"I only take missions where I am guaranteed to have fun," said Bates. He landed on Wencelas' shoulder with just the ball of his foot, then pushed off into a back flip. The dark material of his cloak billowed around him as he took aim with his stylized flint-lock shot gun.
"Well, aren't you lucky," Wencelas' replied. His blond hair whipped around his face as he landed on his feet in a crouch, digging his toes into the rooftop. "So, who's holding your leash?" He shot off to the side in a wide arch, throwing in a jerk to either side. He used his runic great sword to deflect any stray shots that came too close for comfort, the rune-work flaring with each connection to bullet.
"You act as if my contractor has any control over me," Bates said as he closed the distance between him and his opponent with what appeared to be the lightest of pushes on the ground.
"No, I know you wouldn't hesitate to turn around and kill your contractor as well." Wencelas brought his sword to bare and knocked Bates' shotgun out of aim. He used the entire length of his sword as the weapon and sent the cross-guard - crafted into the shape of feathered wings that crossed extended into two additional blades that flanked the main blade - into Bates' gut. He seized hold of one of the wings and drew it out, also drawing the blade it was connected to and buried it into Bates' ribs. Gold liquid spilled over the blade and over Weneclas' brown leather glove from the puncture.
"You're better than I thought." Bates grinned, barely even doubled over from the wound. He pulled his shot gun back down and fired at Wencelas' face point-blank, giving the blond knight only seconds to dodge. The damage ripped into his left shoulder, forcing him to drop the dagger, but he stepped back and used his good shoulder to push his great sword into Bates' stomach. "Another good blow, too bad it's no where near enough."
Bates kicked his opponent in the stomach, knocking him backward and ripping the blade out of his stomach, causing more golden blood to fall from behind black leather armor. He looked over his hand, flexing his fingers and watching the blood crack and fall to dust already.
"I'm a bit bored now though," he said with a huff. "So, you'll have to excuse me." The roof beneath his feet rippled once, like water, then turned into a thrashing pool of red rimmed with black that Bates dropped into with a splash.
Showing posts with label day-dream writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label day-dream writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Breathe
The room is tangibly cold. It makes me uncomfortable, and I keep swinging my tail as if to keep ice from collecting along it, even though I know it won't. To me, everything has a filter of gray, except the girl. Except, Elizabeth. She slumps against her bed, unmoving, a letter opener held loose between her fingers. The enameled handle appears to be a deep red wood with a black grain, and has clear crystals set around the base of the blade. There is no sweet scent of blood, and the blade is clean, though tarnished.
All beings have a light. Devils and angels can see it without trying, and sometimes mortals can as well. It sends pulses through the air, crawling along the skin of devils, angels, and mortals alike. Mortals' lights are weak, barely a match stick. They bleed together into a dull hum of sensation, in comparison beings such as myself send out a charge that allow mortals to feel hope or dread when we just step into their plane.
I can't see hers, I can't feel it, but she's not dead. Her entire body expands and contracts with the labor of her breathing, as if all her muscles are too weak to resist her lungs. Her head rocks, hair swings but continues to cover her face. She seems to be absorbing the rules of existence, like a black star. It unnerves me.
All beings have a light. Devils and angels can see it without trying, and sometimes mortals can as well. It sends pulses through the air, crawling along the skin of devils, angels, and mortals alike. Mortals' lights are weak, barely a match stick. They bleed together into a dull hum of sensation, in comparison beings such as myself send out a charge that allow mortals to feel hope or dread when we just step into their plane.
I can't see hers, I can't feel it, but she's not dead. Her entire body expands and contracts with the labor of her breathing, as if all her muscles are too weak to resist her lungs. Her head rocks, hair swings but continues to cover her face. She seems to be absorbing the rules of existence, like a black star. It unnerves me.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Moment of Movement
"What are you so excited about?" I ask as I step up behind two giggling imps. Their large ears bend and sway with their movements, the purple imp on the left has half of one of his missing. I think I did that, but I don't really care to try and remember.
They skip around a hole dug in the black dirt and chanting, bearing crooked and broken teeth in mockery of smiles, giggling and clapping their bony, clawed hands that were bigger than their heads. At my voice their faces shatter into looks of terror, the remnants of the smiles vanishing into the ground, wiggling and writhing. I brush my heal over where the malicious glee had been, digging it in a little bit. Stupid little insects, they get so excited when it's not even them doing the work.
"Well?" I make my voice snap and drop an octave, just to watch them cower and squeal.
"Ah! Master don't be angry! Zizil and Kirml doing good!" screeches the green one, scuffling around and clasping his hands together. "Zizil got the hole dug before the soul is here! Kirml has the seed ready already! We does good!"
I forget which one is Zizil and which one is Kirml. It doesn't matter much to anyway. I peer into the visually bottomless hole, and see that there is a tear in the air. Purple energy frames it to keep the breech from ripping through the entire plane. I can see a room, brown carpet, dull green walls. The image is still blurry.
So, another mortal is going to off themself. The imps are preparing the hole for the tree to be planted in that traps the soul for the rest of eternity. I have nothing better to do, that lazy Dexmes is taking his sweet time on getting back to me about the runework I need to find the girl Elizabeth. I think he enjoys it too much when I have to ask something of him. Damn bookworms. I will rip his head off at some point and bind it so I can use his information anytime I want.
So I might as well see what kind of tree this new idiot will make. If it's any good I'll stick around and break its branches to talk to it. See what it knows.
The two imps huddle behind my feet, occasionally reaching out to hug my boot and I swat them away with the flat of my tail head. I can't stand grovelling. Waste of time, energy, and pride.
The image grows clearer. The first thing to show up is a picture of pale, skinny ladies with butterfly wings bathing in a pond. Must be a girl's room. Mortal guys wouldn't have naked butterfly ladies up on the wall. Under that stands a desk, made of dark, solid wood, and it is drowned in papers, note cards, and an army of differently colored pens. So this person likes to write. Probably going to kill themself because they can't get anything published or they write some abstract bullshit that no one understands. They don't get me. What shit. If people don't understand then make it fucking clearer what you want to say!
No one sits in the armchair, which is set askew so the arm of the chair presses against the lip of the desk. The image turns to locate the soul. I'm right, it's a girl. She's tall, her legs are really long. Thin though, she must look like a stork when standing straight, especially with the round hips that they connected to. Good handles.
Her hair is messed all over her face, head bowed. I can't see her face, but the base of my spine tingles. My tail curls up like a scorpion's. Shit.
It's Elizabeth.
I whirl and snatch up the two imps by the necks. Their heads enlarge as I clench my hands and their eyes bulge out from their weird skulls. I toss the green one up into the air and swing my tail, slicing through his pointed nose and cutting him clean in half. He didn't squeal. He had no time to. The purple one gasps and chokes, clutching at my hand as my claws dig into the side of his neck.
"Master, master Kirml does good! Kimrl does good just tell Kirml--"
I stick my tail's blade into his mouth and twist it before pushing it through his small body into his stomach. I flick my tail to knock the twitching mess off and to the ground.
That takes care of the imps, buying me marginally more time. I clap my hands together to brush away the grimy feeling of imp panic. The tear is still open, but the energy fizzles now that the imps were rebuilding themselves in their spawning grounds on another plane. I launch forward and dive into the collapsing rift.
They skip around a hole dug in the black dirt and chanting, bearing crooked and broken teeth in mockery of smiles, giggling and clapping their bony, clawed hands that were bigger than their heads. At my voice their faces shatter into looks of terror, the remnants of the smiles vanishing into the ground, wiggling and writhing. I brush my heal over where the malicious glee had been, digging it in a little bit. Stupid little insects, they get so excited when it's not even them doing the work.
"Well?" I make my voice snap and drop an octave, just to watch them cower and squeal.
"Ah! Master don't be angry! Zizil and Kirml doing good!" screeches the green one, scuffling around and clasping his hands together. "Zizil got the hole dug before the soul is here! Kirml has the seed ready already! We does good!"
I forget which one is Zizil and which one is Kirml. It doesn't matter much to anyway. I peer into the visually bottomless hole, and see that there is a tear in the air. Purple energy frames it to keep the breech from ripping through the entire plane. I can see a room, brown carpet, dull green walls. The image is still blurry.
So, another mortal is going to off themself. The imps are preparing the hole for the tree to be planted in that traps the soul for the rest of eternity. I have nothing better to do, that lazy Dexmes is taking his sweet time on getting back to me about the runework I need to find the girl Elizabeth. I think he enjoys it too much when I have to ask something of him. Damn bookworms. I will rip his head off at some point and bind it so I can use his information anytime I want.
So I might as well see what kind of tree this new idiot will make. If it's any good I'll stick around and break its branches to talk to it. See what it knows.
The two imps huddle behind my feet, occasionally reaching out to hug my boot and I swat them away with the flat of my tail head. I can't stand grovelling. Waste of time, energy, and pride.
The image grows clearer. The first thing to show up is a picture of pale, skinny ladies with butterfly wings bathing in a pond. Must be a girl's room. Mortal guys wouldn't have naked butterfly ladies up on the wall. Under that stands a desk, made of dark, solid wood, and it is drowned in papers, note cards, and an army of differently colored pens. So this person likes to write. Probably going to kill themself because they can't get anything published or they write some abstract bullshit that no one understands. They don't get me. What shit. If people don't understand then make it fucking clearer what you want to say!
No one sits in the armchair, which is set askew so the arm of the chair presses against the lip of the desk. The image turns to locate the soul. I'm right, it's a girl. She's tall, her legs are really long. Thin though, she must look like a stork when standing straight, especially with the round hips that they connected to. Good handles.
Her hair is messed all over her face, head bowed. I can't see her face, but the base of my spine tingles. My tail curls up like a scorpion's. Shit.
It's Elizabeth.
I whirl and snatch up the two imps by the necks. Their heads enlarge as I clench my hands and their eyes bulge out from their weird skulls. I toss the green one up into the air and swing my tail, slicing through his pointed nose and cutting him clean in half. He didn't squeal. He had no time to. The purple one gasps and chokes, clutching at my hand as my claws dig into the side of his neck.
"Master, master Kirml does good! Kimrl does good just tell Kirml--"
I stick my tail's blade into his mouth and twist it before pushing it through his small body into his stomach. I flick my tail to knock the twitching mess off and to the ground.
That takes care of the imps, buying me marginally more time. I clap my hands together to brush away the grimy feeling of imp panic. The tear is still open, but the energy fizzles now that the imps were rebuilding themselves in their spawning grounds on another plane. I launch forward and dive into the collapsing rift.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Another Jump Start
She keeps a tranquil smile on her face as soothing as the rippling blue of her eyes. Just the edges of her teeth are framed by her lips, amplified only slightly by the pale rose color of her lipstick. She doesn't like a lot of make-up. She says it makes her sing poorly. I have never been able to make the comparison, having never seen her sing with heavy make up on. She says it makes other sing poorly as well, and I believe her, no one can sing the same way she does. No one can make the air fill with a invigorating electricity while setting everyone at their ease.
Her fingers are long, almost too long, but she wears gloves where the fingers only go to the half-point of her finger, hiding that. She wears them even when she's playing her lyre. Some say she was crucified for her voice, to make her cry and hear her scream rather than smile and serenade. That she wears the gloves to hide the scars. I won't tell them that's true. That I was the one to rip the nails out of her hands, lick the blood from her hands, seal the wounds and lay waste to those that would do it to her. Their corpses might still be hanging if I had not set the trees alight for her. Her smile is different now. It looks heavy, even if it still spreads to her eyes.
Her voice cringes. I look up. She has dropped her lyre. Her hands have started to bleed through her gloves. I race to her side on the stage and pull her into my arms, covering her with my cloak to hide her from the world that has abused her so. The room has gone silent, even the fire in the center of it all seems to die a little on the inside. The wood fizzles and whines, popping as if it had gotten wet, as if it was crying. The shields and coats of arms that decorate the walls fade into darkness as the fire retreats. The faces in the room are a blur, I don't care about them, I don't pay attention to them. I would rather kill them all and keep her safe, far away.
But she wants to sing for them. She wants to play even if she bleeds, for them. They that caused her such pain.
I have no right to stop her.
Her fingers are long, almost too long, but she wears gloves where the fingers only go to the half-point of her finger, hiding that. She wears them even when she's playing her lyre. Some say she was crucified for her voice, to make her cry and hear her scream rather than smile and serenade. That she wears the gloves to hide the scars. I won't tell them that's true. That I was the one to rip the nails out of her hands, lick the blood from her hands, seal the wounds and lay waste to those that would do it to her. Their corpses might still be hanging if I had not set the trees alight for her. Her smile is different now. It looks heavy, even if it still spreads to her eyes.
Her voice cringes. I look up. She has dropped her lyre. Her hands have started to bleed through her gloves. I race to her side on the stage and pull her into my arms, covering her with my cloak to hide her from the world that has abused her so. The room has gone silent, even the fire in the center of it all seems to die a little on the inside. The wood fizzles and whines, popping as if it had gotten wet, as if it was crying. The shields and coats of arms that decorate the walls fade into darkness as the fire retreats. The faces in the room are a blur, I don't care about them, I don't pay attention to them. I would rather kill them all and keep her safe, far away.
But she wants to sing for them. She wants to play even if she bleeds, for them. They that caused her such pain.
I have no right to stop her.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Jump Start
He strikes a match, lets it burn, swings his wrist and snaps it to make the head die in a puff of pitiful smoke. It wasn't even enough to survive for two seconds in the scented air of the room. It smelled like lavender. Now it smells like burnt lavender.
He flicks the match, it strikes the wall, leaves a dusty black mark and drops into the garbage bin. The bin is full of crumpled and ripped papers that the girl has given up on. Half scenes, short scenes, single sentences and full exposition mar the once smooth and pretty paper. Failed words and writing, a disease on the sheets that never asked for anything but to be useful. They aren't useful. She made them useless. A word was wrong, it gets scratched out, a sentence is wrong it gets scribbled into oblivion. But what if it is wrong? All of it. The very core reasoning of the original thought that sparked to life a match in her mind that burns bright until it reaches her pen and then it fizzles.
She can't finish. She goes and goes, writes and writes and breathes life into people and worlds. They grow in her head, a forest, spreading wide and reaching high. Then a flame starts at the corner and she stops. She can't save it. It's the biggest moment when all is supposed to explode in a beautiful flash of acceleration. It stops. She closes her eyes and the forest withers into darkness. She puts her pen down and slides the notebook into her desk, where seven others sit, half full, full full, never finished.
He lights a match, he lets it burn. He lets the flame engulf his hand. It doesn't hurt. He's a devil. It turns black as it feeds on something not there, that it can never completely consume.
He flicks the match, it strikes the wall, leaves a dusty black mark and drops into the garbage bin. The bin is full of crumpled and ripped papers that the girl has given up on. Half scenes, short scenes, single sentences and full exposition mar the once smooth and pretty paper. Failed words and writing, a disease on the sheets that never asked for anything but to be useful. They aren't useful. She made them useless. A word was wrong, it gets scratched out, a sentence is wrong it gets scribbled into oblivion. But what if it is wrong? All of it. The very core reasoning of the original thought that sparked to life a match in her mind that burns bright until it reaches her pen and then it fizzles.
She can't finish. She goes and goes, writes and writes and breathes life into people and worlds. They grow in her head, a forest, spreading wide and reaching high. Then a flame starts at the corner and she stops. She can't save it. It's the biggest moment when all is supposed to explode in a beautiful flash of acceleration. It stops. She closes her eyes and the forest withers into darkness. She puts her pen down and slides the notebook into her desk, where seven others sit, half full, full full, never finished.
He lights a match, he lets it burn. He lets the flame engulf his hand. It doesn't hurt. He's a devil. It turns black as it feeds on something not there, that it can never completely consume.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The "Garden"
When the sun set was when the President's garden showed just what made it unique. It wasn't the sheer size, spilling out from the buildings in every direction for miles. It wasn't that what appeared to be every plant on the planet coexisting peacefully and healthily. All the rivers, pools, ponds, and fountains that made their way in the wild sprawl of land became pronounced from the vibrant glow that was nearly impossible to see during the day. It wasn't only that though.
All the plants. All of them that fed from the waters of the spring beneath the company headquarters, started to glow as well with their respective colors. Veins in the leaves, steams, and flowers pulsed with what seemed to be a collective hum, every rustle of the wind or creature moving through it sent off harmonious chords and notes, each one slightly different from the neighbor beside it.
From years of living in a barren wasteland of a dying world, Frederick wasn't sure he could handle the view, the scents that mixed together and wafted their way up to his balcony. He gripped the banister tightly, refusing to look away, he would rather pass out from being overwhelmed than disrespect the beauty and hope that the President worked so hard to nourish and bring to the rest of this decrepit world.
"And I had been sent to kill her," he thought, and felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Even after the attempt had ended in humiliation for him, President Rikkia Angelius had put him in this grand, comfortable room that was almost too comfortable for a soldier like him. With this view. This perfect view.
All the plants. All of them that fed from the waters of the spring beneath the company headquarters, started to glow as well with their respective colors. Veins in the leaves, steams, and flowers pulsed with what seemed to be a collective hum, every rustle of the wind or creature moving through it sent off harmonious chords and notes, each one slightly different from the neighbor beside it.
From years of living in a barren wasteland of a dying world, Frederick wasn't sure he could handle the view, the scents that mixed together and wafted their way up to his balcony. He gripped the banister tightly, refusing to look away, he would rather pass out from being overwhelmed than disrespect the beauty and hope that the President worked so hard to nourish and bring to the rest of this decrepit world.
"And I had been sent to kill her," he thought, and felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Even after the attempt had ended in humiliation for him, President Rikkia Angelius had put him in this grand, comfortable room that was almost too comfortable for a soldier like him. With this view. This perfect view.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
From a Devil, of an Angel
I know quite a bit about angels, a lot more than most can claim. I have felt the heartbeat, the skin, the breath, and have heard the sweet song of an angel in the throes of pleasure. You see, angels are not genderless, and they are not immune to the emotions of the mortal coil, just like us devils. She is the most beautiful of them all, and devils do not lie, we are just adept at twisting truths. I can not claim that I tricked her into my arms, not that I would wish to. Angels are protected from at least that sort of thing. They are passionate creatures, and they feel emotions quite acutely, a few in particular.
Happiness, sorrow, sympathy, and love. Yes, she would know if I did not love her, no matter what I did. I am not such a tasteless monster to attempt complicated spells to try to fool her. Believe me, or not, I love her. I love her smile, her innocence that she retains despite my ability to claim her virginity. She is not naive, just innocent. She was willing to love me, cherish and comfort me, even when fully aware of my standing in these planes.
I would be lying if I said her body meant nothing to me, and I will tell the truth that it was what first attracted me. I could see the lovely shape even when wrapped modestly, almost shyly, in elegant Victorian gowns. I only became more attached once I had approached in my guise, the one she easily saw through. This attachment, love, only increased when I had her, bare, in my arms. She is quiet, in all situations, but quick to smile and laugh when I do not have her head reeling, and not just from talented touches. I find I ache unless I have her enveloped close in my arms, but it is one I enjoy. I have proven, if only to myself and her, that devils can have a heart.
I have never worked harder for my partner than for her, I want her to feel the highest levels of bliss each and every time. She responds well to my energy, my movements, and I keep very aware of how she moves to adjust us accordingly. Of course, sometimes the urge to pin her is overwhelming, she is just so adorable, but I will only do such a thing with my own hands. Her skin is far too precious to me to mar with anything that is not my grip, and the feel of her heartbeat in her wrists is an intoxicating pleasure I cannot deny myself. There is one position, however, that will never happen. Mortals call it "doggy style", I believe. It is vulgar and degrading to her, and I will not allow such a thing. Who would want to only see their lover's back side? I love her face, and the only time her back is to me is when her body is flush to mine, her head against my shoulder.
Blushing? What did you think the conversation would be about?
I am a devil.
Happiness, sorrow, sympathy, and love. Yes, she would know if I did not love her, no matter what I did. I am not such a tasteless monster to attempt complicated spells to try to fool her. Believe me, or not, I love her. I love her smile, her innocence that she retains despite my ability to claim her virginity. She is not naive, just innocent. She was willing to love me, cherish and comfort me, even when fully aware of my standing in these planes.
I would be lying if I said her body meant nothing to me, and I will tell the truth that it was what first attracted me. I could see the lovely shape even when wrapped modestly, almost shyly, in elegant Victorian gowns. I only became more attached once I had approached in my guise, the one she easily saw through. This attachment, love, only increased when I had her, bare, in my arms. She is quiet, in all situations, but quick to smile and laugh when I do not have her head reeling, and not just from talented touches. I find I ache unless I have her enveloped close in my arms, but it is one I enjoy. I have proven, if only to myself and her, that devils can have a heart.
I have never worked harder for my partner than for her, I want her to feel the highest levels of bliss each and every time. She responds well to my energy, my movements, and I keep very aware of how she moves to adjust us accordingly. Of course, sometimes the urge to pin her is overwhelming, she is just so adorable, but I will only do such a thing with my own hands. Her skin is far too precious to me to mar with anything that is not my grip, and the feel of her heartbeat in her wrists is an intoxicating pleasure I cannot deny myself. There is one position, however, that will never happen. Mortals call it "doggy style", I believe. It is vulgar and degrading to her, and I will not allow such a thing. Who would want to only see their lover's back side? I love her face, and the only time her back is to me is when her body is flush to mine, her head against my shoulder.
Blushing? What did you think the conversation would be about?
I am a devil.
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