bead from the twig and rested it in the padded box they had brought. He tied it closed, wrapped the box in a blanket, and eased it into his pack. They smiled at each other. If they made it back in time, their youngest brother would live, and everything would be fine.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - The bead of sap I describe is essentially a Prince Rupert's Drop.
PPS - Though those are made of glass and cooled in water.
The ground grew softer with every step. Every metre they travelled took longer than the one before, but they had to go on. Their goal was visible ahead, where the maps had said it would be - a silver-coloured tree in the middle of the marsh, bare of leaves, glinting in the sunlight, standing alone.
The younger brother, who was not younger by much, stepped by mistake into a bog hole, sinking up to his middle. He caught his breath before he cried out in surprise. The elder brother gestured at him to keep still and, in the thick mud around the hole, searched for a solid place to pull his sibling to safety.
The best place was not perfect, not even very good, but it would have to do. He tied a rope around his middle, made his footing as secure as he could, tied another loop in the other end of the rope and threw it to his stuck brother. The stuck man shuffled his shoulders into the loop, secured it as best he could, then gave the signal to be hauled out.
The rope pulled taut and the younger brother in the bog fell forwards, his head submerged for a breathless moment. The other man pulled faster, and his head emerged with his gasp for air. He helped pull himself out, when his arms were free, but his boots had been lost at the bottom of the sticky mudhole.
Both men stood still, trying to decide what to do. The younger brother gestured that the older should go on, the older indicated that they should turn back. It was not safe to travel on the marsh barefoot. The promise of the silver tree and its glassy, miraculous sap would not be worth anything if they could not make it there or back. The younger pleaded with his eyes. The tree was so close, and it would surely be just as treacherous to travel back now as to go on a little further first.
The older brother sighed and assented. They trudged on, even more carefully now, the younger brother getting more exhausted with every step, his boots no longer helping his footing, but they reached the base of the silver tree. The glass-like sap of the silver tree, when conditions were right, could harden into a bead the shape of a water drop, as hard as rock on one end, but explosively fragile if the pointed tip were fractured. It was said to happen only once or twice a decade, and only here on the dreaded marsh. The medicine man had asked for one of the beads as the price for curing their brother. None of them knew whether such a bead would be here, or if the brothers could bring it back intact.
They examined the tree from root to branch tip, searching for the bead of sap, until they finally found one, tiny and delicate, clinging to the tip of one twig. It refracted the sunlight into a little rainbow circle with rays cutting across it. The brothers could see why the medicine man wanted it, and why they were so valuable.
The younger brother, with as much care as he could muster, plucked the bead from the twig and rested it in the padded box they had brought. He tied it closed, wrapped the box in a blanket, and eased it into his pack. They smiled at each other. If they made it back in time, their youngest brother would live, and everything would be fine.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - The bead of sap I describe is essentially a Prince Rupert's Drop.
PPS - Though those are made of glass and cooled in water.
Friday, 12 April 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Bane Mage
The figure standing over Randall looked just like the stories he had heard. A sorceress escaped from Hell, wearing torn, dark latex and a severe, straight haircut covering half her face. Her fist glowed with blue-white energy. She was standing with one foot on his chest and a furious, almost crazy, glint in her eye. Bane Mage, crime-fighting "superhero". She'd been hauled in front of the Registrar a dozen times for misconduct since arriving in the city, but they always let her back on the streets. She got results. She also patrolled areas where other heroes feared to tread, or fly.
And this was who had stopped Randall from mugging that old lady. Just my luck, he thought to himself.
The energy around her fist glowed brighter, and Bane Mage's grin turned manic. Randall had to try something to avoid getting crispy-fried.
"What did I do? Why are you doing this?"
Bane Mage gave the briefest shake of her head, as if a gnat had landed on her nose. "You know why," she said, and resumed building up her energy for a last strike.
"But it was just a mugging! She got the purse back!"
"So I should just let you go? Not a chance. Evil ... Must ... Be ... Punished!"
Just as her fist seemed like it would blast Randall on its own, Bane Mage turned , slapped at her ear and screamed "WHAT?" The built-up energy beam sizzled against the ground, next to Randall's head.
"No!" she kept saying into her earpiece radio. "He has to ... I have him ... It's my ..." Finally she just started yelling incoherently until she tore off the earpiece and dashed it to the ground where it broke in two.
With some obvious reluctance, Bane Mage pulled out a teleport tag from her belt and slapped it down hard on Randall's chest, then gave him a kick in the ribs for good measure.
As he faded out, being teleported to the holding cells at the local police precinct, he heard Bane Mage shout after him "Don't you DARE try this again. Next time, I might be in a bad mood."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This is another of my City of Heroes characters.
PPS - She ... had a lot of personal growth in the story in my head as time went on.
And this was who had stopped Randall from mugging that old lady. Just my luck, he thought to himself.
The energy around her fist glowed brighter, and Bane Mage's grin turned manic. Randall had to try something to avoid getting crispy-fried.
"What did I do? Why are you doing this?"
Bane Mage gave the briefest shake of her head, as if a gnat had landed on her nose. "You know why," she said, and resumed building up her energy for a last strike.
"But it was just a mugging! She got the purse back!"
"So I should just let you go? Not a chance. Evil ... Must ... Be ... Punished!"
Just as her fist seemed like it would blast Randall on its own, Bane Mage turned , slapped at her ear and screamed "WHAT?" The built-up energy beam sizzled against the ground, next to Randall's head.
"No!" she kept saying into her earpiece radio. "He has to ... I have him ... It's my ..." Finally she just started yelling incoherently until she tore off the earpiece and dashed it to the ground where it broke in two.
With some obvious reluctance, Bane Mage pulled out a teleport tag from her belt and slapped it down hard on Randall's chest, then gave him a kick in the ribs for good measure.
As he faded out, being teleported to the holding cells at the local police precinct, he heard Bane Mage shout after him "Don't you DARE try this again. Next time, I might be in a bad mood."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This is another of my City of Heroes characters.
PPS - She ... had a lot of personal growth in the story in my head as time went on.
Friday, 5 April 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Escape
Alarms startled Dire Sun out of a deep sleep in his cell. It took a few seconds to shake the cobwebs free from his mind, but when he realised what was happening, he snapped to full alert, years of training and conditioning kicking in. The rising tone was an evacuation alert. His door was ajar just a few centimetres, which was odd.
He picked up a sidearm and grabbed the cap that kept his bald spot from showing. Force of habit. He strapped on the weapon as he strode out the door and down the passage towards the fire exit. None of the other cell doors were locked, which further confirmed his suspicion that this was no drill. He and his fellow soldiers would be locked in during most mundane drills.
He passed door after door, checking in each one with a quick glance before moving on. Empty, empty, empty. Where was everyone? When he reached the door at the end of the passage, he could smell the smoke.
The door wouldn't budge and the smoke was becoming thicker and more visible. He braced against the floor, put his full weight behind the push, even shoulder-slammed it with his full 175kg of solid muscle, but it didn't even dent.
He pulled the front of his uniform shirt up over his mouth to keep from breathing in too much smoke. It didn't help much, though it might keep him going a little longer. The smoke started to sting his eyes. He raced to the other end of the military-grey corridor and turned a corner, almost tripping over a prone form at his feet. The man's code name didn't come to mind, only his serial number - D14. Dire Sun was D15. He hefted his fellow soldier's unconscious body over his shoulders with a grunt and charged for the fire door at the other end of the corridor. With the weight of two of them, Dire Sun couldn't move fast, but their combined momentum would be unstoppable. As he reached the door, he extended a meaty foot with his last step and let his and his squad mate's mass carry the kick into the door.
His whole frame shuddered with the impact on the reinforced steel, but the locking bolts bent and popped out of place. The door swung free on squealing hinges. The thickening smoke followed them out into open air, and Dire Sun collapsed, allowing D14 to fall from his shoulders and getting his breath back.
In a control room, not far away, a technician turned from his video monitor in disbelief to ask his commander, "Did you see that?"
The commander kept watching with stoic composure. "I saw."
"That was ten centimetres of hardened steel with *six* lock bolts! And he just, you know, POW!" The tech smacked a fist into his open palm to emphasise his point.
"Private, I saw it. It's why we made him."
"But, well, uh, permission to speak freely, sir?"
The commander nodded.
"Why the fire? Why are we doing this to him?"
"Super-soldiers escape, private. It's inevitable. We're just making escape part of the plan."
The technician nodded, without certainty. On the monitor, Dire Sun picked up his fellow soldier again and started for the fence.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Dire Sun was one of my City of Heroes characters.
PPS - I was kind of vague about his back-story, but I think I'd like to write it like this.
He picked up a sidearm and grabbed the cap that kept his bald spot from showing. Force of habit. He strapped on the weapon as he strode out the door and down the passage towards the fire exit. None of the other cell doors were locked, which further confirmed his suspicion that this was no drill. He and his fellow soldiers would be locked in during most mundane drills.
He passed door after door, checking in each one with a quick glance before moving on. Empty, empty, empty. Where was everyone? When he reached the door at the end of the passage, he could smell the smoke.
The door wouldn't budge and the smoke was becoming thicker and more visible. He braced against the floor, put his full weight behind the push, even shoulder-slammed it with his full 175kg of solid muscle, but it didn't even dent.
He pulled the front of his uniform shirt up over his mouth to keep from breathing in too much smoke. It didn't help much, though it might keep him going a little longer. The smoke started to sting his eyes. He raced to the other end of the military-grey corridor and turned a corner, almost tripping over a prone form at his feet. The man's code name didn't come to mind, only his serial number - D14. Dire Sun was D15. He hefted his fellow soldier's unconscious body over his shoulders with a grunt and charged for the fire door at the other end of the corridor. With the weight of two of them, Dire Sun couldn't move fast, but their combined momentum would be unstoppable. As he reached the door, he extended a meaty foot with his last step and let his and his squad mate's mass carry the kick into the door.
His whole frame shuddered with the impact on the reinforced steel, but the locking bolts bent and popped out of place. The door swung free on squealing hinges. The thickening smoke followed them out into open air, and Dire Sun collapsed, allowing D14 to fall from his shoulders and getting his breath back.
In a control room, not far away, a technician turned from his video monitor in disbelief to ask his commander, "Did you see that?"
The commander kept watching with stoic composure. "I saw."
"That was ten centimetres of hardened steel with *six* lock bolts! And he just, you know, POW!" The tech smacked a fist into his open palm to emphasise his point.
"Private, I saw it. It's why we made him."
"But, well, uh, permission to speak freely, sir?"
The commander nodded.
"Why the fire? Why are we doing this to him?"
"Super-soldiers escape, private. It's inevitable. We're just making escape part of the plan."
The technician nodded, without certainty. On the monitor, Dire Sun picked up his fellow soldier again and started for the fence.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - Dire Sun was one of my City of Heroes characters.
PPS - I was kind of vague about his back-story, but I think I'd like to write it like this.
Friday, 29 March 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Adrift
"What is this place?" Karen stared out over the edge of the cliff. They seemed to be above the clouds, whose grey mass rolled and boiled, just out of reach below them. Further out, there was more of the same. There was no horizon - the horizontal expanse of clouds just joined with the sky, curling upwards into a hazy canopy. The leaves in the trees behind them hung still and silent.
"This is the emptiness. The edge of the world, where everything ends," said Karl.
"Why are we here at all?" asked Kasey, working at a rock in the ground with his toe. The other two ignored him. He got the stone loose, picked it up and attempted to skip it across the clouds. To everyone's surprise, it actually did jump once, twice, then dropped out of sight.
Karl knew why they were here. He decided to try and explain.
"You know our world has been dying. Fires don't burn as bright, the sun is a faded red orb in the sky, the air feels thinner. Yes?"
Karen nodded. Kasey tried to work another stone loose.
"We're adrift," said Karl. "A world without anchor."
"Worlds don't have anchors," Kasey objected.
"It's a metaphor," said Karen, then indicated at Karl to go on. He thanked her with a silent nod.
"Our world is one of many. The wizards used to use strong magic travel between worlds nearby - other healthy, strong worlds - but we aren't one of those any more. The River of Worlds-" Kasy began another interruption, but Karen cut him off with a look. "The River holds us together while we're strong, but when the worlds get weak, they drift away. That's what's happening to us now."
There was silence for a while, and they all contemplated the clouds at the edge of their world. Kasey skipped another stone.
"What's at the end of the river?" asked Karen.
"Logjam," said Karl. "The fading, dying worlds all crammed together tight."
"Touching?"
"Edge to edge."
"So right here will be another world, and we can just walk there?"
Karl nodded. They all watched where the horizon should be, imagining it draw just a little bit closer. Kasey pitched another stone and they all watched it skip on the clouds once, twice, three times, four.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This basic idea is from A Heretic By Degrees by Marie Brennan.
PPS - I've linked to the PodCastle version, because that's where I heard the story first.
"This is the emptiness. The edge of the world, where everything ends," said Karl.
"Why are we here at all?" asked Kasey, working at a rock in the ground with his toe. The other two ignored him. He got the stone loose, picked it up and attempted to skip it across the clouds. To everyone's surprise, it actually did jump once, twice, then dropped out of sight.
Karl knew why they were here. He decided to try and explain.
"You know our world has been dying. Fires don't burn as bright, the sun is a faded red orb in the sky, the air feels thinner. Yes?"
Karen nodded. Kasey tried to work another stone loose.
"We're adrift," said Karl. "A world without anchor."
"Worlds don't have anchors," Kasey objected.
"It's a metaphor," said Karen, then indicated at Karl to go on. He thanked her with a silent nod.
"Our world is one of many. The wizards used to use strong magic travel between worlds nearby - other healthy, strong worlds - but we aren't one of those any more. The River of Worlds-" Kasy began another interruption, but Karen cut him off with a look. "The River holds us together while we're strong, but when the worlds get weak, they drift away. That's what's happening to us now."
There was silence for a while, and they all contemplated the clouds at the edge of their world. Kasey skipped another stone.
"What's at the end of the river?" asked Karen.
"Logjam," said Karl. "The fading, dying worlds all crammed together tight."
"Touching?"
"Edge to edge."
"So right here will be another world, and we can just walk there?"
Karl nodded. They all watched where the horizon should be, imagining it draw just a little bit closer. Kasey pitched another stone and they all watched it skip on the clouds once, twice, three times, four.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This basic idea is from A Heretic By Degrees by Marie Brennan.
PPS - I've linked to the PodCastle version, because that's where I heard the story first.
Friday, 22 March 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Fix
"You gotta let me in, man," said Dave, scratching at his forearm. "Just for a little while."
The librarian scowled at the man with contempt. "Forget it, Dave. We took your library card back for a reason."
"Then just gimme something to read out here! Come on, Mike, a novella? a chapbook? A little pamphlet just to take the edge off? Come on."
"Look at yourself, Dave! When was the last time you took a shower?" Mike could hardly stand the sight of his old friend like this, scrawny and jonesing for a read. And I always thought book addiction was a metaphor or a joke he thought to himself. Looking again at his emaciated friend, he couldn't take it any more.
"Dave, if you promise to get help, I can let you in for an hour. You take it easy here. One book. One! You stay near the desk where I can keep an eye on you, and then this afternoon we'll both go and get you some real help, okay?"
Dave nodded with great enthusiasm, and his old friend led him inside at last, wondering exactly who helps someone addicted to reading.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - "When I have a little money, I buy books; and if I have any left, I buy food and clothes." said Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus.
PPS - I don't think he said it in English, though. Just a hunch.
The librarian scowled at the man with contempt. "Forget it, Dave. We took your library card back for a reason."
"Then just gimme something to read out here! Come on, Mike, a novella? a chapbook? A little pamphlet just to take the edge off? Come on."
"Look at yourself, Dave! When was the last time you took a shower?" Mike could hardly stand the sight of his old friend like this, scrawny and jonesing for a read. And I always thought book addiction was a metaphor or a joke he thought to himself. Looking again at his emaciated friend, he couldn't take it any more.
"Dave, if you promise to get help, I can let you in for an hour. You take it easy here. One book. One! You stay near the desk where I can keep an eye on you, and then this afternoon we'll both go and get you some real help, okay?"
Dave nodded with great enthusiasm, and his old friend led him inside at last, wondering exactly who helps someone addicted to reading.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - "When I have a little money, I buy books; and if I have any left, I buy food and clothes." said Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus.
PPS - I don't think he said it in English, though. Just a hunch.
Friday, 15 March 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Making Cuts
With wheir eyes locked over the board room table, Harkin the CEO and Damon the efficency expert faced off, swords drawn.
"This isn't what I called you for," accused the CEO, his voice flat and tense.
"It is," countered the expert. "You just didn't know it would end here."
The CEO circled left, light on his feet, maintaining his stance. "I didn't get here by being weak or slow."
Damon followed around the table, breathing deep and measured. "You didn't stay here by being necessary." For good measure, he made a short jab-feint towards his opponent, more a test than an attack.
Harkin jumped back a step at the feint, then stepped carefully forwards again, still circling. "The company's profits are up 13% this quarter thanks to me! The only reason you're here is to cut costs and make me look even better!"
"That is two reasons. Do you realise that your salary alone is a third of the company's expenses?"
"I earn that salary!"
"How? You haven't introduced a single initiative to the board of directors in a year." Damon gave the table a powerful kick, shifting it a centimetre or two. The CEO went onto his back foot, and Damon had his advantage. He leapt to the middle of the table, two feet at once, and Harkin made the predictable move of slicing low. The expert's feet were already gone, though, as he somersaulted over Harkin's head, landing behind him. He thrust his sword backwards before Harkin could recover from his wild slash and felt it slow as it pierced the other man's body. The CEO fell down, dead. It was a quick death, and would likely make the business section tomorrow.
The company would do fine, thought Damon to himself. The board of directors had been running the place for over a year, without any real help from this buffoon. Without his salary holding them down, they should do even better. He closed the dead man's eyes, lifted him onto the table and arranged his arms to hold his sword like a warrior's tomb. Dignity in death was important for the expert's consultancy.
He sheathed his own sword and collected his fee from the late CEO's assistant, advising her that she should probably seek new employment. She glared at him, hand on the hilt of her dagger, but she did not attack. Harkin didn't mind her anger. He was not in business to make friends, just to make quite literal cuts for efficiency.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I wondered once how corporate politics would feel if it involved literal weapons.
PPS - Probably not a lot like this, but I thought it was fun.
"This isn't what I called you for," accused the CEO, his voice flat and tense.
"It is," countered the expert. "You just didn't know it would end here."
The CEO circled left, light on his feet, maintaining his stance. "I didn't get here by being weak or slow."
Damon followed around the table, breathing deep and measured. "You didn't stay here by being necessary." For good measure, he made a short jab-feint towards his opponent, more a test than an attack.
Harkin jumped back a step at the feint, then stepped carefully forwards again, still circling. "The company's profits are up 13% this quarter thanks to me! The only reason you're here is to cut costs and make me look even better!"
"That is two reasons. Do you realise that your salary alone is a third of the company's expenses?"
"I earn that salary!"
"How? You haven't introduced a single initiative to the board of directors in a year." Damon gave the table a powerful kick, shifting it a centimetre or two. The CEO went onto his back foot, and Damon had his advantage. He leapt to the middle of the table, two feet at once, and Harkin made the predictable move of slicing low. The expert's feet were already gone, though, as he somersaulted over Harkin's head, landing behind him. He thrust his sword backwards before Harkin could recover from his wild slash and felt it slow as it pierced the other man's body. The CEO fell down, dead. It was a quick death, and would likely make the business section tomorrow.
The company would do fine, thought Damon to himself. The board of directors had been running the place for over a year, without any real help from this buffoon. Without his salary holding them down, they should do even better. He closed the dead man's eyes, lifted him onto the table and arranged his arms to hold his sword like a warrior's tomb. Dignity in death was important for the expert's consultancy.
He sheathed his own sword and collected his fee from the late CEO's assistant, advising her that she should probably seek new employment. She glared at him, hand on the hilt of her dagger, but she did not attack. Harkin didn't mind her anger. He was not in business to make friends, just to make quite literal cuts for efficiency.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I wondered once how corporate politics would feel if it involved literal weapons.
PPS - Probably not a lot like this, but I thought it was fun.
Friday, 8 March 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Older
The old man did not wish to be recognised. No matter his precautions, there was still a chance of that though. On his way to the train station he stopped to buy a magazine. Something about cars should be a sufficient disguise.
The train arrived one minute late, just as he remembered from the first time he was here so many years ago. He found the seat he needed, near the centre of the carriage, beside the young familiar face. The young man was reading, near the end of a long novel. He would not look up. The appearance of an old man was nothing remarkable, and the magazine would throw off any hint of recognition.
Between two stations, the old man folded his magazine and braced himself against the seat carefully. That was when the train lurched, jumped off the tracks and toppled over, sliding sideways along the tracks in a cacophony of distressed metal and screaming people.
When the train came to a rest, the old man was unconscious. The young man was injured, and felt like just sitting still, but saw the old man lying across the seats, helpless. Through the smoke and the hot metal, the young man managed to hoist the old man up and carry him the short distance away from the tracks, to relative safety. Just as they cleared the carriage, it started burning and filling up with choking smoke. Another few seconds inside and they would have both been dead.
The old man woke, coughing and spluttering, he grabbed the young man by the arm with surprising strength, and spoke: "When the time comes, remember why you did this." Then he passed out again. He never woke up.
The young man sat staring at the old man for a while, trying to place his face. Was he someone he'd seen on the train before? Maybe he was a distant uncle he'd met at some family gathering.
Then it all started coming together. That nose. The mole to the left of his chin. The scar on his right arm where he - they both - had fallen when nine years old. He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the impossible idea, but there was no denying it. The old man had saved his life because they were the same person. And when the time came, somehow, he would have to return the favour to himself somehow.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I dug this almost fully formed from my writing ideas file.
PPS - I haven't spent as much time on it as I would have liked, though.
The train arrived one minute late, just as he remembered from the first time he was here so many years ago. He found the seat he needed, near the centre of the carriage, beside the young familiar face. The young man was reading, near the end of a long novel. He would not look up. The appearance of an old man was nothing remarkable, and the magazine would throw off any hint of recognition.
Between two stations, the old man folded his magazine and braced himself against the seat carefully. That was when the train lurched, jumped off the tracks and toppled over, sliding sideways along the tracks in a cacophony of distressed metal and screaming people.
When the train came to a rest, the old man was unconscious. The young man was injured, and felt like just sitting still, but saw the old man lying across the seats, helpless. Through the smoke and the hot metal, the young man managed to hoist the old man up and carry him the short distance away from the tracks, to relative safety. Just as they cleared the carriage, it started burning and filling up with choking smoke. Another few seconds inside and they would have both been dead.
The old man woke, coughing and spluttering, he grabbed the young man by the arm with surprising strength, and spoke: "When the time comes, remember why you did this." Then he passed out again. He never woke up.
The young man sat staring at the old man for a while, trying to place his face. Was he someone he'd seen on the train before? Maybe he was a distant uncle he'd met at some family gathering.
Then it all started coming together. That nose. The mole to the left of his chin. The scar on his right arm where he - they both - had fallen when nine years old. He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the impossible idea, but there was no denying it. The old man had saved his life because they were the same person. And when the time came, somehow, he would have to return the favour to himself somehow.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I dug this almost fully formed from my writing ideas file.
PPS - I haven't spent as much time on it as I would have liked, though.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - The Real Martin
Martin was not an upstanding member of any level of society. He drank too much, had frequent violent outbursts and smoked unusual substances like he was going for some kind of record. He had a famous musician for a father and a semi-famous mother who had very little to offer society.
In other words, Martin was perfect reality TV fodder.
The station hounded him non-stop about it, saying, among other things, that it would help get the papparazzi off his back. Never mind that the station sent most of the photographers in the first place to make their point.
When Martin finally agreed (somewhere in the middle of a drunken tirade about there being no good clubs in the city) the lawyers pushed a pen and contract into his hands and the deed was done. They set him up with jobs at big, respectable firms, and he would be fired very quickly afterwards, sometimes on the same day. He would throw reams of paper at people in the copy room, spike the water cooler with vodka, proposition the secretaries and took clients to lunch at disreputable establishments.
And the whole world loved it. It was the easiest reality show the network had ever produced - they didn't have to fake, set up or prompt anything. In that sense, Martin was the easiest reality star they had ever worked with.
If not for The Incident, life would have continued to be roses for both Martin and the network for a long time.
In the middle of season 3, Martin was working at an industrial bakery and had just been fired for getting his cigarette ash in the dough. He was sitting in the gutter outside, cig still in one hand, 9am beer in the other, when an ex-girlfriend wandered up. The crew fired up the second camera to get good footage of the inevitable fight, but they weren't prepared for what happened next.
As she recognised him, the girl sat down beside Martin and just started asking, softly, "what's wrong?" over and over until he spilled his guts.
"It's just ... I try so [bleep] hard, you know? I have a good time at work, try to make friends - I'm really trying, right? And then they fire me and it's like, what was I doing wrong? What do people want from me?"
"They want you, Martin. They want to get to know you, without the drugs and booze. You remember why we broke up?"
Martin sniffed and wiped his nose with hsi beer hand. "Love, I hardly remember your name. Oh, [bleep], I'm so sorry. Who are you?"
She smiled. "I'm Angela. I tend bar at The Twisted Weasel?" Martin nodded, eyes somewhat glazed. "It's okay. The point is, even with your fun-loving personality and your camera crew, people can't see you. I couldn't see you when we were together."
"What do you mean?"
"All I mean is that people don't need the party animal. They just need you."
Martin set his beer down and dropped his still-burning cigarette butt into it, though neither was even half finished yet. He gave Angela a hug, which was almost unheard-of for Martin, and she excused herself, wishing him well, then glaring daggers at the cameras as she left.
From then on, Martin just wasn't as much fun for the cameras. He cut way back on his drinking and smoking, and he held down jobs for weeks at a time. Despite the crew's prodding and tempting, he just wasn't interested in wild parties any more. The crew scrambled to find more interesting footage than Martin calmly making fifty copies of a report and turning them in on time. The whole show crumbled, but Martin seemed a lot better. It just turned out that happy Martin was bad TV, so the show had to be cancelled. And that, finally, was what made Martin truly happy.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This is much later than I usually post for Friday, so I'm sorry.
PPS - But it is still Friday.
In other words, Martin was perfect reality TV fodder.
The station hounded him non-stop about it, saying, among other things, that it would help get the papparazzi off his back. Never mind that the station sent most of the photographers in the first place to make their point.
When Martin finally agreed (somewhere in the middle of a drunken tirade about there being no good clubs in the city) the lawyers pushed a pen and contract into his hands and the deed was done. They set him up with jobs at big, respectable firms, and he would be fired very quickly afterwards, sometimes on the same day. He would throw reams of paper at people in the copy room, spike the water cooler with vodka, proposition the secretaries and took clients to lunch at disreputable establishments.
And the whole world loved it. It was the easiest reality show the network had ever produced - they didn't have to fake, set up or prompt anything. In that sense, Martin was the easiest reality star they had ever worked with.
If not for The Incident, life would have continued to be roses for both Martin and the network for a long time.
In the middle of season 3, Martin was working at an industrial bakery and had just been fired for getting his cigarette ash in the dough. He was sitting in the gutter outside, cig still in one hand, 9am beer in the other, when an ex-girlfriend wandered up. The crew fired up the second camera to get good footage of the inevitable fight, but they weren't prepared for what happened next.
As she recognised him, the girl sat down beside Martin and just started asking, softly, "what's wrong?" over and over until he spilled his guts.
"It's just ... I try so [bleep] hard, you know? I have a good time at work, try to make friends - I'm really trying, right? And then they fire me and it's like, what was I doing wrong? What do people want from me?"
"They want you, Martin. They want to get to know you, without the drugs and booze. You remember why we broke up?"
Martin sniffed and wiped his nose with hsi beer hand. "Love, I hardly remember your name. Oh, [bleep], I'm so sorry. Who are you?"
She smiled. "I'm Angela. I tend bar at The Twisted Weasel?" Martin nodded, eyes somewhat glazed. "It's okay. The point is, even with your fun-loving personality and your camera crew, people can't see you. I couldn't see you when we were together."
"What do you mean?"
"All I mean is that people don't need the party animal. They just need you."
Martin set his beer down and dropped his still-burning cigarette butt into it, though neither was even half finished yet. He gave Angela a hug, which was almost unheard-of for Martin, and she excused herself, wishing him well, then glaring daggers at the cameras as she left.
From then on, Martin just wasn't as much fun for the cameras. He cut way back on his drinking and smoking, and he held down jobs for weeks at a time. Despite the crew's prodding and tempting, he just wasn't interested in wild parties any more. The crew scrambled to find more interesting footage than Martin calmly making fifty copies of a report and turning them in on time. The whole show crumbled, but Martin seemed a lot better. It just turned out that happy Martin was bad TV, so the show had to be cancelled. And that, finally, was what made Martin truly happy.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This is much later than I usually post for Friday, so I'm sorry.
PPS - But it is still Friday.
Friday, 22 February 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - The Institute
The Institute was opened on a convergence of leylines. On the site previously had lived a jail which had later been converted into an 18th century insane asylum. It wasn't a pleasant spirit on which to found a peaceful sanctuary for the magically afflicted, but it would have to do.
Director Cobb recrossed her legs under her desk, fidgeted with her pen and let her tail swish freely through the gap cut in her chair. The budget was disturbing her. Again. One of the problems with living on a mystical convergence was the insurance: it kept going up, month by month, and Cobb was never sure if their numbers would add up the same way twice. The fae mathematics behind it were beyond her, but it seemed they were beyond the abilities of the outsourced accounting firm, too.
She stood from her desk and stretched her legs, removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She needed a walk to clear her head, so she strolled past the wide, apportioned rooms (furnished inside the old jail cells, but spaced with much more generosity), down the back stairs and into the garden. Officially, in their brochure for prospective tenants, it was called "The Enchanted Garden", and they'd had plans for manicured lawns and hedges, topiary, a fountain and perhaps even a waist-high hedge maze. Cobb's tail twitched in irritation as it brushed the top of the unmowed grass. The groundskeeper had been slacking again, but they couldn't fire him. He was the only one who could keep the venus fly traps from growing too large and eating residents.
Finally, Cobb came to the fountain, which was actually more of a makeshift pond. Sitting on the one stone bench they had been able to afford was Colleen, a sad case who had been cursed to think she was both a fairy and a mute. She spoke aloud, but insisted she was communicating via "mind speech".
Colleen smiled a pleasant smile and patted the bench beside her. Cobb sat down, careful not to sit on Colleen's glittering wings.
"How are you today, Colleen?"
In her sing-song voice, Colleen replied "I am quite well, Ms Cobb. How do you do?"
"Not so well, I'm afraid." Colleen nodded, and Cobb continued. "It's the finances again."
Colleen pouted. "I keep offering to take care of it. With my magic, we wouldn't need lighting, and we could grow our own food. We needn't be beholden to the county in this."
Cobb kept herself from sighing with years of practice. "Thank you, Colleen, but we couldn't impose on you to take over from our light switches. Plus, what would we do when you leave?"
Colleen nodded, accepting the assessment gravely, but added "Let me help somehow, Director. I feel like I should be contributing more."
Cobb was about to refuse, when she remembered something. "You were an accountant before you came here, weren't you?"
"I taught accounting at high school."
"Close enough. Would you like to look at our books? See if you can find us a way to save some money?"
"I would be glad to," said Colleen.
In Cobb's office, Colleen pored over the ledgers with a confused expression on her face, flicking pages back and forth, growing more agitated by the second. After half an hour, Cobb interrupted her saying "It's alright, Colleen. If it's too much, you can go back to the garden."
Colleen startled, seeming to have forgotten that she was not alone. "Oh, no, Director, I'm sorry, I got caught up. It's just that the numbers don't add up correctly."
"Yes, there's something about the fae mathematics. The rules are a bit different here."
"Oh, no," said Colleen, waving her hand, "I know all about that. But these numbers don't add up correctly by those rules either."
"What do you mean they don't add up?"
"I mean, well, look at this account here. This is the building maintenance fund, yes? Well, these additions here should have gone to the total, but even with the twisted fae maths, it's clear they didn't."
"So what's actually going on, then?" asked Cobb, already sure she knew the answer.
"Your accountants are ripping you off, and trying to lie about it using fae maths."
Cobb pursed her lips. "No time to waste, then. Can you perform a full audit, so we can fire these ... creeps, and then, if you would, we'd love to have you take over as head accountant for the Institute."
Colleen smiled. "I'd like that, Director. I'd like that a lot."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I suppose this one owes a bit to both Sanctuary and Lost Girl.
PPS - Though they rarely deal with accounting ripoffs.
Director Cobb recrossed her legs under her desk, fidgeted with her pen and let her tail swish freely through the gap cut in her chair. The budget was disturbing her. Again. One of the problems with living on a mystical convergence was the insurance: it kept going up, month by month, and Cobb was never sure if their numbers would add up the same way twice. The fae mathematics behind it were beyond her, but it seemed they were beyond the abilities of the outsourced accounting firm, too.
She stood from her desk and stretched her legs, removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She needed a walk to clear her head, so she strolled past the wide, apportioned rooms (furnished inside the old jail cells, but spaced with much more generosity), down the back stairs and into the garden. Officially, in their brochure for prospective tenants, it was called "The Enchanted Garden", and they'd had plans for manicured lawns and hedges, topiary, a fountain and perhaps even a waist-high hedge maze. Cobb's tail twitched in irritation as it brushed the top of the unmowed grass. The groundskeeper had been slacking again, but they couldn't fire him. He was the only one who could keep the venus fly traps from growing too large and eating residents.
Finally, Cobb came to the fountain, which was actually more of a makeshift pond. Sitting on the one stone bench they had been able to afford was Colleen, a sad case who had been cursed to think she was both a fairy and a mute. She spoke aloud, but insisted she was communicating via "mind speech".
Colleen smiled a pleasant smile and patted the bench beside her. Cobb sat down, careful not to sit on Colleen's glittering wings.
"How are you today, Colleen?"
In her sing-song voice, Colleen replied "I am quite well, Ms Cobb. How do you do?"
"Not so well, I'm afraid." Colleen nodded, and Cobb continued. "It's the finances again."
Colleen pouted. "I keep offering to take care of it. With my magic, we wouldn't need lighting, and we could grow our own food. We needn't be beholden to the county in this."
Cobb kept herself from sighing with years of practice. "Thank you, Colleen, but we couldn't impose on you to take over from our light switches. Plus, what would we do when you leave?"
Colleen nodded, accepting the assessment gravely, but added "Let me help somehow, Director. I feel like I should be contributing more."
Cobb was about to refuse, when she remembered something. "You were an accountant before you came here, weren't you?"
"I taught accounting at high school."
"Close enough. Would you like to look at our books? See if you can find us a way to save some money?"
"I would be glad to," said Colleen.
In Cobb's office, Colleen pored over the ledgers with a confused expression on her face, flicking pages back and forth, growing more agitated by the second. After half an hour, Cobb interrupted her saying "It's alright, Colleen. If it's too much, you can go back to the garden."
Colleen startled, seeming to have forgotten that she was not alone. "Oh, no, Director, I'm sorry, I got caught up. It's just that the numbers don't add up correctly."
"Yes, there's something about the fae mathematics. The rules are a bit different here."
"Oh, no," said Colleen, waving her hand, "I know all about that. But these numbers don't add up correctly by those rules either."
"What do you mean they don't add up?"
"I mean, well, look at this account here. This is the building maintenance fund, yes? Well, these additions here should have gone to the total, but even with the twisted fae maths, it's clear they didn't."
"So what's actually going on, then?" asked Cobb, already sure she knew the answer.
"Your accountants are ripping you off, and trying to lie about it using fae maths."
Cobb pursed her lips. "No time to waste, then. Can you perform a full audit, so we can fire these ... creeps, and then, if you would, we'd love to have you take over as head accountant for the Institute."
Colleen smiled. "I'd like that, Director. I'd like that a lot."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I suppose this one owes a bit to both Sanctuary and Lost Girl.
PPS - Though they rarely deal with accounting ripoffs.
Friday, 15 February 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Janice and the Vampire
"Why do you wear those things?" Sean asked Janice. Janice looked down at the gloves she was absently putting on - black, fingerless, with a cross stitched on each knuckle.
"Because you never know."
Years before, Janice had been a carefree university student, attending (most of) her classes during the day, studying or partying by night at the share house near the campus. It all changed that November.
The after-exam party started off great. There were dozens of people, the music was loud, the booze was flowing freely and everyone was having a great time. Janice was swimming in the pool on her own, just a few minutes after everyone else had gotten out - there was pizza just delivered, but Janice wasn't hungry.
Floating on her back, looking up at the stars and hoping that she had passed her Psych final, she thought she heard something in the upstairs bedroom. Now, the house had a game they played. If you caught one of the others in their room with a boy, they did the dishes for a week. It had been Cathy's idea. Jan suspected it was just Cathy's excuse to barge into people's rooms whenever she felt like it, but it had saved Janice from dish washing duty more than once.
It was Cathy's room where Janice heard the noise and, watching the window, she saw someone walk past. No, not walking. Chasing.
Janice grabbed her towel and got out of the pool as quickly and quietly as she could. If she could catch Cathy in the act, it would be the first time ever. Either Cathy was very good at sneaking around, or she never brought boys home. As Janice sneaked upstairs, the music was still playing loudly, but everyone was sitting down. Janice was just glad nobody got in her way.
Creeping up the stairs, Janice eased Cathy's door open and could definitely hear sounds like an enthusiastic make-out session. She flung the door wide, flicked the light on and yelled "Gotcha!", but the sounds weren't of kissing.
There was a man in the room, he seemed to be biting Cathy, and she was lolling, eyes wide open and glassy, mouth in a weird quirk. She was dead.
The man turned towards Janice, and his mouth dripped with blood. His eyes were ... mesmerising. Janice found herself getting lost in them from across the room, until he blinked, or she did, and she had the sense to scream.
The man leapt up from the bed and chased Janice out the door. Her still-wet feet slipped on the wooden floor as she made for the stairs, but the vampire - even in her panic, Janice's subconscious offered up the only word that fit - got a handful of her wet hair and dragged her back. He pinned her to the floor and stared into her eyes again, then that same feeling of calm and peace came over Janice. He was just going to bite her. It was okay.
Then Janice snapped out of it again, and remembered the cross around her neck. She held the thing up like a ward and, despite what decades of vampire movies had been saying, it worked. The vampire hissed - actually hissed! - and drew back from the silver crucifix, and even seemed to wither in its presence. He hunched down in a corner, shielding his eyes, but kept peeking back, looking like he hoped Janice would give up and go away.
Janice got close enough this time to press the cross into his forehead, where it left a red welt. With a scream, the vampire turned to dust and crumbled before her eyes.
Everyone else was already dead, but Janice had survived.
"And that's why I wear the gloves," she said. "It's why I joined the police force, too. To hunt them and protect people from them."
Sean just stared at his partner with wide eyes. "Wow. Janice, I had no idea. I just ... I'm going to wait in the car. Come along when you're ready." He left, and Anne, another officer, walked over with a sly grin.
"None of that's true, is it?"
"Well, I did room with a Cathy at uni."
They both laughed.
"So why tell him all that?" asked Anne.
"You know how superstitious Sean is. Bet you twenty bucks he wears a cross for at least a week."
"How about you bet he wears it for two weeks, I bet he takes it off after one."
"Deal."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I felt much better about this one when I figured out how it should end.
PPS - And that was when I was halfway through writing it.
"Because you never know."
Years before, Janice had been a carefree university student, attending (most of) her classes during the day, studying or partying by night at the share house near the campus. It all changed that November.
The after-exam party started off great. There were dozens of people, the music was loud, the booze was flowing freely and everyone was having a great time. Janice was swimming in the pool on her own, just a few minutes after everyone else had gotten out - there was pizza just delivered, but Janice wasn't hungry.
Floating on her back, looking up at the stars and hoping that she had passed her Psych final, she thought she heard something in the upstairs bedroom. Now, the house had a game they played. If you caught one of the others in their room with a boy, they did the dishes for a week. It had been Cathy's idea. Jan suspected it was just Cathy's excuse to barge into people's rooms whenever she felt like it, but it had saved Janice from dish washing duty more than once.
It was Cathy's room where Janice heard the noise and, watching the window, she saw someone walk past. No, not walking. Chasing.
Janice grabbed her towel and got out of the pool as quickly and quietly as she could. If she could catch Cathy in the act, it would be the first time ever. Either Cathy was very good at sneaking around, or she never brought boys home. As Janice sneaked upstairs, the music was still playing loudly, but everyone was sitting down. Janice was just glad nobody got in her way.
Creeping up the stairs, Janice eased Cathy's door open and could definitely hear sounds like an enthusiastic make-out session. She flung the door wide, flicked the light on and yelled "Gotcha!", but the sounds weren't of kissing.
There was a man in the room, he seemed to be biting Cathy, and she was lolling, eyes wide open and glassy, mouth in a weird quirk. She was dead.
The man turned towards Janice, and his mouth dripped with blood. His eyes were ... mesmerising. Janice found herself getting lost in them from across the room, until he blinked, or she did, and she had the sense to scream.
The man leapt up from the bed and chased Janice out the door. Her still-wet feet slipped on the wooden floor as she made for the stairs, but the vampire - even in her panic, Janice's subconscious offered up the only word that fit - got a handful of her wet hair and dragged her back. He pinned her to the floor and stared into her eyes again, then that same feeling of calm and peace came over Janice. He was just going to bite her. It was okay.
Then Janice snapped out of it again, and remembered the cross around her neck. She held the thing up like a ward and, despite what decades of vampire movies had been saying, it worked. The vampire hissed - actually hissed! - and drew back from the silver crucifix, and even seemed to wither in its presence. He hunched down in a corner, shielding his eyes, but kept peeking back, looking like he hoped Janice would give up and go away.
Janice got close enough this time to press the cross into his forehead, where it left a red welt. With a scream, the vampire turned to dust and crumbled before her eyes.
Everyone else was already dead, but Janice had survived.
"And that's why I wear the gloves," she said. "It's why I joined the police force, too. To hunt them and protect people from them."
Sean just stared at his partner with wide eyes. "Wow. Janice, I had no idea. I just ... I'm going to wait in the car. Come along when you're ready." He left, and Anne, another officer, walked over with a sly grin.
"None of that's true, is it?"
"Well, I did room with a Cathy at uni."
They both laughed.
"So why tell him all that?" asked Anne.
"You know how superstitious Sean is. Bet you twenty bucks he wears a cross for at least a week."
"How about you bet he wears it for two weeks, I bet he takes it off after one."
"Deal."
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I felt much better about this one when I figured out how it should end.
PPS - And that was when I was halfway through writing it.
Friday, 8 February 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Sister Margaret
A nun walks into a bar with a crow on her shoulder. I know how that sounds, but stick with me. Sister Margaret is not an ordinary nun, nor is the crow an ordinary crow. Oh, she wears the habit and carries a rosary, sure, and as far as anyone else can tell, the crow only says "caw", but they are far from ordinary.
They hunt monsters.
The bar patrons lower their voices on instinct. Many try to hide their drinks behind their hands, childhood shame taking over, but Sister Margaret is not here for them. A nervous man sits at the back of the bar at a table by himself, nursing a small glass of something clear. Sister Margaret takes a seat and the crow hops off her shoulder to sit on the table and peck at a bowl of nuts.
Despite the quiet, nobody can hear their conversation. If they could, they'd wish they hadn't. The man speaks and Sister Margaret nods, absently clicking the beads of her rosary. Her expression of grim concentration never wavers, but the muscles twitch beneath the scar on her cheek. When she nods, the man pushes a bulging envelope towards Margaret with pleading in his eyes. She opens it, removes two green notes and pushes the rest back. A vow is a vow. She takes what she needs to survive, having long abandoned the convent.
Later, in a dark alley near the man's home, Margaret crouches in the shadows, her face covered by a veil. The crow perches on a nearby fire escape. They wait a long time, until a movement alerts the crow who caws his warning. From the sewer grate crawls a shape with bulbous forearms barely a metre tall. As it passes a beam of light, Sister Margaret gets a view of the creature, and a look of hesitation crosses her features for just a second.
The creature is a child. Or, rather, it used to be a child. Now it is a hive, flesh pocked with hundreds of honeycomb cells and leaking vital fluids in its shuffling gait, mouth frozen in a silent scream. Margaret almost pitied it, until a stray cat dashed in front of it. With hands that moved too quickly to see, the monster snatched the cat and broke its neck, then bit a huge chunk out of the flesh, fur and all. The creature's distended belly squirmed with some internal activity Sister Margaret did not wish to contemplate.
Through the wet sounds of bloody mastication and the buzzing demonic insects, the crow cawed again and the thing turned its head, dead white eyes staring. Margaret wasted no time. She covered the distance in a few long steps and swung her sharp blade, beheading the creature with one swipe. The swarm buzzed about her in anger, but her veil and gloves kept her from becoming their next monstrous hive. She fogged the local area with a special blessed pesticide, and the bugs began to pop in white flashes of holy light.
When the dust had settled, Sister Margaret knelt and administered the last rites for the child, closing his eyes, covering his unrecognisable face with her handkerchief, but then pushed the body back into the sewer grate it had crawled from. The soul should have rest, but the body needed to be hidden. Her crow pecked out the eyes of the cat, and Margaret supposed that was as good as the cat was going to get from either of them.
She cleaned her blade and sheathed it somewhere beneath her habit, then she and her crow strode off to find some humble lodgings for the night.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I really like this one.
PPS - It was going to be a contest entry at Pseudopod, but now it's over the word limit.
They hunt monsters.
The bar patrons lower their voices on instinct. Many try to hide their drinks behind their hands, childhood shame taking over, but Sister Margaret is not here for them. A nervous man sits at the back of the bar at a table by himself, nursing a small glass of something clear. Sister Margaret takes a seat and the crow hops off her shoulder to sit on the table and peck at a bowl of nuts.
Despite the quiet, nobody can hear their conversation. If they could, they'd wish they hadn't. The man speaks and Sister Margaret nods, absently clicking the beads of her rosary. Her expression of grim concentration never wavers, but the muscles twitch beneath the scar on her cheek. When she nods, the man pushes a bulging envelope towards Margaret with pleading in his eyes. She opens it, removes two green notes and pushes the rest back. A vow is a vow. She takes what she needs to survive, having long abandoned the convent.
Later, in a dark alley near the man's home, Margaret crouches in the shadows, her face covered by a veil. The crow perches on a nearby fire escape. They wait a long time, until a movement alerts the crow who caws his warning. From the sewer grate crawls a shape with bulbous forearms barely a metre tall. As it passes a beam of light, Sister Margaret gets a view of the creature, and a look of hesitation crosses her features for just a second.
The creature is a child. Or, rather, it used to be a child. Now it is a hive, flesh pocked with hundreds of honeycomb cells and leaking vital fluids in its shuffling gait, mouth frozen in a silent scream. Margaret almost pitied it, until a stray cat dashed in front of it. With hands that moved too quickly to see, the monster snatched the cat and broke its neck, then bit a huge chunk out of the flesh, fur and all. The creature's distended belly squirmed with some internal activity Sister Margaret did not wish to contemplate.
Through the wet sounds of bloody mastication and the buzzing demonic insects, the crow cawed again and the thing turned its head, dead white eyes staring. Margaret wasted no time. She covered the distance in a few long steps and swung her sharp blade, beheading the creature with one swipe. The swarm buzzed about her in anger, but her veil and gloves kept her from becoming their next monstrous hive. She fogged the local area with a special blessed pesticide, and the bugs began to pop in white flashes of holy light.
When the dust had settled, Sister Margaret knelt and administered the last rites for the child, closing his eyes, covering his unrecognisable face with her handkerchief, but then pushed the body back into the sewer grate it had crawled from. The soul should have rest, but the body needed to be hidden. Her crow pecked out the eyes of the cat, and Margaret supposed that was as good as the cat was going to get from either of them.
She cleaned her blade and sheathed it somewhere beneath her habit, then she and her crow strode off to find some humble lodgings for the night.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I really like this one.
PPS - It was going to be a contest entry at Pseudopod, but now it's over the word limit.
Friday, 1 February 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Traveller
This will be the most difficult Travel I have made so far.
A few weeks ago, a kind of blimp floated into the sky above my home town. It's fairly unremarkable, except that it's relatively small, it doesn't seem to have a pilot and it's got a platform attached to the side with a door that leads into the body. I've seen this much through my telescope. It seems obvious to me that it's meant for Travellers like myself - people who can teleport at will - because there would be no other way up there.
Well, maybe you could shoot it down, or a particularly skilled helicopter pilot on a very calm day could lower someone on a rope, but nobody has been trying that, as far as I can tell. It's meant to find me, and others like me.
I dress warm, about three layers should do it, and pack a little food and some tools in case I have to force my way inside. I take some last-minute measurements with my telescope, estimating speed and distance as best I can, then I take a deep breath and Travel.
The world twists beneath my feet, like I'm spinning on an axis that doesn't fit in the world. There's a sound of rushing wind and the shapes don't make sense to my eyes. I have to concentrate to make sure I go to the right place. Keeping the blimp fixed in my mind, I feel for the platform in this swirling space and suddenly I find it, tumbling out and rolling towards its edge. I put out my hands to brace myself and my left goes off the edge, overbalancing me. My foot slips and I am dangling for a second, several kilometres up. The sharp metal cuts my fingers as I strain back up and pull myself onto my back, and I rest. The platform sways in the wind and I hold on until I catch my breath.
A little closer to the door, the platform has a handrail, but I decide not to trust it with my weight. The whole platform is a bit rusty and creaks as I crawl forwards. I can push the door in a few centimetres before it stops on the rusted hinges. Lying on my back, I kick at it until my feet hurt, and it opens just far enough for me to squeeze inside.
The room is even smaller than I thought it would be. There's a bit of broken glass on the floor, probably from a porthole on the wall. A gas lamp hangs on a chain from the ceiling, but I don't need it, and couldn't light it anyway. The walls are covered in photos and note paper in several different styles of handwriting. I see one section written in German, too. There are dozens of different faces, and the notes don't seem to follow any kind of pattern. At a guess, I'd say this place has been used by dozens of different people over a long period of time. As I take out my camera to start snapping pictures, the floor lets out a long, creaking groan, then breaks open under me and I'm falling.
Before I build up too much speed, I Travel to the local pool and startle some kids as I splash down. My camera's going to be ruined, and I don't know if I can - or should - go back to the blimp. Whoever made it is long gone, obviously, but the others who used it might still be around. Maybe I can find them, if I can figure out where to look.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I'm late with this because I was a bit busy today.
PPS - And now I'm going to bed. Goodnight!
A few weeks ago, a kind of blimp floated into the sky above my home town. It's fairly unremarkable, except that it's relatively small, it doesn't seem to have a pilot and it's got a platform attached to the side with a door that leads into the body. I've seen this much through my telescope. It seems obvious to me that it's meant for Travellers like myself - people who can teleport at will - because there would be no other way up there.
Well, maybe you could shoot it down, or a particularly skilled helicopter pilot on a very calm day could lower someone on a rope, but nobody has been trying that, as far as I can tell. It's meant to find me, and others like me.
I dress warm, about three layers should do it, and pack a little food and some tools in case I have to force my way inside. I take some last-minute measurements with my telescope, estimating speed and distance as best I can, then I take a deep breath and Travel.
The world twists beneath my feet, like I'm spinning on an axis that doesn't fit in the world. There's a sound of rushing wind and the shapes don't make sense to my eyes. I have to concentrate to make sure I go to the right place. Keeping the blimp fixed in my mind, I feel for the platform in this swirling space and suddenly I find it, tumbling out and rolling towards its edge. I put out my hands to brace myself and my left goes off the edge, overbalancing me. My foot slips and I am dangling for a second, several kilometres up. The sharp metal cuts my fingers as I strain back up and pull myself onto my back, and I rest. The platform sways in the wind and I hold on until I catch my breath.
A little closer to the door, the platform has a handrail, but I decide not to trust it with my weight. The whole platform is a bit rusty and creaks as I crawl forwards. I can push the door in a few centimetres before it stops on the rusted hinges. Lying on my back, I kick at it until my feet hurt, and it opens just far enough for me to squeeze inside.
The room is even smaller than I thought it would be. There's a bit of broken glass on the floor, probably from a porthole on the wall. A gas lamp hangs on a chain from the ceiling, but I don't need it, and couldn't light it anyway. The walls are covered in photos and note paper in several different styles of handwriting. I see one section written in German, too. There are dozens of different faces, and the notes don't seem to follow any kind of pattern. At a guess, I'd say this place has been used by dozens of different people over a long period of time. As I take out my camera to start snapping pictures, the floor lets out a long, creaking groan, then breaks open under me and I'm falling.
Before I build up too much speed, I Travel to the local pool and startle some kids as I splash down. My camera's going to be ruined, and I don't know if I can - or should - go back to the blimp. Whoever made it is long gone, obviously, but the others who used it might still be around. Maybe I can find them, if I can figure out where to look.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I'm late with this because I was a bit busy today.
PPS - And now I'm going to bed. Goodnight!
Friday, 25 January 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - The Inner Circle
I had finally worked my way into the inner circle. The Illuminati, the most secret of secret societies, those who run the world. I was sitting at a table with the puppet-masters themselves. They all wore masks, but mine had cameras at every angle the tech boys could figure out how to jam them in. Maybe we wouldn't get their bare faces, but we'd get their voices at least.
I had worked my way quickly up through the ranks of the Sydney criminal organisations, found their contacts in local politics and followed the unofficial chain of command up from there. It took years to get in contact with the upper-echelon bankers online and get them to agree to this meeting. I could bring them all down at once. It would make my career, if anyone could ever hear about it.
Everyone at the table seemed to be waiting for someone else to take control of the meeting, so I figured I should probably let them know I had called it and why. It seemed unlikely they would be happy about it.
Just as I was going to open my mouth, however, a woman at the other end of the table, wearing a mask made of crow feathers, spoke up.
"You've been called here to attend an important meeting. You have no idea just how important it is." She took off her mask with a flourish, and it was a second before I realised that there were no gasps of surprise from the other members. "My name is Special Agent Regina Flores, FBI, and all of you are under arrest for several varieties of conspiracy that I'll be happy to go over with you later."
I was about to pull off my own mask when two men sitting beside Agent Flores stood up and introduced themselves as CIA agents. "We'll take over from here," they said, without any humour or recognition of any growing absurdity.
Then someone else stood up - MI5, apparently - and FSB and several other national intelligence agencies announced themselves. In the midst of the shouting, I tried to bring out my badge and tell people I was with ASIO, but the arguments about jurisdiction and rage about blowing years of cover work had started, as would be expected. There were lots of fists pounding on the table and someone started shoving. It looked like nobody was actually with the Illuminati at all, and I made a quick exit before the full-on brawl began. As I slunk quietly out of the building, I started mentally composing a report on the matter, preparing to close it off, then I thought, wait a minute, someone did send us here. This intelligence community nightmare might have been exactly what they wanted. Expose all the rats at once and go on with their business. Perhaps I still had work to do.
That's the thing about secret societies, though. You never quite know when you're done with them, or, really, if you've even started.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This one just seemed like fun to me.
PPS - It was one of those random thoughts that occur to me sometimes.
I had worked my way quickly up through the ranks of the Sydney criminal organisations, found their contacts in local politics and followed the unofficial chain of command up from there. It took years to get in contact with the upper-echelon bankers online and get them to agree to this meeting. I could bring them all down at once. It would make my career, if anyone could ever hear about it.
Everyone at the table seemed to be waiting for someone else to take control of the meeting, so I figured I should probably let them know I had called it and why. It seemed unlikely they would be happy about it.
Just as I was going to open my mouth, however, a woman at the other end of the table, wearing a mask made of crow feathers, spoke up.
"You've been called here to attend an important meeting. You have no idea just how important it is." She took off her mask with a flourish, and it was a second before I realised that there were no gasps of surprise from the other members. "My name is Special Agent Regina Flores, FBI, and all of you are under arrest for several varieties of conspiracy that I'll be happy to go over with you later."
I was about to pull off my own mask when two men sitting beside Agent Flores stood up and introduced themselves as CIA agents. "We'll take over from here," they said, without any humour or recognition of any growing absurdity.
Then someone else stood up - MI5, apparently - and FSB and several other national intelligence agencies announced themselves. In the midst of the shouting, I tried to bring out my badge and tell people I was with ASIO, but the arguments about jurisdiction and rage about blowing years of cover work had started, as would be expected. There were lots of fists pounding on the table and someone started shoving. It looked like nobody was actually with the Illuminati at all, and I made a quick exit before the full-on brawl began. As I slunk quietly out of the building, I started mentally composing a report on the matter, preparing to close it off, then I thought, wait a minute, someone did send us here. This intelligence community nightmare might have been exactly what they wanted. Expose all the rats at once and go on with their business. Perhaps I still had work to do.
That's the thing about secret societies, though. You never quite know when you're done with them, or, really, if you've even started.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This one just seemed like fun to me.
PPS - It was one of those random thoughts that occur to me sometimes.
Friday, 18 January 2013
Friday Flash Fiction - Banana Republic
I watched the parade coming down the beach, seeing flags waving, hearing the whistles and cheers, and beamed with pride. They carried Kapi, the first elected government representative from the lowest social caste, on a sedan chair made of bamboo and decorated with feathers and bright flowers. I had finally done it. Kapi was smiling almost as much as me when they turned inland to carry him to the government building.
Two years ago, I inherited a banana republic from a great aunt. Not a banana plantation, a whole country. A tiny island called Nollberg that had seceded from a larger nation that had seceded from an even larger one. When I first came here two years ago, only two of the three social castes were represented on the government council. Those two representatives didn't see the need for the lowest social caste to be represented at all. Pogo, the upper caste member, had particularly objected, even though the low caste made up about two thirds of the tiny island's population.
The debates were long and heated. I had to look up obscure points of law late into the night and fight to overturn some of them. Even though there were only three of us, it took a long time. We still had to govern, after all.
It came down to taxes. The poor paid no income tax and had very few possessions. But they reasoned in a circle. The poor pay no taxes, so they don't have a representative, and they have no representative because they pay no taxes. Nobody saw any reason for the low caste to have a member on the council except me.
But now I had done it. Full representation in just less than two years. I watched as Kapi's chair was lowered to the ground and he stood to wave at the people.
That's when the shot rang out. At first I didn't know what had happened. Kapi stood there for a second, looking confused, and then the blood started to soak his shirt, and he fell. The rest of the people scattered in a hurry, screams and shouts filling the air. Someone shuffled me inside, and I found myself at the council table. Pogo was the only other one there, and it took me a second to realise that he didn't look shocked at all. He looked pleased.
"Pogo? What just happened?"
"Someone shot Kapi," he replied in a plain tone, as if remarking on the weather.
"Why? Who even has guns here..." I trailed off, remembering who I was talking to. Pogo's caste was rich, by island standards. They could have got a gun here easily. It was stupid to assume that was difficult.
Pogo gave a condescending smile. "Some people do not want the poor on the council, I suppose. It's for the best. Taxes buy rights, and the poor pay none."
Nobody from the low caste would want to be elected to the council now, even if they had the right. I had changed the political landscape of Nollberg with two years of debates and legal changes. Pogo changed it back with one bullet. I just hoped it wasn't the end.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I was lucky to be inspired by a dream this week.
PPS - Hopefully next week will bring something else inspiring.
Two years ago, I inherited a banana republic from a great aunt. Not a banana plantation, a whole country. A tiny island called Nollberg that had seceded from a larger nation that had seceded from an even larger one. When I first came here two years ago, only two of the three social castes were represented on the government council. Those two representatives didn't see the need for the lowest social caste to be represented at all. Pogo, the upper caste member, had particularly objected, even though the low caste made up about two thirds of the tiny island's population.
The debates were long and heated. I had to look up obscure points of law late into the night and fight to overturn some of them. Even though there were only three of us, it took a long time. We still had to govern, after all.
It came down to taxes. The poor paid no income tax and had very few possessions. But they reasoned in a circle. The poor pay no taxes, so they don't have a representative, and they have no representative because they pay no taxes. Nobody saw any reason for the low caste to have a member on the council except me.
But now I had done it. Full representation in just less than two years. I watched as Kapi's chair was lowered to the ground and he stood to wave at the people.
That's when the shot rang out. At first I didn't know what had happened. Kapi stood there for a second, looking confused, and then the blood started to soak his shirt, and he fell. The rest of the people scattered in a hurry, screams and shouts filling the air. Someone shuffled me inside, and I found myself at the council table. Pogo was the only other one there, and it took me a second to realise that he didn't look shocked at all. He looked pleased.
"Pogo? What just happened?"
"Someone shot Kapi," he replied in a plain tone, as if remarking on the weather.
"Why? Who even has guns here..." I trailed off, remembering who I was talking to. Pogo's caste was rich, by island standards. They could have got a gun here easily. It was stupid to assume that was difficult.
Pogo gave a condescending smile. "Some people do not want the poor on the council, I suppose. It's for the best. Taxes buy rights, and the poor pay none."
Nobody from the low caste would want to be elected to the council now, even if they had the right. I had changed the political landscape of Nollberg with two years of debates and legal changes. Pogo changed it back with one bullet. I just hoped it wasn't the end.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - I was lucky to be inspired by a dream this week.
PPS - Hopefully next week will bring something else inspiring.
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