Ben's writing

WOW.

2007-10-07T08:19:43Z

So, this is my first update in 102 weeks. That's almost two years. That doesn't mean I haven't been writing, just that I forgot about this.

So here's a pre-nano-practice-short-story! I like it. 1068 words.

OPTION 1:

* Pieces of Pineapple
* Carrier-Bag Cat
* a beautiful lie
* snowfall

Challenge #204 Musemuggers
October 7, 2007 1:17AM

She walked slowly down the hall, her pink socks fitting comfortably with the cheap grey and beige linoleum. She didn’t know why she bought the socks at the time, but she supposed it made no real difference. Not much did any more. Not her impulsive move, so long ago. Not staying vegetarian. Not even the cat, which was now in a carrier-bag on it’s way to her mother’s place so it could be taken care of properly.

She sighed, and without thinking touched the spot on the wall where she’d first kissed her. They’d only known each other a few weeks, and had only met each other that morning when she picked her up from the airport. She didn’t even think of this woman as someone to fall in love with until she’d met her. She was just someone looking for a roommate in another city, and she just wanted to move somewhere new. Then she saw her.

She walked right up to her at the airport, ignored the bags slung over both of her shoulders, gave her a suffocating hug that seemed to squish some of her own sunshine right into her, then said, “I am so glad to see you, Erica!”

Erica. The way she had said her name was unlike the way anyone else had ever said it. Her voice was light and kittens playing and secret tears in the night. Her voice held her, but in a softer way then her arms did. More like the ground is held by softness after a snowfall.

She let go, and asked if she had any more bags.

“No, just these two.”

“Oh, yes. The rest is coming on the bus. Well, let’s go then!”

And with that, they left. And came here. They dropped off her bags, then went for lunch. She treated her like she was an old friend, telling her stories and already making inside jokes, just for the two of them. She couldn’t remember most of that day, just that there was laughter and food and maybe wine. She couldn’t remember most of that day, until they returned to the apartment, and she kissed her, here, right in the entranceway, right after she closed the door behind them. That moment is still as clear to her as the cleanest water from the purest spring.

She touched the spot on the wall again. She had told her, “Remember this. This spot. Right here,” and she touched the wall beside her head. “Remember that spot. Promise me, Erica?” She nodded, and she kissed her again. Then they went to sleep. She offered no explanation, no questions. Just a kiss, a memory, and a good night.

They lived together for two years. Two years they saw each other every day. They kissed, they held each other, they made love. They went on a trip once, to the coast. But they didn’t make love while there, or kiss. They had a lot of fun, and met and played with a number of interesting people, but they didn’t make love there. When they returned to the apartment, however, they made the most passionate love they’d had in some time.

She moved from the entranceway and went into the kitchen. She was hungry. She needed to eat, so that she could continue to think. She opened the fridge. The only thing she found was a bowl of pineapple slices, left overs from something. She tested them. They were still good. Still juicy and clean, like pineapples should be. Pineapples were their favourite fruit. She ate another piece and thought about that. Pineapples were like her, she realised. They were light. They came from places where the sun shone as strong as she had, and they kept that with them when they were shipped to the cold places, to be eaten by cold people like her to remind them that sunlight really did exist.

There had been no pineapples for a while. She started to spend more and more time out of the apartment. Never with her - they never did anything together. Or at least, very rarely, and never as a Couple. Sometimes they would go out for drinks with their friends, or dinner, and sometimes they would even go see a movie together, and hold hands, under the arm rest, like too teenagers on a date, scared that anyone would see. She didn’t know why everything seemed so secretive while they were out of the apartment. Towards the end, she mentioned it once. She was told that it didn’t matter, she just liked being discreet and polite in public. That sufficed. She started spending more time out, leaving her alone at home. She never minded. She always came home to her, and they always kissed in the entranceway, right by that spot.

She ate the last piece of the pineapple, and ran the bowl under the tap for a moment. That was the last pineapple. Two nights afterwards, she told her that she was moving out. She was moving in with a man from her office, her fianceé she called him. Fianceé. She’d never said she wanted to be married. She would have married her, if she had wanted to.

“No, Erica. Things like that don’t work in this world. I love you, in my way, but it’s time for me to think about my career and my future, and my life. I need to have a husband and children and a house in the suburbs. It’s safe that way. I’m safe. Don’t you see? This was nice. It was a lot of fun. We had some good times together, didn’t we Erica? Didn’t you love me? You need to let me go now. You need to let go of me. I need to leave now, he’s waiting for me, all my stuff is packed. Erica, let go!” And she hit her. Not hard, but she hit her, across the face. “I’m sorry, Erica. I shouldn’t have done that. But I have to go. I can’t stay here, with you, it would be too hard. Good bye. I love you, good bye.”

So she left. She left her furniture. All she took were her clothes and her collection of movies starring people like Audrey Hepburn and Judy Garland. Everything was exactly the same as it was before, except for her. Before, they were each other.

Now, she was just Erica.

Maureen

2005-10-20T07:36:02Z

1457 words. I began with the random words: Her name. It became this.

I cried.

Her name.

Her name was like oxygen, pure oxygen, the kind that is cool and fresh and clensing and sobering all at once. Completely vital and so very nicely so. I used to, back when I was just beginning to feel the fire that she was, say her name, over and over again, for what seemed like hours, playing with the word, bringing it to the back of my throat, then throwing it forward to the tip of my toungue, saying it in my stomach, in my chest, in my head, in my nose, drawing out each singular sound as long as I could, cherising each and every moment that sound vibrated the air in front of me, flying out to the wall on the other side of my room, by the door and the poster of the main characters from my favourite television series, rebounding, bouncing into itself on the way back and returning to me, my ears, my blessed ears that could hear her name and know that it was her, all the richer for the journey that it took. I would write her name on endless reams of loose leaf, newsprint, napkins, paper bags, my arms, anything that had a surface that would take to ink. I would write her name thousands of times a day it seemed, memorising each and every dip and curve and loop and sudden, suprising stops that it would take. I think that, at the start, I was more in love with her name then I was with her.

Her name was Maureen.

She hated her name. She thought that it was a stupid name for a teenager in this age. She used to ask people to call her Maury, or Reeny, or even Mau, though even she admited that sound far too asian-ethnic for her. She couldn’t look the part. She was as English as could be - pale, though her skin gained an ever so delicate bronze tint during the summer months, which quickly faded come October and the early snow that always came. Her hair was a brillaint brass colour - a brown that was almost red, that shone in the smallest of lights, and blazed under that of the sun which gave her blonde streaks at her temples. She loved her hair most out of her entire body, and she took fantastic care of it. Her dedication to her silky follicles showed - she worked for a short while as a model for a shampoo company. Her eyes were much alike to her hair, but they had slight tints of the palest green in a ring around her iris. It was almost a shame that she had to wear a lens in front of them, keeping their full brilliance from the world, but she had chosen her frames well and they accented the mysterious, sensual shape of her eyes. When she smiled and cocked her head just right, you could just see her as some famous detective, or brilliant writer, finding secrets and clues and symbols in the most unlikely of places.

She was going to be a nurse.

Maureen would have made a wonderful nurse - she was so full of joy, light and happiness, not to mention perserverence and incredible intelligence. In her eleventh year of school, she won the top student awards for both English and Biology. I marveled at that accomplishment - I was no dummy in the slightest, but I had the hardest time understanding how any person could do as stellerly as she did in those two subjects. My best were physics and calculus - I didn’t like, not want to like, deep literature or the inner workings of an animal’s body. Yet she was fantastic at them.

She was going to marry me in only six months..

We had dated all through highschool, and were madly in love with each other. We were so in love that we had already moved beyond the ‘burning with passion’ stage that seems to stereotype high school relationships, and were already comfortably settling in with each other. We hadn’t moved in with each other yet, and in fact we’d never had sex. We didn’t need to, not us. I loved Maureen for who she was, and who she was going to be. It didn’t matter to me in the slightest that we’d not slept with each other, which was something that none of our friends were able to understand. But there it was - we were in love, and we didn’t need sex to show that love. Frequently our dates involved us just going to some little resteraunt somewhere, where the food was homey, the room was quaint, and the server was usually the husband or wife of the owner, who would be in the back cooking. We loved family resturaunts very much. The atmosphere in our favourites was always so intimate, cosy and comfortable. We would order supper, and our server would present it with a corny flourish and a genuine home-style smile, then whisk off to the kitchen to sigh with his or her spouse over the two young lovers, and remember the days when they went out for dinner all the time. We would take a long time to eat, savouring the pleasant meal, and then sit and talk over a cola or a juice for hours and hours. Sometimes our server and chef would come out, and join us, and we’d sit and talk and talk with them until it was way past their usual closing time. We had made many, many very good friends that way, many of whom came to see Maureen off. We had been planning on going to our favourite resturaunt in town right after the graduation ceremonies, last May, and spend some time with two of our very best friends, who had promised to toast us.

Maureen was shot before just as she arrived at the huge hall by a disgruntled football player who had been expelled and held by the police not three weeks before that for attempting one of the cheerleaders in the women’s changeroom.

He had been let out on bail, pending his trial, which it was expected he would come out of with possibly less then a slap on the wrist, or community service. “After all,” his lawyer would likely argue, “he didn’t really do anything. In fact he was the only one really harmed (it was easy to imagine the lawyer’s sarcastic tone there), as this alleged victim stabbed this young man in the groin with a stilleto heel.” Not to mention the fact that his father was one of the most succesful realtors in town, and had a lot of influence. And money. Still, he’d been expelled, and despite his fathers orders, warnings, and threats, the principal had chosen not to let him graduate that year. Maureen had made the tragic mistake of wearing an outfit very similiar to one that our principal had once worn. The football player was drunk out of his mind, and the little that was still functioning was consumed with his irrational desire for revenge. He sped on over to the hall about half an hour before the ceremony was to start, running two red lights and nearly running over and elderly old woman. He pulled up just in time to see Maureen stepping out of her beat up Chevy, mistook her for our principal, screamed “You stupid bitch!” and shot her. Three times, once through the stomach, once in her shoulder, and once through a lung. The shots attracted the attention of some stragglers still outside, who had not yet moved inside to be seated, one of whom ran and called 911, and two others who ran up to the suprised and completely overwhelmed boy and wrestled him to the ground. An ambulance and police vehicle arrived not long after, by which time many of the students, parents and faculty had emerged from the hall to see what had happened. The police had a difficult time controlling them, as Maureen was well loved by nearly everyone but those with the pettiest of jealousies, and they demanded to know what had happened to her. She was removed from the scene about twenty minutes after she had been shot, with myself in the ambulance with her. She had lost a lot of blood and was unconcious. I asked the paramedice if she would live. He ignored me.

Maureen, my fiance, my love, and the only person I had ever known better then myself, died on the 20th of may at 7:12 pm, 2005.

Her murderer was tried, convicted, and sentenced to six months house arrest. He will be free, though under a six month parole, in March.

Challenge #103

2005-10-03T04:12:52Z

3209 words, about 2.5-3 hours total.
Prompt:
The theme of this story: satirical horror. The main characters: melancholy archivist and weak grave robber. The major event of the story: keepsake.

The two figures shoveled the damp, musty earth quietly and quickly by the dim light of the half moon, a nervous sense of urgency pushing their every Thrust, twist, lift, and dump. After they were done with the Earth they considered moving on to Mars, Venus, Mercury, and so on and so forth, but decided that when they hit a rock it was time to quit. So they did, leaving the poor Martians undiscovered for many years yet. The Martians were hugely disappointed by this, as their entire economy was crashing and they were really counting on being discovered. An interplanetary war would do just dandy. Alas, they were left as they were. Eventually their falling stock did rise once more, and when they finally were discovered they decided that they didn’t need the thrilling industrial boost anymore. Realizing that they no longer needed to keep that silly looking blue planet and all its funny little creatures around any longer, they blew it up. But as that doesn’t come into this tale beyond the two diggers stopping their work just before hitting Mars, we shall leave it at that and return to the present.

The diggers were an interesting pair. One, with sweat drenching his tattered 90% cotton 10% dirt rags, was short, stocky, and had a very open expression on his face, his eyes wide and his lips separated ever so slightly. In another tale this may have caused him to appear simple, yet innocent and child-like, but as this is not (or so I hope, in which case I’ve accidentally stumbled into some other writer’s story) another tale, it merely served to give him a general aura of dumbness. Not dumb in that he could not speak, but dumb as in blockheaded, idiotic, negatively IQ’d, and just generally... stupid, to put it lightly. Now this wasn’t necessarily true, but sadly some things that aren’t necessary at all often are, as in the poor man’s case.

The other was a fairly sharp one. He had a very pointy chin, sharp elbows, harsh eyebrows, and his rather impressive height, coupled with his emaciation that came from years of holding one's self up in a cellar cataloguing things and marking things down on lists, gave this chap a certain pin like quality. Now, this was not diminished in the slightest by the conical metal cap that he wore on his head, held on by a droopy piece of yarn, tied with a rather outrageous looking bow. He was not nearly as sweat-bathed as his co-digger, and that was either through virtue of pure strength of mind, an overpowering desire for his body to not perspire which would be mysteriously obeyed by his servant pores, or that he simply dig very little digging at all. This would also account for the extreme wetness that the other experienced, that either that sweat had simply been transferred to the height-disadvantaged one’s body, or else he simply worked that much harder then his comrade.

Whatever the cause for the tall one’s relative dry state, and the short one’s relatively oceanic state, there they were, in a grave yard, digging. Not near a grave, as far as they knew, although there may just have been one there once upon a time. This particular graveyard was what many business people preferred to refer to as ‘economy’ graveyards. Basically they were cheap. Your relative remained buried until they thought that the one who paid the bill had finally croaked themselves, or they thought that s/he had stopped caring. At that point, poor grandma was exhumed, removed from her coffin (later resold) and dumped in a great mass grave just up the road, at McFerny’s Fertilizer Provider. On an unrelated note, McFerny’s fertilizer was apparently so natural that ‘your vegetables will end up tasting just like Grandma’s!’

The two, or perhaps just the one, swiftly finished removing the loose dirt from the grave. Something crashed behind them, and they both jumped and clung to each other. Anxiously their eyes flitted about, trying to locate the maker of the noise. They jumped again when a young, tiny grey tabby cat mewed at them, her wide eyes shining in the darkness. Humphing at her in response, they abruptly realized that they were grasping each other, and just as abruptly they saw that they had pushed the other away. Each glaring at the other, they returned to their hole and peered down inside of it. The little cat padded over to them and gazed intently down with them.

Their mysterious pit was about a meter and a half deep. Its walls were made of dirt, and it was filled with air, excluding the stone box on the bottom. With an exultant cry the tall man jumped down, grabbed the box, and holding it in is palm held it up to his eyes. A satisfied sigh rushed out between his cracking lips, and stuffing the box in a deep pocket of his thick, long coat clambered back up above the ground. He smirked at the other digger (well, really the only digger, I suppose) and with a curt nod at the feline observer half jogged, half walked towards the exit of the cemetery. His partner set out after him, but not before staring quite intently at the cat, who merely mewed again at him. With a shake of his fat face he ran after the tall man, leaving the cat and the hole and the morning fog that was beginning to set in alone.

Sniffing delicately at the air, the little tabby closed its eyes and sat, unmoving, for sometime. Any unlikely passerby would not have had difficulty mistaking it for a fancy tombstone; its fur was even the right colour for a hunk of stone. Perhaps it really was a piece of stone, but were that so, it would have to be stone that was capable of independent motion and sound. Now, it may be that the rocks in your part of this vast world possess such admirable and fantastic attributes, but this was I shall now reveal stereotypical, merry old England, and unless you count Stonehenge, English rocks are not quite so awesome. Pip pip.

There it was then, this cat that from a distance looked like a stone tomb... stone, but when one was close enough to be able to reliable discern its true nature, it was a cat. In fact a cat that had just mewed, once more, quite piteously. If one got close enough to the feline to not only discern that it was, in fact, a feline, one would likely also be able to see that it was gazing with an extremely forlorn expression at the spot that once contained dirt and box. Quite suddenly, however, that expression changed, to one that may just have been vengeful.

With that, we skip along a bit and rejoin our box-robbers.

**********

“Mark, let me see, please?” the diminutive digger pleaded, poking at the bulge in his towering companion’s overcoat.

“No.” Mark sharply replied.

“But why?” the other whined, “I did most of the digging! I daresay that I deserve at least a look at the-”

“Be silent, you dolt!” Mark snapped, clapping his long hand over the quite upset stout man. Both remained still for a brief moment, and with a much calmer voice Mark said slowly, “Darren, I promise you, that if you speak not another word about what is in my pocket, then when we return to my library I will let you see it. Do you agree?” When the short man nodded, Mark gingerly removed his hand and resumed his brisk pace down the dark, cobblestone street.

Darren glared briefly at him, and then quickly shuffled along. He looked uneasily at the dark buildings around him, their occupant’s likely just ending their REM cycles and beginning the slow, careful climb up from the depths of their subconscious. Shuddering, he imagined that they were dreaming about him, the grave digger that so many of them fear. He had a reputation around the town as a, well, lover or corpses, so to speak. It wasn’t like that, he’d swear, I just like the dead very, very much, but of course that would only serve to anger them even more, and he’d have to run back to his sanctuary with their pitch forks and cries of “Lynch the necrophile!” close behind him.

It was quite harrowing.

They reached Mark’s library promptly, and the towering pin of a man pulled a small key from his pocket. With an uneasy check around him, to ensure that none would witness, he pulled a small stone from a ledge, and inserted the key into the hole there revealed. He twisted the key left, right, pulled it out, put it back in, twisted it to the right again, the removed it again and placed it in his pocket. Replacing the stone, he pushed on the wall with his shoulder, and the former swung slowly inward, leaving just enough space for the two men to fit through. When Darren had disappeared inside, it laboriously swung back, and with a click the wall was no longer a door.

The cat’s tail flicked as she eyed that wall, her eyes reflecting the small amount of light provided by the setting moon. They whirled, as her little mind contemplated what she had seen. After a short time, she gracefully flitted across the street and jumped up onto the ledge. Flicking the stone away from the keyhole, she drew a claw and stuck it in. She fidgeted for a moment, and then the lock clicked. Removing her paw, she slipped over to where the door had opened and stared at it for a moment. It suddenly opened, much easier then it had for Mark, and she rode in on the ledge, jumped off, and flicked her tail again as the door slid shut, leaving the wall once more as it had been.

She slinked off into the darkness, heading towards the dim bit of light down the slim corridor.

*********

“Can I see it now Mark? Please?” Darren pleaded anxiously, nearly vibrating as he sat on the rickety wooden chair, set before the low stone table.

“Not quite yet! Have a bit of patience, and you’ll see it,” Mark said tightly, squinting at his partner. “You must have patience - I first must ensure that this is indeed the Box.”

“But it’s just like your book said, just like you told me the book said. It’s marble, and there’s a cat carved into the lid! A cat curled up like it’s taking a little nap-”

“Or that it’s dead,” Mark sneered. “I know - but I must be sure!” He set the box on the opposite side of the table relative to Darren, who whined again and stared eagerly at the little box. “Now where is that book?” He asked himself, hunting on one of the book shelves that lined three of the walls of the small room. The fourth was taken up by a small fireplace, which burned low in the iron hearth.

“It’s there, on the table; right next to the,” Darren swallowed dryly, “the box.”

Mark gave the, well let’s face it, the short fat despicable bit of human being, the briefest of contemptuous glances, then made his way back to the table. He grabbed the book up, and quickly flipped to a dog-eared page. The book was small, and old, bound with red leather. He scanned the page, then picked the box up with his other hand and compared it to the description.

“Yes... it seems to be the one alright. The right dimensions - and the cat matches the drawing in the journal.” Slapping the book down on the table, Mark laughed gleefully. “This is it! At last I’ve found it!”

Darren joined in the laughter, and cried out, “I can see it now, right?”

Mark abruptly stopped laughing and glared at Darren. He mused for a moment, then smiled predatorily and said, “Of course you may see it, my little... friend.” He paused, and then handed the box to the other man. “Just be sure to open it towards you!”

Darren nearly drooled in his excitement as he snatched the box from Mark’s skinny outstretched hand. With a triumphant cry, he flipped open the lid. He froze, and stood for some time. Then he slowly stuttered, “Mark... was... was there supposed to be a- a kitten in here?”

Mark’s eyes flared as he screamed, “What?” He dove over the table and yanked the box from his partners weakening grasp. Darren gasped and collapsed into the chair, completely in shock. The tall archivist’s breath caught in his throat as he examined the contents of the little stone box. “You’re right... there’s the skeleton of a-” his eyes burned as he snapped, “But the book said that the box contained death! Death, the power of Death!” Slamming the lid down, he tossed the stone coffin onto the table and ran to the journal, checking it again. He stared at it disbelievingly. Darren stared at him in shock, about to ask him something. He stared at it disbelieving, when a small voice from behind the irate man before him spoke.

“Yes, that is right. Death is contained within that box.” Mark stiffened, and slowly swiveled to see the speaker. He stared incomprehensively for some time, then his eyes widened in recognition - this was the stony cat from the cemetery. “That box contains my only child, who will one day take my place. I am also Death.” Paling, the now very frail seeming pin-like man slowly stepped away, shaking his head.

“Yes, I am death, Mark Horeth. You have stolen my child from me.” She began to walk towards the man, who was backing away in fear. “I gave birth to her, and placed her within her tomb to await the day that I would come to her, transfer my responsibility to her, and take my place in the other world.”

“But, but the journal-”

“-is the journal of an old, old friend of mine, from many, many years ago.” She paused in her advance, and continued, “I came to trust him. I recognized his great intellect for what it truly was, and taught him what I knew. What is in his journal is only a very, very small amount of what he learned from me. It seems that it was too much - for you have disturbed that which you should never have disturbed.” She took another step, and locked eyes with the shaking Mark. “You are to be punished for this.”

Mark stood transfixed for a moment, then screamed in defiance at her and turned about, meaning to run around the table and make his escape by slipping behind her. It likely would not have worked, as she only had to travel back the short distance she had already come into the room, but he was beyond rational thought at that time. In fact, he didn’t make it more then one step, for as he turned his foot caught on his long coat, and he tripped. By this time he had backed up so far that he was nearly right next to the fire. He fell into it, screamed, and scrambled to get up.

The feline Death jumped up to the table and hissed at him. The fire flared up, high, higher then it had ever gone before and indeed quite beyond the limits of the meager fuel. Mark screamed once more, and was nearly standing when she commanded him, in a voice that promised pain, ice, and empty existence, “You shall not move, Mark Horeth! This is your punishment and your Death for stealing my child!” He froze stock still, but continued to scream as the acrid scent of burning flesh filled the small room. His screams soon faded, as did the fire, and so he died.

Death turned and nudged her nose against the box, still closed. A small whimpering voice attracted her attention, and she glanced up to regard a trembling Darren, who shakily said, “Please, mistress, I’ve served you for a long time now, honouring your... resting people. Please, please, I only showed him where she was because he promised me that it would contain my heart’s only desire, that it was magical like that.”

Death continued to gaze at the grave digger, and asked, “And what is your hearts only desire, Darren Courtmaster?”

The stout man glanced down at the ground and blushed. He hemmed, and then stammered out, “Why, mistress, it’s not that I mean to dishonor the work that you have given me - not at all, never! It’s just... well, I want a family, you see. I want a little wife, and a son, and a bonny daughter, and a little house to live in with them.

Death blinked, and there was a small hint of mirth in her voice as she said, “Very well, my servant. You have indeed done well for a long, long time. I do not blame you for tonight’s unfortunate events. Therefore, I shall grant your request.”

Darren’s head snapped up and he stared at the diminutive cat with a shocked expression covering his simple face. “You mean that mistress? You can do that for me?”

“Of course I can - I may be Death, but I also appreciate and influence Life. We work in tandem, you see. I shall indeed ensure that this happens for you. But,” and she paused as Darren’s smile stopped before it began, “You must do something for me. Not a large task, but while I do not blame you, I cannot ignore your involvement in this outrageous thievery.”

“Anything, anything mistress, I will do it, I will!” he cried.

“Very well then. I command you to-” she said sternly, then paused, eyeing the hesitant man, before continuing on lightly, “re-bury my daughter, in the same place as before. When you finish the task, a young woman will come up to you. Her name is Lucy.”

Darren’s face gained a dreamy expression as he repeated the name, “Lucy...” He gingerly picked up the little coffin, and with a bow to Death, carefully exited the room, uttering his now future wife’s name. “Lucy....”

Death turned to regard the ashes of Mark’s upper torso. She blinked, and nodded her head soberly. Pitch black shadows emerged from the corners of the room, and rolled over to cover the remains of the thief. They completely engulfed him, and then slowly dissipated, leaving nothing behind.

With another curt nod, Death turned and strode out of the room, which slowly began to disappear into darkness. She stopped at the entrance to the tight hall, back to the door, and looked over her shoulder at the journal, resting on the table still. She thought for a moment, and then said softly, “I think you can stay there, for now. There is much in you that should perhaps be left for another. And maybe, just maybe, that other will know what to do with what you contain.” She mewed, once, then turned and trotted down the corridor as the last coals died, and the room became completely dark, though not at all empty.

The war of Absentee. Musemuggers challenge number 83.

2005-05-11T04:15:55Z

Sometime they'll give a war

And nobody will come.
Carl Sandburg (1878 - 1967)

The War of Absentee

"Carlsburg?"

Pause.

"Sandstron?"

Pause.

"MacCaffery?"

Pause.

"Thorne?"

"Present!"

Pause.

"Madden?"

Pause.

"Right, well that's it. Looks like, almost, everyone is not here." The officer in charge of the role call that morning glared at Thorne, clapped his ledger, turned swiftly on his heel, leaving Sergeant Cowan to deliver the briefing. The burly Sergeant clipped his heels together, saluted the troops, and gave his first order of the day.

"At ease." Cowan took two steps precisely point eight nine meters each, and stopped. He sniffed his nose and gazed around the briefing room with a steely, sober glare. "Gentlemen, we've all served together a long time now. We have traveled a long way, fought more then a few skirmishes with the enemy, and have managed to come out relatively unscathed. We did lose a few men along the way," here the Sergeant nodded to the empty seats where the dead once sat, "But still we fought on. Now, finally, we have pushed our way forward into the heart of enemy territory, ready to unleash our too long withheld wrath. You all know what to do. You have been trained well. We have planned, discussed, revised, and planned some more for over six months. You're ready. Go show them what our homeland is made of!" The Sergeant's voice had risen to a mighty roar, and with his last sentence clapped his hands above his head, then screamed, "Victory!"
Thorne clapped. Sergeant Cowan glared.

"Alright then, off you go. I have tea with the lovely Major Halahoon and I cannot be late. Do us proud!" With that, the Sergeant stomped out of the briefing room with a smile as brilliant as the shine on his boots.

With a grin almost as incredible, although a little lopsided, Thorne gave a great "Hip hip hooray!" And bolted out the back of the room. He knew where to go. With a great cry, he ran across the field of battle, his weapon drawn, his face that of a demon, or a great cat. Maybe a tabby. He proudly met the enemy, and fought well for his country. He alone destroyed the enemy battalion, an impossible two men and a potted flower. Alas, he returned from the battle a wounded hero. With its last dying breath, that heinous flower had broken its pot, and in his patriotic glee, poor Thorne stepped the Shard of the Axis of Not Nice.

"I'm very proud of the boy," Sergeant Cowan beamed. 'I didn't think he had it in him. Why, he didn't even have the brains to die before the war. Only one of his troop to fail in that, and yet look how he turned out. Wounded on the field of battle - stunning. Simply stunning. Oh my! Now now Major, not there…. Oo! Hoo! HooOOO! Major! One moment please…"

"Major!'

Glory, Gold, and God.

2005-04-22T05:44:58Z

769 words. Started in Social Studies class, while my teacher spoke about Imperialism. And interesting piece, I think. I purposely avoided and gender specifications, and also limited myself to dialogue. This would make an interesting short play, I think. What about you? What do you think?

Glory, Gold, and God
A tale of a rut.

“Listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear them? They’re celebrating. The horns, the drums, the flutes. The famous composer, he’s written a song, praising the one who made this victory for them. Listen! The best singer in all the land praises you as though you were a god! Praising you strength, your wisdom, your courage. And there! Ha! Even predictions of your talent in bed. Do you hear it? You’re blushing! You hide your face! Your people love you, monarch. Why don’t you go to them?

“I am ashamed.”

“Ashamed? What have you to be ashamed of? You are a hero. You’ll be a legend, they’ll call you “The Great”, your name will be learned by children hundreds of years from now.”

“At what cost? What price must be paid for such glory? And is that all that was gained? Glory? Glory and Gold! Don’t allow me to being on God.”

“Do you regret monarch? Do you wish tha you had lost the battle?”

“No, however -”

“Of course you don’t. You are not suicidal, nor do you no treturn your country’s love for you. No, you would not let your people perish.”

“You are right. I would not. Not when there was still hope that they might go to their homes, kiss their children, and return to their work. Till their fields, bake bread, weave good linen. As long as still they could sing their work songs and laugh at little jokes, I would fight any foe so that they may live.”

“But..?”

“But in doing so, what would I be destroying? Whose fields would lie fallow, which songs would never be sung? What lives would end, never to return to their children and lovers?

“To who did I do this?”

“Now I understand your sorrow, monarch. You fear that the country you destroyed, devastated, had a monarch that felt as you do, who would stop at nothing to protect the songs and jokes and fields of that country. And you fear also that you might have been that monarch.”

“Yes, I fear, and feared, that. I have survived, I have succeded in protecting my people, but I might not have. And that monarch did not. But what I fear more, advisor, is that I should not have. That the other country should have been allowed to live, and to till and sing and joke, rather then mine. My people are simple people, and sometimes I fear that they are stupid. I hope that the people of that country are-- were, the same, but what if? What if, advisor, they were not? What if the other monarch had managed to educate the people, to teach them enlightened songs, and have them find new ways of doing things? What if their minds were open and fresh, filled with thought and learning and idea?”

“Then you would indeed have reason to regret. But you cannot know. Your country, and the other, very rarely communicated. Thus, you must continue on, and hope that your country should not have ended.”

“What do you think, advisor? You know better then me the world outside of my small country, and can tell me - is there hope for my people? Will they always be as deeply stuck as the wagons on the dirt roads, travelling paths their ancestors had travelled many generations ago, paths that have not changed in all those intervening years? I’ve watched them, advisor. It takes much work to get a wagon out of a deep rut. Sometimes it is undoable, and help must be found. But I have just destroyed my only neighbours!”

“I cannot tell for certain, monarch. Your people are an old people, and that rut is indeed deep and old. It may be a repetitious annoyance, but within that rut is the memory of their ancestors, of all the others that came before them that too rolled in that rut, way far back to those that first created them. Your people will be loath to leave them.”

“But can I try? Is it worth it, or would I simply create new ruts to torment and perplex others, much farther down my line? I have a child - would my child continue in my rut, or would my child forge yet another way?”

“You can always try. I do not know if it would be worth it or not. That depends entirely on the end result, and that rests on the shoulders of your child.”

“Do I want to give that burden to my young?”

“Do you?”

“No.

“But I must.”

Challenger #67

2005-01-21T07:34:31Z

Option Number Two, Sentence starter.

Wow, first post since Nano, I believe. I was with MuseMuggers2, so this is my first post here regardless. This story below I think will be my next project, provided I can concentrate on it long enough to care. In any case, I don't think it's half bad.

Very short, 744 words. Science Fiction.

Messenger

It rattled like a bunch of empty pop cans as the odd looking man dragged the bag over to a large rock that was sitting on the top of the hill. He paused for a moment and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his sweater, an oversized knit top which once had been a brilliant white, and looked around him momentarily. There was little to see in any direction, just more hills identical to this one with large rocks sitting on top. Even the sky was a flat, pale blue, with no variation or even interest of colour. Indeed, the entire area was pale, washed, as if it were just the beginning of a painter's watercolour landscape.

The man grasped the bag again and dragged it with great effort the last few metres. He stopped a few steps away from the rock and stood gazing at it intensly, as if he expected it to suddenly jump up and dance about.

And indeed it did.

The rock unfolded, showing itself to be not a rock, but rather a tall, sinewy form, with smooth skin and no face. It wove around the man pecularily, looking for all the world like a worm skirting the edge of a pebble, but for it's short arms and legs. Indeed it moved simlarily to a human, putting one foot in front of the other, but it waved it's body about as it did so. When it had made a full circle, it stopped and faced the man, bending down so that it's 'head' was on level with his. A small hole appeared in the exact middle of the round shape on the top of it's form, and a sound similiar to that of a dialing modem escaped from it.

The man smiled and introduced himself. "My name is Kelly, and I come to the Thaou with a renewed alliance proposal." The being dipped it's upper body in a semblance of a nod, and Kelly continued. "We know that the Thaou are aware of the space faring race that calls itself the Unaganehm. We also are aware that one of your far space research stations was attacked recently. The humans have been fighting against the Unaganehm for five of our years now, and we have never been able to repel one of their attacks.

"My government, the Culture Humaine Unie, have sent me to request that we reforge our military alliance, in order to protect our shared space." Kelly paused to lug his bag in front of him, in between him and the Thaou representative. "I have brought with me records of every encounter CHU has ever had with a seperate sentient species. We know that these records, and the secrecy and jealously with which we guarded them, are a prime reason that our last alliance faltered. Therefore, I have been authorised to give them to the Thaou, to show our willingness to share our knowledge with you," he stopped and looked down at the bland ground, scrunching his face and pausing before relaxing and quietly saying, "We've already lost ten billion people. Please, we need your help."

The Thaou representative bent down even lower and nudged Kelly with it's head. It uttered a soft 'G' arpeggio, and nodded again before reaching down and grasping the bag and easily lifting it with it's short arms. A short, curt 'C' note, and it turned and let out a long and loud 'E'. The other 'rocks' on the other hills unfolded and waved their arms. The Thaou turned back to Kelly, who was standing straight and tall, with a few glad tears dripping from his proud eyes, and let loose a discordant 'D' 'Db'. Kelly laughed, then turn and ran back down the hill to where a barrel shaped pod, no larger then he, stood waiting.

The other Thaou were letting out cries of their own, as the hills shed their pale grass colourings reavealing the highly reflective domes underneath. A hole opened where each Thaou had once sat as a rock, revealing slides that lead down into the interior of the buildings.

Kelly climbed into his Barrel-ship and it sealed tight around him, then launched him back into orbit, where the Messenger was waiting for his report of the events obviously taking place on the small continent below. It rattled like a cupboard of pots being thrown down a flight of stairs as it rose over the suddenly dazzling landscape.

COSY Monologue

2004-12-21T01:02:23Z

A monologue I'm writing for an audition with the Carnival of Shrieking Youth. Two minutes long. (May have to cut some, though)

Well, this isn’t so bad then. Could be a lot worse. Not much to look at, but... (pause, stands, wanders upstage a bit) Just wish there was something to look at. That’s limbo for you, eh? (Chuckles, quickly dies off) Well. (Looks down at notebook) My journal. I wonder why they let me keep that... (Picks it up, smirks) At least I’ll have something to do! (opens to clean page, pats pockets) Oh. They forgot the pen. (pause) Only three pages left anyway. (Flips through pages, stops) I remember that. Math class notes with Grace. I taped them in here... That was when I told her I had a crush on her. (turns page) And this! I wrote this on the bus afterwards. I can hardly read it... (reads) No longer alone, forever together, you and I. Two bodies, one soul, me and my Grace. (laughs) How corny is that! How stupid too. (flips a few more pages, talking) I really did think that she would stay with me. Here we go. (reads) Where has she gone? Why is she never there, though she be by my side? (stops) Stupid. (closes notebook) And to think that I actually thought it mattered. Everything seems to matter when you’re sixteen. Not much really does. (Throws Notebook) I had so much to live for still! Why did I do it? (pause, regards notebook) I know why they let me keep that now. This isn’t limbo, it’s hell. And that is here to remind me of all that I’m missing, and of how dumb I was. Well, I just won’t read it. There’s nothing there for me. Just reminders of what I should have done, instead of... (rubs wrist) I wonder what my family is doing? I bet they miss me... Weird huh? Kid commits suicide, worries his family misses him! (pause) But they would. They’re like that. I miss them too. To think, I left them just because some pretty girl left me. Sad. (stoops over notebook) I think I wrote about them in here. (picks it up, flips) Ah. Here we go. (reads, fade to black)

Helen and Deren

2004-11-28T08:12:41Z

Based off of a conversation a friend of mine and I had. Used with her permission.

“Aw c`mon Helen! Buy me a chocolate bar? Please!” the tall and lanky teenage begged of his much shorter, and much wider, companion.
‘Helen’ grimaced at her friend. “No Deren! You already owe me three dollars, and you know how tight money is for me right now.”
Deren sighed and looked longingly at the collection of chocolate on the shelf at the 7-11 convienience store they were in, so that Helen could buy a package of throat lozenges. “I’m sorry Helen.. I shouldn’t have asked, that was rude. It’s just that I haven’t had chocolate for a long time, not since I finished my novel. And I’ll pay you back, I promise!”
Helen patted Deren’s arm. “Not this time, alright?”
“Fine.”
They made their way to the till, Helen with two packages of Halls Cherry flavoured Original Strength Drops. She paid for them using her debit card, and the two made their way to the bus stop.
“So, how long a bus ride is it to the temple?” Deren asked, sitting down at the Derench and crossing his legs.
Helen sat down beside her friend and put the Halls away in her shoulder bag. “About half an hour, if we manage to make the switch at Southgate on time. It depends, I’m not sure if the nine will get there before the 3. If it doesn’t, then we’ve got a twenty minute wait until the next three comes.” She leaned back on the Derench and let her feet dangle lazily.
Deren scowled and pulled out his drawing book from the small black canvas shoulder bag he had on the Derench next to him. “The nine should be here soon at least, right?” Helen nodded and closed her eyes. Deren was worried about his friend, and rightly so. After all, lots of people go through hard times when one of their cousins gets murdered. “Hey, look at what I drew in Math class today, neat huh?” He flipped the book open to a drawing of an eye that he had done. It wasn’t a human eye, but it wasn’t an animal eye either. It was round, rather then the usual almond shape usually associated with eyes. It bulged weirdly, and it didn’t look natural. It was rather creepy, in fact. Deren thought that he had done a great job on it.
Helen opened her eyes and looked over at Deren’s offered drawing. He showed her a lot of his drawings. Some were better then others, but she had seen most of them. He was strange like that: Unlike most of her other artist friends, Deren seemed to love for people to look at his drawings, even the horribly pathetic ones. She knew that he was happiest when he was giving some enjoyement to someone else, and she liked that about him. This drawing, though, was different from others he had done. Maybe it was just because her emotions and perceptions were twisted due to recent events, what with her cousins, while out for supper, got shot at, one of them dieing and another having to go to the critical care ward. Whatever the reason, she stared at it for a long time. Deren had drawn it loosely, roughly, with his favourite medium: A plain, thick graphite stick. The sketchy, thick lines swirled into the middle, where in the reflected highlights Helen thought she could see the image of a fat girl, hugging her knees to her body, all alone. Is that me? she thought?
Deren coughed and said, “Well?”
Helen snapped herself out of her daze and forced herself to look away from the hypnotic picture. She forced a smile and said, “That’s really good! I like it.”
Deren smiled and raised his left eyebrow. “Really? The way you were staring at it, I thought that you were going to rip it out of my book and burn it.”
Helen honestly laughed. “No, it’s just that I’ve been really out of it lately.”
Deren nodded. “I’ve noticed. Do you wanna talk about it?”
Helen took a deep breath and hugged herself. “Well, it’s just that the past month or so I’ve been really our of it, emotionally. I mean, it’s like I have the worst luck. And now this...” she stopped and closed her eyes, breathing heavily.
Deren patted his friends arm “It’s ok,” he said softly, “You don’t have to tell me if it’s too hard.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him gratefully. “No, it’s alright. I want to just talk with someone about stuff. My family hasn’t been a lot of help in that respect.”
“Oh?”
“Yea. She, I’ve been a sort of a.. not an outcast really, but it’s just that my family doesn’t seem to accept me. I don’t think that I’ve ever received a real compliment from them. It doesn’t help that their all, like, super tall and model-like. I just don’t measure up to that.”
Deren flinched inside. Great, her family thinks she’s ugly! he thought, then said out loud, “Are you kidding? You have amazing hair, and one of the most gorgeous smiles I’ve ever seen! As corny and trite as this sounds, you really could be a model.” A plus sized one, but that’s probably the problem, he added silently.
Helen looked at him with sincere thanks, but then turned to look out at the on coming traffic. “Yea, I know that, and they know it too, but whenver they mention it, it’s always something like, ‘Gee Helen, you have beautiful hair, now you just need to work on the rest of you,’ or, ‘Y`know Helen, you could be a model if you lost about 30 pounds or so.’”
Deren thumped the Derench soundly. Yea, I thought that was what it was. “That’s awful Helen, and so mean. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being, well, plump,” he said that knowing that Helen wouldn’t take offense, she knew his views on the ‘ideal body type’, which were he considered it a load of shit, “Heck, look at me! I’m super skinny, and I would love to gain 30 pounds. Or so.”
Helen chuckled slightly. “Well, I know that, but they don’t. My cousins and such.” She whirled her hands around dramatically, then settled back down, chaging the subject. “And they don’t even talk to me any more! Most of my family lives either here or in Korea, and whenever we get together, my cousins spend all their time talking to each other or playing games. Whenever I try to start a conversation with one of them, it never lasts long, or they get interrupted by something else!”
“So what do you do in the meantime?”
“I usually just go on the computer to see who’s on and I can talk to, or sit around and listen to my cousins talking.Occasionaly I’ll say something, but it doesn’t always get noticed.
“Or I’ll talk to my younger cousins... but they are younger then me, and I’m not entirely sure just how much they like me.” She perked as a bus rounded the corner; It was the nine. “Here’s the bus.”
Deren nodded and grabbed his bag, then offered his hand to Helen and pulled her off the Derench. “It doesn’t sound like your family get-to-gethers are all that much fun.”
“Yea,” Helen said, putting her hands in her pocket. The bus was almost to them, and she nudged Deren’s elbow. “Hey Deren? I wanna thank you.”
“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing Helen, really.”
“But it is. I don’t expect that my family will be paying much attention to me; They’re going over to my aunt’s house right away, and I’ve already missed most of the services. I just didn’t want to be alone in the temple, praying. It would be so lonely, and I need someone with me. And I know that you’re a Christian, and I think that lots of them wouldn’t go with a friend to a Budhist temple and pray with her.”
Deren smiled and shook his head, “Really, it’s nothing at all Helen. I should think that your need for a friend right now is more inportant then me going into the holy place of another religion.”
The bus squealed to a halt right in front of them, and it’s doors swung open. The two teenagers stepped on. Helen smiled at the bus driver as she flashed her pass. It’s good to have a friend, she thought, and the doors closed behind her and the bus lurched forward, murging with the never ceasing stream of traffic.

benwrites @ 2004-11-24T07:35:00

2004-11-24T14:36:52Z

I've gotten sick of my story, so I teleported my MCs onto a great big book, and am currently engaged in asking them why I should bother keeping their story alive.

**********
Bekibred woke up to find that he was in a room so dark that he could see nothing at all, not even his nose on his face. He chose to stay on the ground, as he didn’t know just how large the room was, nor did he really care. He was rather groggy, and was having difficulty making sense of what had just happened to him.
One moment, I was standing outside of the cart driver’s cart... I remember shaking. I remember Sylfee asking if we ever had earthquakes on Nerd.
“No, no earthquakes here,” he said aloud, then continued his inner monologue. Then, I remember it getting very, very hot, and suddenly a bright light. What was it? It was purple. I remember that vividly.
“Well, that’s a relief,” a voice, Sylfee’s called out.
“Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure what just happened, but it wasn’t an earthquake.”
“Of course it wasn’t!” A new voice, one that Bekibred thought was Kerk’s. She was anxious, and he also felt that she was very mad. “We were in a boat,”
“Ship.” Tredin.
Kerk’s voice came out tightened. “Yes, a ship. Anyway, we were on a ship, and it started shaking. They teleported my chair, and then me. Tredin, why did you come?”
“Because you grabbed hold of me, Kerk my dear.” Tredin said, sighing.
“Oh.”
“My dear?” Criths’ voice asked. “I don’t think you were on the boat- er, ship, long enough to be calling her that, Tredin.”
“What do you mean?” Tredin asked, and a sound of rustling fabric came, as if he was looking around, trying to find the speaker. “We were on the Great Pearl for almost a week.”
“A week? I don’t think it was that long since we parted. Only a few days,” Sylfee said.
“Days?” Criths’ voice said. “You only left early this morning.”
“And what does that proove, elf?” A heavy, deep voice came down to them from the ceiling. “Well? What does it prove?”
“Well, it means that somehow, I’ve gone to the future.”
“Or we to the past,” Tredin said.
“Or else it just means that we’ve all been unconcious for a while,” Kerk said testily. “Who are you? Why did you cast that spell on us?”
“Oh! It was a spell! That does explain it then,” Bekibred’s voice called out triumphantly.
The voice swore down at them. “You are without a doubt the most difficult group of people I have ever worked with!”
Kerk snorted. “Well, I sure haven’t ever worked with someone who utters such profanities.” A heavy silence answered her. “What? I may have taken an entire kingdom, but at least I have some sense of courtesy.”
Sylfee called up to the roof, ceiling, person thing and asked in a meek voice, “Um, Excuse me Booming Voice From the Sky, could we please get a little light here? It’s rather dark, and It’s giving me a headache.”
“You get a headache from the dark?” The not as booming but still booming minorly without hyphens for more words voice asked quizzically.
“Um, yes?”
“Gee. I didn’t know that.”
Gee? Bekibred thought. That’s something I’ve never heard before.
A single light appeared above their heads. They found that they were all lying on top of a gigantic book, except for Tredin, who had gotten his foot stuck between the pages. “Thank you!” Sylfee replied.
“You’re welcome my dear,” the voice said, and then added under it’s breath, “Such a pity...”
“What’s a pity?” Bekibred asked, stepping towards Sylfee with a concerned expression on his face, searching the sky for a face to put with the voice.
“Oh, never mind,” the voice glibly replied.
“Well, I think that we should very much mind, Mister Talk From the Sky. I should think that we should also very much mind that we know exactly why you’ve whisked us away to this very, very strange place.” Kerk asked indignantly.
The voice coughed, and ignored Kerk’s first comment. “Well, I’m your author, and I wanted to see you. Figure out if I should salvage your story or not, or wether I should just scrap you. See,” the sides of the book they were on lifted up, making the gathered friends tumble into the middle of the two open pages, “The reason you are on a book is so that I can just squish you in it, and then burn the book. It’ll be fun!”
Tredin shouted, with such awesome wrath that Sylfee gave a small, fearful cry, that may have been from the threat from the booming author voice from the sky. “Fun? That is your idea of fun? You sick, sadistic freak! How could you do such a thing?”
The author paused, giving his creations a feeling of shrugging shoulders. “Because you aren’t actually a real person, Tredin, King of Afillia.” A small chuckle. “Oh, and Bekibred?” The Wanderer looked up. “Your name actually comes from the first two letters of my first name, the first two of my last, my mother’s maiden name, and the city I was born in. BEnjamin KIbblewhite BRoten EDmonton. Neat, huh?”
Bekibred sighed and picked at a giant letter “U”. “Yes, very ‘neat’,” he mumbled. Sylfee went over and hugged him, scowling up at the single, small but painfully bright light.
“Not real? You mean to tell me that all I’ve worked for my entire life, the realisation of my mother’s quest for me, as been nothing but a lie?”
“Yes. See, I’m an author. I make things up. It’s called fiction. I believe that Bekibred had a small rant about that in the Ared’s library. I also believe that he still hasn’t read that book that Riwen gave him. I may as well just let you know that I borrowed it from the real world. Here it’s called Romeo And Juliet. It’s by a man named William Shakespear, who is said to be the greatest playwright ever. He wrote a lot of them.”
Kerk spat at a large letter “P” and closed her eyes. She reached out to the Thought Realm, to try to cast a spell that would allow them to escape, but she found that the Thought Realm simply... “Not there? How could it not be there?” She cried, beggining to get hysterical.
“What’s not there?” Sylfee asked, suspecting the dreadful answer.
“Try to channel Idjernya, Aquamancer. Soak the paper and get us out of here.” Kerk pleaded desperatly, hoping that it was just her. Sylfee closed her eyes for a moment, then snapped them open and screamed.
“It’s not there! I can’t find any Idjernya! Why isn’t it there? It’s always been there!”

Iiiiit's excerpt time! Again!

2004-11-15T02:06:08Z

288 words today.
“Fiction? Why, by the All Knowers, why would anyone bother to keep fiction? There’s no truth in them! That’s why they’re fiction!”
Placing a hand on her hip and an indignant look towards the scandalized Wanderer, Riwen protested. “Why you ask? Well, who would want to read a boring history book when you could read classics from the height of Hyhillian culture?” She grabbed Bekibred’s arm again and towed him over to a shelf in the middle of the room, made of some sort of red wood. Pulling a smaller book with a crimson cover out from a memorized postion, she handed it to him. “That is the greatest love story ever told, better even then most true ones. Keep it. I want you to read it.”
He turned it over, then asked, “What is it called?”
“Rom and Julie, by Bill.”
“Bill?”
“Yes, Bill. It’s one of the oldest stories still around, from when the Hyhillians were just beginning to grow in population and knowledge.”
Bekibred opened it up and looked at the first page quizzically. He read the first few words aloud. “Two households, both alike in dignity,” he paused, ponderously, then shortly continued, “In fair Verona, where we lay our scene.” He closed the book suddenly and said, “This is poetry! Why didn’t you tell me? I like poetry!”
Riwen laughed and said snidely, “It’s not poetry silly, it’s a performance.”
Bekibred stared at her for a moment. “A performance? In a book?”
“Yes! The Hyhillians called it a ‘play’”
The wanderer grunted interestedly to himself, then placed the book in his ever present worn shoulder bag. “Thank you, uh-”
The Ared girl smiled very, very sweetly, and said shyly, “You can call me Riwen.”

Uggh. I don't like Riwen. See, she's a player, which is a nice way of putting it. She broke Criths' heart, and she's out to get Sylfee, who Bekibred ends up loving, and who already loves Bekibred. Of course, that just makes Riwen want him even more...

Classic scnario.

Excerpt Time!!!

2004-11-05T04:16:19Z

Bekibred is the Male MC, Sylfee the Female MC. They were just very quickly whisked to the outpost of the King's Guard as soon as they entered Crenerd, on the island of Nerd, in the back of a rhickety cart. The cart crashed into the wall of the outpost, and the horse, who had been cut free before the crash (it was a minor one, no injuries), ran into the outpost.

“And this, Bekibred, is the Home of the Crenerdian Gaurd,” Sylfee said, gesturing up towards the top of the very tall building, “And that, the blue floor way up top, is the Aquamancy Room.”
Bekibred looked up and sure enough, at the very top of the tower that tapered to a blunt point, there was a section that had been constructed with a stone that was coloured the same blue as Sylfee’s eyes and cloak. He looked over at her to see that she was smiling wide at him, and remarked, “Shouldn’t it the the Tower of the Crenerdian Gaurd?’
She laughed again, then smiled the same mischieveous smile she had worn when he first met her. Bekibred felt his heart skip a beat, then covered with a smile of his own and added, “Not that I’m complaining. Home is a wonderful name.”
Sylfee shook her head, still smiling, and said, “Come on silly, lets go on in. Eric is sure to have a fit when he sees that a horse has muddied the home’s floor.” The young Aquamancer grabbed onto his hand and pulled him up the five steps and through the wide doors into the tall, sturdy building.

**********

Inside they were greeted by a chaotic scene. Aeron and their cart drive had managed to supdue to spooked and excited horse, who was now calmly munching on a bucket of oats that had been brought out. The two horse chasers, on the other hand, had collapsed in a heap on the muddied and torn remains of what must have been a marvelouslly crafted rug. The rest of the entrance room was in shambles, a table and two chairs had been smashed, and were shoved into a corner, along with a broken Teurned sulpter of, ironically, a simple farm horse.
A short, stocky man ran into the room, surveyed the damage, then eyed the two men heaped on the rug, who looked up at him for a moment, then dropped back down. The man chewed his lips, then spied Sylfee. He grinned and asked, “Sylfee girl, have you any idea who could possibly have made such a horrendous mess in such a short amount of time.”
Sylfee returned the smile and let go on Bekibred’s handing, pointing at the culprit how neighed happily and returned with vigor to his impromptu meal. “Why Eric man, that magnificient beat there would be your man. Or beast,” she added with a wink.
Indicating Aeron, Eric said with a laugh, “Well, I must admit that I am suprised. I rather thought that this clutz would have been capable, though I must admit that it would be impressive indeed for even him to manage to track this much mud on these once clean floors.”
Raising himself up on one elbow, Aeron said, “In my own defense, I must say that I most certainly could, had I the inclination to upset you, my old friend.” He stood and helped the driver, who was looking quite shaken to his feet. “And I certainly could with the help of this fine chap. Quite the chaotic trooper, he is.”
“Yes, and a trooper who should be compensated for the harm to his animal and to his cart,” Eric said, gesturing for one of the other Guard members who were watching from the doorway he had entered by to get something.
“Oh, no sir, really sir,” the cart driver stammered, who tried to get to the entrance-way but was blocked by Eric, “Please sir, you really shouldn’t. I was just doing a job,”
“Nonsense!” the Head Guard cried, grabbing the man by the shoulders and looking him in the eye, “You have done me a great personal service by bringing these three here so quickly, and I, as both a man and the Head Guard, feel that you deserve payment for services above and beyond what you were called to complete.”
The guard that he had sent returned, carrying a small but heavy looking chest. He walked straight to Eric, and held the box out while Eric un-locked the brass lock and pulled out a sack filled with something just enough that one could easily fit in the palm of his hand. He handed it out to the driver, who widened his eyes and shook his head.
“Take it!” Eric insisted.
The driver stared at the bag for a few minutes, then reached out and gingerly took it from Eric. He held he gently in his hand, then looked up at Eric with teary eyes, then said, “Thank you, thank you so much sir,” he tried to suppress a small sob, and Eric called for one of the Guards to loan him a new horse, and to stable his own. The man thanks Eric profusely again, and promised his services, “Should ever my good master need them!”
Eric thanked the man for his already rendered services, and promised that, “If ever we should require a cart driver who is more then willing to do whatever it takes to make his delivery, I will call on you.” He smiled, shook the man’s shoulder, and sent him out the door where a horse and a Guard were waiting for him.
Turning back to face the ‘deliveries’, who were each equally amused and bewildered by the strange exchange, he laughed and said, “My friends! How good it is to see each of you!” He gathered up the two Aquamancers in his arms and gave them a great hug, then turned to vigorously shake Bekibred’s hand.
“And you! Most privileged of Wanderers, I welcome you,” releasing Bekibred’s hand, he ushered the trio into the stairwell and ran up the stairs ahead of them. He calling back, “Good Master Frenerd has been asking for Sylfee and Aeron all day, so you see why I had you three rushed up here the moment you arrived in the inner city.”
Aeron laughed behind Bekibred as he reached the second floor, “Ah yes! He’s not one to keep waiting. You take after your father, Eric, y`know,” Eric sent back a nasty look and led them to a locked door. He pulled out a simple, old key and inserted it in the keyhole. He twisted it once to the right, about a quarter, then back to the left, and pulled the key out. He put it somewhere in his crisp and clean trousers and gestured for Aeron to lead the way. Sylfee followed him, Bekibred came next, and Eric fell in behind, closing the door firmly behind him and locking it from the inside. He pulled a metal rod by the door, and a dim blue light appeared from the steps that lit there way.

I'm doing really well, I think. ^___^ Any readers of anadriel will have seen this. ^_^ As that dial at the top says, I'm up to 9114 words. Yay me!

I am enjoying this story immensly, but I already know that I want to go back and expand Bekibred's backstory before he leaves The Library of the Wandering Order. But that's what December is for, should I be finished the rest of the story by then... which, given what it looks like my plot will be like, is doubtful. -_-,,,

NANO!!!!!

2004-11-01T05:56:38Z

This bad boy'll automatically update itself. Most of my journal entries from here on out will be private, so this should be at the top of my page.

benwrites @ 2004-10-27T22:40:00

2004-10-28T04:41:57Z

Hello Loyal Readers.

I need your fantastic support during the month of November. I need all of you out there in Reader Land to nag me constantly during November, unless you yourself are participating in NaNoWriMo. Then we'll take turns.

Anyway. Send me e-mails, msn/icq messages (I think I have all that in anadriel's user info.), etc. If you happen to know my phone #, give me a call occasionally and ask me how my characters are, how many words I've got, if I've written today, etcetcetc.

Mucho Gracias.

-Ben

Light of Snow

2004-10-23T06:39:13Z

Again for MuseMuggers. Challenge #59.

Light of Snow

During Winter, darkness dwelt, in the land of Kulinar. Not a menacing darkness, but a darkness nonetheless. The white of the deep, heavy, wet snow reflected back any amount of star or moonlight that appeared, and filled the world with an almost erie, yet soothing pale light that came from everywhere. Rarely was there a time when the clouds were thick enough, or numerous enough, to completely block out the light of moon and star. Yet still, at least once a year, that would happen, and then the true magic of that land would show itself. Those darkest of dark nights, the snow-elves made their appearance.

I would not be surprised if you had never heard of the snow elves. They’re not your typical elf. Indeed, the great empire of Hyhillian, seat of the White Elven King, denied the existence of such beings, naming them fairy tales and myths. But I know better. Indeed, I have seen them myself. I was there, one night, in the cold land of Kulinar, when the Snow Elves joined the world.

My name is Bekibred, and I am a wanderer. I am not a minstrel, sorcerer, wizard, or trader. I am simply a wanderer. Not a warrior, weapons-master, rogue, or thief. Just a wanderer. I wander the world, all over it, in search of knowledge. Not books, but real knowledge, things I can see with my own eyes, feel with my hands, smell with my nose, hear with my ears, or taste with my mouth.The purest, most potent, most meaningful knowledge to be had is knowledge you gain from experience and direct observation, not what little is gained from reading old text one barely understands, from a tome that is little more then dust.

My wanderings had led me to the far north of the western continent. I don’t know why there, and quite frankly I don’t care. All that matters is that I was there when an event of great magnificence and meaning occurred. It was a very, very dark day-night, much like I have described. Darkest of dark. I had had a small fire burning, but had since put it out with the ample snow and dug for my self a small burrow, lining it with my light and very warm hryn skin. Marvellous stuff. I managed to obtain such a rare and fantastic hide as a reward for teaching the son of Chief Irr, leader of the Most Eastern Tribe of Men, how to read and write. I had carried it with me for almost 3 decades, and it served me very well through my travels in the Eastern continent, as well as the half of the Western I had thus far traversed.

I had been laying there for some time, and was almost fully asleep, when a dim, yet very noticeable light appeared all around me. I thought that perhaps there had been a break in the clouds, but I soon realised that it was not the white, blue light of the moon and stars, but it was a pale grey-yellow. I was reminded of a very determined dawn I had experienced once, years before, in the southern tip of the Eastern Continent. It was the first real day of spring. A day that lasted only an hour, but a day nonetheless, after 4 months of complete darkness. A barely noticeable light that did not grow.

I crawled out a short distance from my burrow and stood up. I wanted to pinpoint exactly where this light was coming from. It took be some time to realise that it was coming from beneath the snow, as if it were nothing more then a frosted glass roof hanging over a grand hall of some kind. Indeed I was not too far off with my guess. For as I paid more attention, and the light grew very slowly, I could discern figures moving about, I would say dancing, underneath my feet. Over time, I thought that the figures had been growing larger, or perhaps closer. And indeed they were.

After about an hour had gone by I saw the first of the figures pop out of the snow. I was amazed to see such a lovely, majestic, and mysterious figure. Looking for all the world like the first snow of winter, playful, light, joyous, he ignored me entirely and began to dance about the snow. He had perfectly white, straight hair that came down to about his jaw line. Other then a light pair of silver-grey breeches and a matching tunic, he had no other ordainments or articles of clothing. Not even a pair of slippers.

Several others rose up from their snowy world and joined our snowy world. Excepting that some were female, and others were male, they were all nearly exact duplicates of the first elf, for that was obviously what they were. The only differences were small and inconsequential, such as hair length, height, girth, etc.

I would say that no more then 3 dozen of their kind appeared, though I thought I could still see some shadows moving about under the snow. Those that had appeared danced about, laughed, and played with each other in the clean, heavy snow. All of them ignored me completely. I tried to get the attention of one of their kind, but either he was purposefully ignoring, or he could not see nor here me. I suppose that it did not matter much. I was rather content to simply sit down, wrapped in my hryn hide, watching them at their antics. They were such delightful creatures, so full of life and joy, that it was hard for me to not just simply jump up and join them in their play, but a wanderer must be completely impartial, and should never join in that which he is observing, so that he can present to the All-Knower when his time is over a thorough, completely observed report.

After some time, I cannot recall exactly how long, the elves halted their play and gathered together in a large circle. They conversed for a short time in some language that I did not, nor do I wish to, understand. It was such a beautiful tongue, like the very snow that surrounded us. At times, it seemed light, playful, yet at others, it would whip and lash about like the wailing winds of a winter blizzard. As they spoke, they began sinking into the snows, returning to whatever magical land they came from. I so wished to join them, but I knew that it was rather impossible. Still, it would have been quite an experience to report.

I sat staring at the place where they had once stood in their circle for a few minutes, hoping perhaps that one of their number would return to bring them with them. Eventually I stood and turned to return to my burrow and sleep, if I could, but I paused. Looking back, I found that I could see no trace that they had ever existed. Not a single foot print or otherwise disturbed snow flake could be found. Marvelling at what fascinating beings they must be, I crawled down into my burrow and lay still, watching the darkness deepen around me until it was the darkest of darks again, the kind that rule here during winter.

(direct cut from MuseMuggers2 post)

2004-10-16T01:24:41Z

^.-.^ Could do a lot with this! Wow! First line is a quote from someone on my bus. It's true!

873 words. Would do more if I could think of it at this present time.

The Flute and the Princess

“My purse smells like maitainence,” the Silver Princess with the Soul of Amber whined.
“What on earth are you talking about?” the Flute of the Pavilion asked.
“My purse! It smells like the janitor at work,” the Silver Princess said with an expression of longing as she regarded the mentioned handbag.
The Flute of the Pavilion blankly stared at the purse, then at the Silver Princess, then back to the purse. Finally he stared hard at the smiling visage of the Silver Princess and asked the inevitable.
“And how, exactly, did you manage that?”
“Oh, I would tell you, but you’re just far to young to be privy to such,” and here the Silver Princess stressed the possible inuendo “intimate, details.” She sat back on her gilded throne and regarded The Flute with a satisfied expression, grinning wickedly.
The Flute of the Pavilion groaned loudly, covering his eyes with his right hand and asked, “Aw sis, did you piss your boss off again?”
The Flute’s sister sighed and slouched in her throne. “Yea, he stuffed me in the supply closet again. And he wasn’t all that gently either.” Glancing again at her purse, the Silver Princess sniffed her nose and frowned. “Not that I blame him for being upset... I burnt his lunch.”
The Flute of the Pavilion shook his head, and said with a small smile, “You know, if I lived in the New United States of York, I’d fly over there and bean him right good.”
Rolling her eyes, the Princess replied, “Sure, and you’d have Momma in such a tiff, she would probably try to buy another cat.”
The siblings giggled slightly. Their mother loved cats, but hated taking care of them. She was always, however, buying them whenever she felt lonely and then putting them up for adoption three weeks later. They were silent for a while as they mulled over the thought of their mother chasing after the feral cats that prowl around her flat again.
Rising, the Princess sighed again and said, “Well, I’d best get going kiddo. I’ve got a class later tonight and it’s a long bus ride to the School. Especially in a complex like Island, Manhattan.”
“Sure sis.” Standing and giving his sister a hug, The Flute wistfully said, “I just wish we could ‘see’ each other more then once a week.”
“Yea, well, you know how Mom is. Friday’s the only day she’s out of the flat, and I don’t think she’d take kindly to me keeping in touch with you, but not her. I’ll see ya Alex,” the Silver Princess said, logging out of the Fantasy Characters 3dNeT world.
***********
Logging off as well, Alex removed the contact pads from his forehead. Leaning back in the Net Chair and closing his eyes, he reflected on his current family situation. His sister, Dorothy, had left the Great Prarie Provinced Republic to go to the shcool of Advanced Literacy in the States of York, on the east coast. Their mother hadn’t taken that well, wailing for days about how her precious daughter would be corrupted by those unfeeling beasts in the ‘Evil East’, and how she was sure Dorothy would contract some sort of nasty disease from the millions of people packed into Manhattan state.
Tired of her mother’s contanst videmails pleading with her to drop out of the school and come home, Dorothy finally gave up. In a final, vicious videmail, she accused her mother of wanting her back only so that she could leech off of the money her daughter, as an Educated Member of the Great Farming Lands, was entitled too. Needless to say, their mother reacted just as savagely, and broke off all contact with her daughter. She later changed her mind and tried to reach Dorothy, but she had blocked off all incoming calls from the flat back west.
Alex truly did miss his sister, and was sorry they couldn’t live together as one complete family still, but he also understood Dorothy’s need for knowledge. He was very close to his sister, and had often listened for hours when they were younger as Dorothy told him all that she knew about the world, and what her dreams and hopes were.
About 4 years before she had left for The School, they had found an old, old printed story that took place, “Once upon a time.” They became absolutely obsessed with it. It’s colourfull characters, the thrilling tale, everything about it they absolutely adored. They even saved their Governmental Harvest Allowance for six months to purchase 3dNeT personas modeled after the heroes of the story, the Silver Princess with the Soul of Amber, and the Flute of the Pavillion. They became the staple of their imaginings and 3dStOrIeS that they then shared with other people who had read, and loved, the book. Dorothy’s relocation had put an end to their story making time, but they still conversed using the PluggedIn worlds of the 3dNeT system.
Hearing the loud gong of the door anouncer, Alex quickly unloaded the Chat program, and started up a NeTrP game. It wouldn’t do for Momma to know that he had been in one of the ‘Evils from the East’ again. 3dNeT was a York States company, you see.

Patricia at the Gallery, Challenge 57

2004-10-09T06:15:56Z

Option 2.

Not bad, but could be better. Patricia is a character that will be in my NaNo novel. 495 words.

The child looked oh-so-innocent, so fresh, so pure. She had a small, gentle look. Blue eyes. She was sure she had blue eyes. She wasn’t really a child though. More of a cerebim. Whatever exactly they are. Or were. Or will be. The wings and lack of clothing, not to mention the fantastic hair that didn’t belong on a child gave her un-childness away.

Whatever it depicted, the painting was still a fantastic one. Very believable. Except those wings. Very flat looking. You’d think the painter had never seen a cerebim before. The rest of it was really good though. Yes. Really good.

The girl jotted that down in her note book. “The painting depicting a cerebim by The Unknown Artist is really good.” Not the most profound thought, but it would have to do. She’d figure out how to better describe it’s really goodness later. Maybe she’d right a poem. Or use a metaphor. The girl loved metaphors. Used them a lot. Even in her day-to-day speech, much to the annoyance of her few friends. “Pat”, they would say. They all called her Pat. Never Patricia. “Pat, why can’t you just talk normally?” To which she always replied, “But I’m not normal. Abnormal people must never speak like the normal people. That’s why their abnormal. Or one of the reasons. We’re blue jays, not only looking different, but sounding different as well.” They’d just roll their eyes and change the subject. To something like art.

Art. Pheh. What is art? Patricia wasn’t fond of art. Not the art her friends did anyway. Patricia adored what she called Realism with a Meaning, whereas her friends preferred abstract.

Abstract. Pheh.

Pushing that thought out of her mind, she moved to the next painting in the gallery. This one was of a young man, laying on the ground and staring up at the sky. He wore modern clothing, and contrasted greatly with the renaissance style painting to his left. He was lying on dead, brown grass, staring at a perfectly blue sky. He had a definite expression of longing, she decided. Yes. Longing. Because he doesn’t like where he is, and is looking to something he does like, and wants to be. There was a bird too, soaring high above the ground. It was obvious that bird was what the young man was longing to be, or be like, rather. He wants to fly freely, and not be restricted by the society of that place he is in. Judging by his garb, Pat decided that he was American, and that the bird was a Canada goose.

She jotted all that down, and added, “The young man depicted here represents the majority of Americans, who despritly want to be Canadian, but can’t, because they’ve been brought up thinking that the place they are is all that there is for them.”

With that, she moved on to the next painting.

benwrites @ 2004-10-03T00:37:00

2004-10-03T06:41:25Z

I must admit I'm fond of this'un. Written for the musemuggers2 LJ group.

****************************

Musemuggers
Chalenge #56
Option 3

Cinderella and the Mind-Reading Witch Who Can’t Just Mind Her Own Business

It might have been a Robin, but I wasn’t sure. It might have been a Blue Jay for all I know. That’s the problem with a sheltered, secure lifestyle. You don’t get out much

“Your not day dreaming again, are you? Get back to work you lazy wench!”

Ah yes. Aunt Petunia. Why she’s called Petunia I’ll never know. She’s definitly the least flower-like person in existance. At least, that I’ve ever met. Not that I have a lot to base my conclusions on. Sheltered and Secure Lifestyle strikes again.

“That’s enough of your attitude!”

Ah yes. She’s a mind-reader too. Must wait until later to have these thoughts.

“Oh know you won’t!”

Sigh.

Oh, how I love washing floors! It’s such satisfying and (degrading) up lifting work!

**********

Well, Petunia’s asleep. I think. Hope. Maybe she’s right outside my door, taking notes on everything I think. Quite frankly, I don’t care, because she is a NOSY BITCH WHO LOVES TORTURING ME!

Oh dear. There I go again. Best keep away from thinking about Petunia. She’s not that important, really, she’s just the only person I ever have contact with.

Sheltered and Secure. Oi.

I’m like Cinderella, just without the step sisters or the friendly mice. I could use some mice. Or maybe a Goldfish. Hell, I’d settle for a plant to talk to. Or maybe paper. Paper would be nice. It’s not easy to write a Diary when you have to keep it all in your head. Oh, and Cinderella was pretty. And she could sing. I’m not even really sure what I look like, but I can sing. I think. Well, I can when Petunia isn’t around. I’m sure I can. I just need to find a time when she’s not around.

Oh fiddlesticks. I forgot to turn off the lights downstairs. Excuse me.

First Post

2004-09-26T04:55:16Z

So, this is my writing LJ. Not for talking about me, just for my writing. It's mainly for Nanowrimo, but I'll use it anyway for everything. I need to get used to writing a lot every single day. So, without further adue, here is today's (well, yesterday's...) writing.

-----

Quitter

A woman with dyed blonde hair sits alone on the bust stop bench. She is still young, probably in her mid to late twenties, but around and in her eyes show the wrinkles, shadows, and cares of a life of worry and doubt. Yet, at the very back of those same eyes shines a small, faint, flickering light of hope that all humans carry while they are still human and alive. Sadly, some lose it.
Her dyed blonde hair is tied back in a pony tail, bound by a green, blue, and violet elastic. She has a fair complexion, mildly pale. She looks like she might be scandanavian, and you wonder why she has to dye her hair. Her eyes are a pale, watery, yet vibrant blue green. She is wearing more then enough mascara. White nails. No other makeup.
She is wearing a pair of hospital grunges from the Glenrose Rehabilitation Centre, a matching top, and a navy blue fall jacket that is too big for her over that. On her feet are a simple pair of white canvas sneakers. She has on her hand a ring from the M.E. Lazert graduating class of ‘95. You notice, as you watch her, that she occasionally fingers it, as if just to remind herself it is still there. She has no other jewelry visible.
A lime green handbag sits on the bench next to her. She is holding the straps tightly. Inside is a pack of ciggarettes she rolled herself, a pink bic lighter, the mascara she wears too much of, white nail polish, two pens, 47¢ in change, a much wrinkled five dollar bill, a pack of gum, two more green, blue, and violet hair elastics, September Edmonton Transit bus pass, a Canadian Passport, and a picture of her ex boyfriend.
Time passes, the bus doesn’t come, and finally she reaches into the lime green handbag and pulls out one of the cigarettes she rolled herself. She holds it in her hand, gently, as if it may explode if she handles it the wrong way. Looking at the cigarrette she rolled herself, she starts to pull out the pink bic lighter. She stops suddenly, lets go of the pink bic lighter, and instead grabs the rest of the cigarrettes she rolled herself; the ones still in the package. She stands and walks towards the garbage can. Looking from the ciggarrette she rolled herself, to the package of cigarrettes she rolled herself, and finally to the garbage bag, she closes her eyes.
Breathe in. Hold. Drops all of the cigarrettes she rolled herself into the garbage can. Breathe out. Breathe again. Twice. Three times. Opens her eyes, and she walks back to the bench and sits down. Look at garbage can. She finally relaxes, leans back, and sighs. On her face is a big smile. She reaches again into her lime green handbag and pulls out the package of gum. She takes out a piece, and puts the package back into the lime green handbag. Beggining to chew on this new, fresh, clean piece of gum, she closes her eyes and keeps on smiling until her bus comes.