"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.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Little bit of Inspiration
I never claim to be popular or smart. That way leads to drama and madness. At least I always thought so. It's hard to deny the test scores that my private school loves posting up on the ceiling high bulletin board that dominates the lobby. The upper half of the bulletin board is covered in decorations, as no one without binoculars or a ladder would be able to see anything posted up there except huge banners extolling the virtues that one of the many sports teams displayed while winning a tournament.
It's like the teachers want to breed jealousy, intimidation, and bullies right into the core of the student populous. As if that needed help. We already have the war between the "haves" the "have-nots" the "old money" and the "nuveau rich". It is really easy to vanish and remain invisible here, usually. If you have the highest scores in the school, and strange white hair, coupled with what would appear to be impossibly dark blue eyes, you stick out like the Lighthouse of Alexandria over an ink colored sea.
That's my name, by the way, well, almost. It's Alexandreta. Alexandreta Amelie. My mom loves the sound of it. It just flows out between the lips without the barest hint of effort, she says. This coming from the woman who speaks seven or eight languages fluently, including Ancient Egyptian and Latin. The bad news about my name is that "fluidity" makes it really easy to chant, which people tend to do when they want to get your attention for something you just know you won't want to do.
"Alexandreta Amelie," sings a familiar voice from over the clamoring crowd of students trying to see their scores, their friends scores, and, more importantly, the scores of their rivals.
It's like the teachers want to breed jealousy, intimidation, and bullies right into the core of the student populous. As if that needed help. We already have the war between the "haves" the "have-nots" the "old money" and the "nuveau rich". It is really easy to vanish and remain invisible here, usually. If you have the highest scores in the school, and strange white hair, coupled with what would appear to be impossibly dark blue eyes, you stick out like the Lighthouse of Alexandria over an ink colored sea.
That's my name, by the way, well, almost. It's Alexandreta. Alexandreta Amelie. My mom loves the sound of it. It just flows out between the lips without the barest hint of effort, she says. This coming from the woman who speaks seven or eight languages fluently, including Ancient Egyptian and Latin. The bad news about my name is that "fluidity" makes it really easy to chant, which people tend to do when they want to get your attention for something you just know you won't want to do.
"Alexandreta Amelie," sings a familiar voice from over the clamoring crowd of students trying to see their scores, their friends scores, and, more importantly, the scores of their rivals.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Another Way to Let it Out
Atlantis sat quietly in the middle of the den. There was a fluffy creature that looked very much like a miniature polar bear huddled at her knees, huffing and whining. Her features were pale, her expressive face dull, blue eyes drowning. Her hands coddled the small bear, Polaris, her shoulders shaking with the force of suppressed despair. She could still hear it. It rang in her ears and shook her from the inside out.
The door to the townhouse opened, and a blast of noise followed before the door clicked and everything became quiet again.
"Atlantis?" came a soft, worried voice. Into the den came the bear's real owner, Ivan. He had round, searching eyes behind oval framed classes, and a round face. He wore business casual, and a heavy, very worn leather jacket. He had come straight from work.
"Hi Ivan."
"You okay?" Ivan stepped over to the small girl and crouched down next to her, his arms resting on his thighs. He could see her face, and knew she wasn't. She had his heavy comforter he brought back from a trip to Canada wrapped around her, despite the warm temperature of the room. She was shaking.
"A very bad man was killed," she said as she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "He hurt many, many people. He is dead now, and everyone is very happy." Atlantis fumbled her words, a smooth accent slurring her consonants and vowels into a constant lulling sound, drawing Ivan closer.
"But you are not," he said. He sat down on the thick rug with her and let her hide herself away in his chest. He rested a hand on her back, moving it up and down to sooth her chills and fear.
"I am not," Atlantis repeated. "I am... sad, and scared."
"Scared?"
"So much joy in the loss of life. It is scary."
"Oh, Atlantis." Ivan pushed his glasses up over his hair and placed a loving kiss against her hair. Despite her adult manner and gentle ways, to him, Atlantis was just a child with the body and knowledge of a woman. "All you are hearing are those that are joyful, they are really quite loud. Not all are rejoicing, it is alright. They must have just been, much closer to the hurt people than most."
"It is still scary," Atlantis said. "To have killing be the only solution that they can see. That all of them can see. That they feel it is the only thing left for them to be heard, to make it right."
Ivan let out a breath, lost within the honesty of her words and the weight of her tears. He squeezed her close again, Polaris resting his big, awkward paws on Ivan's knee and nudging a little, black nose against Atlantis' stomach with another whine. He did feel relief at the news when it came to him, but then just dread, knowing that it wasn't the end.
"You really are just a force of empathy," he finally said, his gaze locked on the ceiling fan as it slowly spun. "It's like the world's pain is right in your blood, in your heart, and it is not your own. You feel it anyway."
"If no one else will shed tears for a death," Atlantis said, curling herself up into him as much as she could. "Then I must. The events that made all this come to be, the feeling of being cornered, of having no other option, to feel the need to be so extreme to be heard, or taken seriously. That he felt the need to kill so many, then others felt the need to kill him, to rejoice. Tears need to be shed for the dead... and the living."
"Then cry as much as you need to," Ivan said as he rested a big hand on her head and started to rock back and forth. "Feel all the sorrow that the world will not."
The door to the townhouse opened, and a blast of noise followed before the door clicked and everything became quiet again.
"Atlantis?" came a soft, worried voice. Into the den came the bear's real owner, Ivan. He had round, searching eyes behind oval framed classes, and a round face. He wore business casual, and a heavy, very worn leather jacket. He had come straight from work.
"Hi Ivan."
"You okay?" Ivan stepped over to the small girl and crouched down next to her, his arms resting on his thighs. He could see her face, and knew she wasn't. She had his heavy comforter he brought back from a trip to Canada wrapped around her, despite the warm temperature of the room. She was shaking.
"A very bad man was killed," she said as she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "He hurt many, many people. He is dead now, and everyone is very happy." Atlantis fumbled her words, a smooth accent slurring her consonants and vowels into a constant lulling sound, drawing Ivan closer.
"But you are not," he said. He sat down on the thick rug with her and let her hide herself away in his chest. He rested a hand on her back, moving it up and down to sooth her chills and fear.
"I am not," Atlantis repeated. "I am... sad, and scared."
"Scared?"
"So much joy in the loss of life. It is scary."
"Oh, Atlantis." Ivan pushed his glasses up over his hair and placed a loving kiss against her hair. Despite her adult manner and gentle ways, to him, Atlantis was just a child with the body and knowledge of a woman. "All you are hearing are those that are joyful, they are really quite loud. Not all are rejoicing, it is alright. They must have just been, much closer to the hurt people than most."
"It is still scary," Atlantis said. "To have killing be the only solution that they can see. That all of them can see. That they feel it is the only thing left for them to be heard, to make it right."
Ivan let out a breath, lost within the honesty of her words and the weight of her tears. He squeezed her close again, Polaris resting his big, awkward paws on Ivan's knee and nudging a little, black nose against Atlantis' stomach with another whine. He did feel relief at the news when it came to him, but then just dread, knowing that it wasn't the end.
"You really are just a force of empathy," he finally said, his gaze locked on the ceiling fan as it slowly spun. "It's like the world's pain is right in your blood, in your heart, and it is not your own. You feel it anyway."
"If no one else will shed tears for a death," Atlantis said, curling herself up into him as much as she could. "Then I must. The events that made all this come to be, the feeling of being cornered, of having no other option, to feel the need to be so extreme to be heard, or taken seriously. That he felt the need to kill so many, then others felt the need to kill him, to rejoice. Tears need to be shed for the dead... and the living."
"Then cry as much as you need to," Ivan said as he rested a big hand on her head and started to rock back and forth. "Feel all the sorrow that the world will not."
Just Let It Out
"Lay the fuck off Tim," Claudia said as she took one step with her long legs and stationed herself between him and Petunia. "I swear to whatever god there may be that if you don't fucking cool it I will show you something that I will celebrate about."
She watched as the pupils of his pale green eyes contracted, the superior smirk fading from his skinny lips that were set under a red nose. The kid constantly looked like he was sick, since his big ears were also red, satellite dishes on either side of a narrow face and set on a telephone pole body. Claudia was fairly sure she could wrap one of her legs around his waist and just break him in half with one, sharp twist.
"The fuck is this Claude?"
"Look, you can see I'm pissed, right? Do you think callin' me Claude when I'm fucking pissed, at you, is a good idea?"
"Cici..." Petunia said behind me. I felt her large hand take hold of my wrist, but not in a restrictive manner.
"'kay, whatever, bitch. PMSin', much?"
"Yeah, it's totally because I'm PMSin' and not because you're being the biggest douche-fucking cocktail I've ever seen."
"What happened was awesome! Fuck you if you don't agree."
Claudia sucked her tongue against the front of her teeth, her breathing steady but her knuckles burned, an ache to smash them into his recently un-braced teeth. Her knees locked back for a moment before she remembered to bend them slightly for better movement. She was sure he wouldn't appreciate her three inch heel jamming into his nose. Her shoulders were straight to face him, broad for a woman but she used it to her advantage in the clothing she wore and the looming anger she employed in her day-to-day business.
"What happened, happened," she said, aware that Petunia's breathing was stilted and nervous.
"It finally happened," Tim corrected.
Petunia shifted her weight between small feet, rolling her ankle a bit. She was never steady on heels. All her weight was in her hips. All her thoughts were on her face.
"Oh grow the fuck up," Claudia said. "We get it, you're over the fucking moon. You and all the other sociopathic turds who think you're all polished to a mirror finish. Go on and whoop and hollar for joy and I hope someone does the same exact thing when that shit happens to you."
"If you don't like it you can fucking leave," Tim said, throwing out his arm as if to make some point. His dumpy hoodie only made the motion look slow and unmotivated. Claudia knew that he had never been the target of one of her rages. He had always been an on-looker or on her side, now that she was against him he was lost. Lost in a forest that she was setting on fire at each corner and watching him burn with the flames reflected in amber eyes.
"How about," Claudia replied, "if I don't like it, I'll fucking tell you that I don't like it, and you can shut the fuck up or take it somewhere else." She lifted both her hands, breaking Petunia's hold and pinched her fingers together as if about to conduct an orchestra. She opened up all her fingers. "Because I, won't take that shit. I'm not Petunia." She closed her fingers and moved them to point at herself.
Petunia inhaled as she was brought back into the conversation, and not in a favorable light. Claudia was surprised she hadn't left the room by now, left the apartment. She pushed her arm back into the red-headed girl, shoving her away toward the door. Not that she had done it on purpose, but Petunia had instigated this fight, even though Claudia was fully supportive of her side. Celebrating this kind of shit was needlessly destructive, embarrassing, and repulsive.
"Ya'll complain but I don't see you doing anything about it!" Tim rolled his eyes, tugging his hoodie over his chest in some kind of masculine gesture.
"Oh. Do something." Claudia smiled, then hopped forward onto one foot and slammed her heel into Tim's soft stomach with all the force a ballet dancer could muster. It was a lot. "Fucking attacking your friends because they disagree with you and your actions. Fuck that shit. Get the fuck out of this apartment and don't come back. You'll find any of the shit you left here on the curb in an hour."
She watched as the pupils of his pale green eyes contracted, the superior smirk fading from his skinny lips that were set under a red nose. The kid constantly looked like he was sick, since his big ears were also red, satellite dishes on either side of a narrow face and set on a telephone pole body. Claudia was fairly sure she could wrap one of her legs around his waist and just break him in half with one, sharp twist.
"The fuck is this Claude?"
"Look, you can see I'm pissed, right? Do you think callin' me Claude when I'm fucking pissed, at you, is a good idea?"
"Cici..." Petunia said behind me. I felt her large hand take hold of my wrist, but not in a restrictive manner.
"'kay, whatever, bitch. PMSin', much?"
"Yeah, it's totally because I'm PMSin' and not because you're being the biggest douche-fucking cocktail I've ever seen."
"What happened was awesome! Fuck you if you don't agree."
Claudia sucked her tongue against the front of her teeth, her breathing steady but her knuckles burned, an ache to smash them into his recently un-braced teeth. Her knees locked back for a moment before she remembered to bend them slightly for better movement. She was sure he wouldn't appreciate her three inch heel jamming into his nose. Her shoulders were straight to face him, broad for a woman but she used it to her advantage in the clothing she wore and the looming anger she employed in her day-to-day business.
"What happened, happened," she said, aware that Petunia's breathing was stilted and nervous.
"It finally happened," Tim corrected.
Petunia shifted her weight between small feet, rolling her ankle a bit. She was never steady on heels. All her weight was in her hips. All her thoughts were on her face.
"Oh grow the fuck up," Claudia said. "We get it, you're over the fucking moon. You and all the other sociopathic turds who think you're all polished to a mirror finish. Go on and whoop and hollar for joy and I hope someone does the same exact thing when that shit happens to you."
"If you don't like it you can fucking leave," Tim said, throwing out his arm as if to make some point. His dumpy hoodie only made the motion look slow and unmotivated. Claudia knew that he had never been the target of one of her rages. He had always been an on-looker or on her side, now that she was against him he was lost. Lost in a forest that she was setting on fire at each corner and watching him burn with the flames reflected in amber eyes.
"How about," Claudia replied, "if I don't like it, I'll fucking tell you that I don't like it, and you can shut the fuck up or take it somewhere else." She lifted both her hands, breaking Petunia's hold and pinched her fingers together as if about to conduct an orchestra. She opened up all her fingers. "Because I, won't take that shit. I'm not Petunia." She closed her fingers and moved them to point at herself.
Petunia inhaled as she was brought back into the conversation, and not in a favorable light. Claudia was surprised she hadn't left the room by now, left the apartment. She pushed her arm back into the red-headed girl, shoving her away toward the door. Not that she had done it on purpose, but Petunia had instigated this fight, even though Claudia was fully supportive of her side. Celebrating this kind of shit was needlessly destructive, embarrassing, and repulsive.
"Ya'll complain but I don't see you doing anything about it!" Tim rolled his eyes, tugging his hoodie over his chest in some kind of masculine gesture.
"Oh. Do something." Claudia smiled, then hopped forward onto one foot and slammed her heel into Tim's soft stomach with all the force a ballet dancer could muster. It was a lot. "Fucking attacking your friends because they disagree with you and your actions. Fuck that shit. Get the fuck out of this apartment and don't come back. You'll find any of the shit you left here on the curb in an hour."
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.
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