Vakis

Well, I've been quite poor about keeping this updated already, and I've only just started!  Here's a second little bit from the same world.  There's a short bit which I suppose I'll put up next which describes the armour which the protagonist of this section is wearing.  I'm all about me descriptions of things which no one else cares about.  And arming scenes, which also no one cares about.  I need to write a catalog of ships or something like that sometime.  That'll surely get me literary acclaim.

Vikas was one of the Princeps’ Daughter’s Twenty, twenty of his personal Agema tasked with her wellbeing—at any means.  War had come to the capital, and he sought to send her away, somewhere safer.  He had sent her to one of his most trusted lieutenants, the governor of a Satrapy not touched by the lashing tongue of war.  It was only the twenty of them and a few wagons being pulled, her coach and her slaves.  Some of her friends had come as well, adding another lumbering wagon to the caravan.

Within a days ride of the provincial capital, they spotted soldiers of the Satrapy.  It seemed at first a welcome sight, but as they got closer it seemed wrong.  Vikas couldn't tell why at first, he could just feel it in his gut, but as they got closer it began to sink in.  The men marching towards them were of the Satrapy, but they were far too numerous, and they were marching.  This was no honour guard meant to safely see them in, but hundreds of infantrymen with a handful of cavalry at their head.  Was the danger in the area greater than they had known, or had something else transpired?

As they drew nearer the infantry began to leave their marching order and form up, a worrisome sign, but it gave Vikas a better appraisal of what stood across from him.  There were at least five or six hundred, vastly outnumbering their twenty, but they were local recruits with local armaments.  A good two-thirds of them held only a wicker shield and spear no longer than they were tall.  The rest appeared mostly to be archers.  None of them wore armour.  None of them except for the few horsemen to their front, also armed in a local style, but the stylings of the local nobility.  They were almost completely covered in bronze scale, including the front half of their mounts, just as the Agema’s horses were armoured.

One of them rode forward, accompanied with a standard bearer, a golden dragon’s head with a tube of silk attached to it, billowing in the wind.  A worrisome sign.  Vikas rode forth as well to meet this man, accompanied with a standard bearer as well, but his was merely a coloured banner hanging from his lance, emblazoned with a sigil of the Princeps’ family.  The man across from him had dark skin and darker hair, a flowing moustache punctuating his face.  He looked like he would have been proud of it.  Above all, he looked proud.  When he opened his mouth he did nothing but confirm this suspicion.  “Release the woman and all else can leave.”  His accent was thick and guttural, clearly not his first language.  Vikas would play this man like a harp.

“Only a coward would ask that of us.  Are you a coward?”  He was free to snicker, his mask concealing all emotion, all intention.  It was part of the reason they wore these masks of iron.

“Coward?”  The great and noble lord of obviously incredulous.  “My father and his before him were great warriors!  I could squash you if I like!  I was told to kill only if I have to.  I would be more than happy to do so!”

“A warrior, a man, a man such as yourself is sucking the cock of another?  Stand aside before you hurt your powdered cheeks.”

The man was red with anger and wheeled his horse around, back to his standard bearer who handed over a lance, grabbing it greedily and whipping his horse around, breaking into a gallop instantly.  Vakis carried his own lance, and so all he had to do was urge the pointed heels of his boots into the flanks of his mount and started off.  They came upon each other in almost an instant, both grasping their lance with both hands, spearhead pointed straight at one another’s chests.  Vakis had no interest in dying this day and deftly flicked his lance back and forth, knocking his opponents lance aside as intended, but was unable to bring his back in time, so rather than impaling his opponent, he was only able to bring the shaft down upon his shoulder, unhorsing him.  His helmet and scale aventail spun off and landed in the wild grass after its wearer had already noisily struck the ground.

Vikas angled his lance downwards and thrusted, making effort to kill his grounded opponent, but he had rolled too quickly to the side and pushed himself to his feet whilst drawing his blade.  He shouted something in his native tongue, and judging by the near uniform movement of the forces arrayed against them Vikas assumed it was some manner of command to attack.

Vikas responded in kind, shouting backwards, “To me!” as he thrust his lance up into the air.  He was no longer concerned with the grounded, bewildered man.  The Twenty rode up and joined with him, forming a wedge as they headed towards the mass of infantry, Vikas forming the point.  One of the Agema impaled the man as they rode up, the lance stuck in his standing corpse, quickly falling to the Earth.  They charged into the center of the mass of infantry, who to their credit stood their ground.  However, their spears were much shorter than lances, and their wicker shields did nothing to stop their impetus.  Within naught but an instant dozens were left dead, either impaled or trampled.  Vakis himself skewered three men upon his lance all at once before their weight ripped the lance sharply from his hands.

He drew his Kopis and reformed the Twenty to charge again.  He was not the only one to have lost his lance, but his men knew what to do.  Those with lances still took the first rank, one of them handing theirs to Vakis such that he could lead the way.  They crashed back into the infantry, killing dozens more.  Within such a short instance of time, these twenty men had killed a hundred of more.  Vakis knew this would happen, and had hoped that it would break their spirit, their will to fight, and cause them all to flee.  No such luck.

The archers seemed to have strung their bows and begun to loose arrows.  They were most vulnerable together and unmoving, so he quickly set to work, dividing his men in half, sending them back against the enemy.  He lost his second lance, this one breaking as it lodged its head into a man’s hipbone.  He drew his blade for another charge, but amidst the enemy his horse lurched and flung to the side, crashing to the ground and flinging him from it.  His compatriots leapt over him, giving him respite from the enemy whilst he lay on the ground.  His whole body singed with pain and his ears ringing, he struggled to his feet and quickly eyed his horse, seeing a spear in its belly entrails leaking out.

He had little time to mourn his steed, for soon the enemy foot was upon him.  A spearman lunged at him, but the Agema parried it and sliced straight through his wicker shield, severing his arm.  Another slice took off his head.  The rest were instantly more hesitant, and Vakis did not give them the luxury of the attack.  He grabbed a man’s spear by the shaft and pulled him in, chopping down through the clavicle, killing him instantly.  As he started against the others, they took a step back, each one clearly not wanting to face him next.

It was then that out of the corner of this eye that he spotted motion.  The masks’ greatest weakness was its lack of peripheral vision, and here it would seem to show why.  One of the armoured horsemen galloped towards him.  Vakis had no time to react; a blade came clashing into the side of his face.

That Hole in Your Life

Guest post by Brittany Saturn.



Wednesday afternoon, I was waiting. Class had let out an hour early and I was forced to occupy myself in the computer lab, mindlessly wandering the Internet. I was there often, killing time. Sometimes I just went to the lab to people watch. Today just three others filled the vacant room. The homely tech girl, who was always present during the afternoons, was slouched over her screen; her long brown neglected hair fell into her eyes, but she didn't seem to mind. The other female was older. I knew of her, having the displeasure of taking a single class with her. She was so full of bullshit all the time and annoyed me to no end that whenever I saw her I made little or no conversation, and pretended  I didn't know her. Her loose blonde curls carelessly pinned to the top of her head, her scarlet lips twisted into an unusual expression as she leaned forward to read the monitor. The only other occupant was a middle aged man, whom perhaps long ago had been a body builder, wearing a dress shirt and headphones. Sitting across from the man, I stared at his bleach blonde mustache. This was not a mustache to simply glance at, this was a mustache that demanded attention. I thought about how odd the dress shirt looked against the mustache, like a bear being forced to wear clothes and walk upright. It made sharp angular movements down his face as if protesting the very idea of being civil. He caught me looking, so I quickly looked away, not wanting to make awkward conversation.

Online, I aimlessly scanned through friend's updates and pictures, but before I was half-way through, I heard my phone vibrate from the depths of my purse. It was from Edward, it said: “I’m here.” I quickly sent my reply, but before I could gather my belongings he walked through the door, wearing only a white tank top regardless of the temperature outside. I walked briskly across the floor, my boots tapping on the tiles and grabbed his left arm. I stared at the reason he wore no cover-up - a skull descending down his bicep hung by a chain that curved with his arm. The tattoo design itself wasn't the greatest, but at least it covered the bright blue letters that read ‘Shannon’, his ex-girlfriend's name. Who gets their girlfriend's name tattooed onto their bodies? After all the cliched warnings? Blood gathered in small drying pools about his arm. I complimented it, regardless of what I really thought. He smiled as we walked from the building towards his sad old car. A couple of weeks prior he bragged about a hot little fast car that he used to have, all shiny and new. But that car was long gone at this point. The metal all twisted and broken. Broken like the girl's body he had killed in the accident, causing his three year probation and the acceleration of his drug addiction.

I slid into the passenger seat and listened as he recounted the tale of his afternoon. He seemed proud, and this in turn made me content. It seemed whenever I was with him, I mirrored what he felt. I found this both annoying and interesting at the same time. The conversation became scattered, with points of silence when he would reach over and squeeze my thigh. It had been a week and a half since we’d last seen each other.

We were driving through downtown and I had always liked the way the area felt, but Edward resented it; much like I did my hometown. He grew up there and for the past six months wasn't allowed to leave the county. He’d run out of reasons to like the place, I understood. He cursed the car in front of us and switched lanes. We were on our way to his sister’s apartment, Amanda, although everyone called her Mandi. She was 18, married, and somewhat of a bitch, Edward explained, much like their mother. We had never been properly introduced and I was slightly nervous. He told me he wanted to show her his tattoo, but I guessed he had a more devious plan.

We pulled up outside the tiny apartment complex, I had only been there once before. I pull my coat on, leaving my purse on the floorboard. He saw and locked the doors before I could even ask; hardly any of my movements went unnoticed. We made our way along the sidewalk, but three feet from the car he grabbed my face and pulled me into a sloppy kiss. He’d been waiting to do that ever since I slid into his car.

“There,” he said simply.

We started again, Edward cut through the grass, I stayed on the pavement. Before he knocked on the door, he looked around, looked at me, and asked,

“This is the right apartment, right?”

I shrugged my shoulders. He did the same motion, knocked and leapt out of sight of the peephole. The door nervously opened and a relieved voice said,

“Shit! We thought you were the cops!” I rolled my eyes at how idiotic that sounded.

Inside we did not find Mandi. She had already left for work. However, we did find a small group of colorful people. As we entered the room completely, the group seemed unsettled. They looked me up and down, stared at my wool coat, my knee-high boots, and my brightly colored red hair. They looked at Edward with questions in their eyes, I knew I was different from all the ones before. I smiled at each of them in turn, as I was told their names. Lee, Mandi’s husband, an average sort of guy, nothing special, you’ll pass him on the streets a thousand times. Angel sat in the corner staring at a computer screen, keyboard in lap, completely immersed in his game. His shoulder length hair was in badly need of a comb and his snake bites and glasses glinted in the semi-darkness. Vanessa, who had been hiding in the kitchen at the word ‘cops’ strolled into the room. She had a notebook in hand, and sat back down, scribbling away furiously. Randy, Vanessa’s boyfriend, also had long unruly hair. I saw him for a brief moment as he gathered his guitar and amp and fled upstairs. Krista sat on the couch beside Lee. She looked familiar, but then again, it was a small town. She had an obnoxious voice, and I guessed she often said things too loudly and out of context. Sitting down, I stared at the unusual individuals around me and the room they sat in. A room in much need of care. Worn mismatched furniture, scattered shoes and clothing, and wires hung from various video games - the very walls seemed to be a kaleidoscope of dirty hand prints,  imperfections, and cheap apartment paint. They began reminiscing of long ago memories, involving meth and angry parents. As I sat there with my drug free past and clean fingernails, they made me feel like a spoiled silly little girl.

Krista fidgeted with an empty bowl.

“Damn,” she cursed. “It doesn't have a screen.”

Lee suddenly looked up.

“Edward, there’s a guy across the street selling pot. He’ll sell you a dime bag for ten bucks, but he owes me five, so really, you’ll get a dime bag for five dollars.”

I struggled with this logic while Edward quietly agreed. I already felt uneasy. I didn't realize that an afternoon of spending time together consisted of getting high with his friends. He handed Lee a ten dollar bill and Lee hurried out the door. A couple of minutes later he was back, but he wasn't alone. The drug dealer, Nate was his name, followed him.

“Sorry, he has to do the exchange,” Lee explained.

Nate wore a hoodie that said, ‘Jesus is my passion’ and dirty frayed jeans. He had a gap between his two front teeth when he smiled at us. Edward nodded his head and they did a smooth pass of hands.

I stared at the baggie full of marijuana clutched in Edward’s fist.

“Who wants to get high?” he asked.

Everyone showed some sort of positive reaction, except for me. He noticed.

“Are you gonna get high?” he asked.

I shook my head no.

“I have a rule, I don’t get high in the middle of the day. Besides, I have to be home tonight.” I said curtly.

He looked away, “You know I don’t do this anymore. I just buy it for everyone else.”
I looked straight ahead without a word.

“Are you mad?”

“No,” I lied. Of course I was mad. Earlier that day Edward had a meeting with his probation officer and for some odd reason didn't receive a drug test this month. I thought this was pushing his luck.

“Ok, who’s gonna get high?” he asked again, looking around the room.

“Fuck! We have nothing to smoke it in,” Krista whined.

“Let’s go next door and steal the neighbor’s screen out of their sink faucet,” Vanessa laughed.

“No, just run to the store and get some blunt wrappers,” Edward suggested. “Here’s four bucks.” He handed the crisp bills to Lee.

Moments later, Vanessa had seated herself beside me and was proudly showing me her horrible photography illuminated on the screen of her cheap digital camera. I pretended to care, but at this point I was beginning to get annoyed by the company. Finally Lee burst through the door, with crack-head Nate at his heels.

“So, I’m a nice guy. I’ll stick around and smoke some with you,” Nate announced, smiling his gap toothed smile.

He sat down opposite Edward, who had begun rolling the joints.

“Does anyone here do pills?” Nate asked.

“I do,” Edward rumbled, still looking down at the work in his lap.

“I’ll split one with you. Free of charge,” Nate offered.

“What do you have?” Edward asked curiously, looking up.

Nate named some type of pain killer I had never heard of.

“That won’t even touch me. I might as well go eat a box of tic-tacs,” Edward complained, but he agreed just the same.

I cut into him with sharp eyes. He could see my displeasure. Nate crossed the room and crushed the pill on a bookshelf beside me. He then took a straw from an empty fast food cup that was laying on the floor, cut it in half, and snorted half the line. Edward followed. I couldn't watch him do it. I felt sick to my stomach. I hated him at that point. Or hated myself for being in this situation, surrounded by these people. Nate sat back down, lit the joint, took a long puff and passed it to me. I shook my head, but Edward looked at me with pleading eyes.

“C’mon baby, get high. Please.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the joint. It tasted sicky sweet in my mouth, I was angry. I inhaled deeply, keeping the smoke in my lungs. If he wanted me to get high, I was going to get high. I felt reckless, I wanted to do something stupid; like stumble into the street and get hit by a car, or have an anxiety attack and scratch my eyes out. Then maybe he would regret asking me to smoke, but of course none of these things would happen. Not with just pot. Edward only took one hit. But I hit it several times whenever it was passed to me. We sat around, listening to Nate recount tales of being in Iraq. He claimed to have been stabbed, shot, blown up, and had seen his friends die. I didn't believe a single word of it. I stared at his face and wondered what he was like as a boy. Before his life was ruined. After one joint I still wasn't high, but my mind was running. I quietly looked at everyone’s faces, taking everything in. Everyone in that room was dying. I could feel that they had given up on their goals and dreams. They were empty.

Eventually, Krista and Vanessa trotted upstairs, followed closely by Angel. The next blunt had been lit and was only being passed between Nate, Lee and I. Hit after hit I felt nothing. Perhaps because I was a furious storm underneath, the drug took no effect. Maybe it was one of those things you have to concentrate for, mostly in your head. Or perhaps the drug itself was cheap and old, as Edward said later. Or maybe both.

“I feel nothing,” I mockingly complained.

Everyone looked at me.

“Really?” Lee asked.

“Really,” I replied. “And this is only like my 3rd time smoking pot.”

Everyone’s jaw dropped. No one knew what to say. Edward looked down at his arm again, fingering the new ink.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“Not at all,” he smiled, softly slapping his arm, “See?”

I raised my hand and slapped the area with much more force, but he didn't move. He was tough, to resist flinching. He denied the pain, but I knew he felt it. I liked that about him, his stubbornness. He looked at Lee,

“Wanna see something that hurt?” he looked to me, “Take off your boot. Show him.”

I unzipped my boot and gingerly slid down my sock, exposing the foot with the sun permanently inked into the surface.

“Holy shit!” Lee exclaimed, “Right on top!”

It seemed that was one of Edward’s favorite things to do, show me off. He was thrilled with his latest romance. I smiled, my hand still stinging.

We made our way up the stairs, I pushed him against the wall and stood on tip toes to reach his mouth. We ignored the sounds of laughter coming from the spare bedroom. He pushed me into his sister’s room and ripped off my clothes, placing a hand over my mouth, reminding me to be quite. He was always rough with me. Every time it was something different. Normally, he choked me and called me names, this time he lightly slapped me across the face. I loathed being told what to do, but for some reason always did it anyway. In return I bit him, slapped him, and teased him whenever I got the chance. Maybe these things began as playful jabs, but in the end there was a truth underneath, as if we really did want to hurt each other. We silently fought like this every time we fucked. I wondered if it was normal. Probably not.

Hours later he dropped me off by my car; we stared at the crack glass that covered my windshield in the dark. I never really planned on getting it fixed. I kissed him goodbye. I could see he was eager to get home and sleep, it had been 32 hours since he’d closed his eyes. Before getting out, I looked back, he smiled. I fell for it and I kissed him lightly once again. About to shut the door, he questioned me about our plans next Friday. I confirmed that yes, Friday the 13th was the day of the party. I walked towards my Jeep, my shoes clicking on the pavement and I thought about the mustached man who seemed years away now. I turned once more to see Edward speed off towards his final destination. “Jesus Christ,” I thought, “What a marvelous mess I’m in.”

Power

Guest post by Jeremy Gilreath.

Adam reaches into his pocket for the cigarette lighter he knows is there.  The wind is hammering his nose and ears off, and the wool-lined pockets of his overcoat generously give his fingers back their dexterity.  He relaxes for a moment before brandishing the device, making a cave with his hands to cradle his mouth, completing the ritual with a painful scraping of his finger against the wheel of sawblades.  A flame rises, steady and indifferent.  He takes a slow drag of the winter chill as it is filtered through the bent, shitty smoke he found under the overpass.  It’s raining tonight, and the slight dampness of it all makes him wonder if it is even going to catch.

It does.  He takes the last of the long, ceremonial puffs that transfer his life into the stick, and sighs through his nose in relief.  Putting both hands back in his coat pockets and angling his face in the wind just so, the cigarette just hangs there, submissive, while the smoke is carried away from his nostrils.  Adam leans against the abrasive concrete and takes a more relaxed look around with fresh perspective.  Only streetlights and pedestrian subways in the moonlit mix.

You really should stop that smoking.

Shut up, mom.

I didn’t raise you this way.

You raised me only to leave me later.

It wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t my fault, either.

…

Why do you always talk to me this way?

I don’t.  You’re exaggerating.

…

Well, you are.

[a girl]

Why don’t you go over there to that girl, and make a friend?

She looks busy.

You look nice tonight.  I’m sure she’ll entertain you.

Entertain me?

In a wholesome way, Adam.  Not like your tricks.

Whatever.  Fine.

Do that thing you do.  You know.  People like it.

Until they figure it out, and then hate me for it.

But she might not.

Alright.

Adam doesn’t snap back to reality but rather fades.  He realizes he’s been staring at a muted pub of sorts, flagged by twin streetlights.  He begins to walk towards it, and to the woman, thinking of how to start a conversation.  “My, what lovely piercings you have.  And that’s my favorite shade of black!  Do you drink alone often?”  That probably wouldn’t do.  He can’t muster enough personality for it.  He decides to put on his mask instead, sharpen his smile, and roll his shirt sleeves up just before reaching her.  When he does , their eyes meet and he feels pierced.  The terrible bar music drifting through the open door mingling with the snow; the aching in his left shoulder; the dour mood he was in; his apprehension for human contact; all of these dissipate and are replaced with a tingling sensation.

“I’m Jayna,” she says.

I’m Adam.

She extends her hand to shake his, and the playful yet businesslike manner in which it is done coaxes an instant release of adrenaline in Adam’s gut.

Shit.  Well, here we go.

He reaches out with an open palm, and just as they clasp hands to complete the tradition, he says his name.  The woman takes a sharp breath in.  Her pupils dilate, and her eyelids move apart as if to accommodate them.  A snowflake lands in her right eye.  He knows it must be painful, in this blistering winter wind where most people squint whenever they can, but he also knows she can’t help but keep them open.  He closes his eyes and empties his lungs of air, and imagines himself inside of Jayna’s perspective before summoning up the single happiest moment of his very own childhood, knowing she will be forced to do the same.  He mirrors her, right at that moment, in thought and in feeling.

He sees her running through a playground with a boy.  He watches them on the monkey bars, on the slide, and in the woods with a dingy red ball.  He watches the sky get darker and darker as their parents come to get them both.  He experiences her sadness at seeing him go, and hears her say “I hope I see you again tomorrow.”  She can’t remember his name, so he thinks it to her in a whisper.

Adam.

He engineers himself back in his mind, lets go of her hand, and waits for her to feel recognition in his face, as he slowly grows a hopeful smile of quiet desperation.  He wants it to work.  He wants to make a friend.  Adam has no idea who he is, absent of his ties with other people.  He often doubts that there is anything.

“Adam.”

“Jayna.”

She looks reminiscent, confused, and emotional.  It’s obvious that she isn’t going to bring up the past experience, but she’s steeping herself in it quite well.  Adam steers the conversation elsewhere, towards subjects with multiple words.

“That was quite a handshake, Jayna.  Between you and me, it was the best of both worlds.”  She titters like a teakettle.

“Yeah, thanks.  With the shitty world out here, it’s the best we can do to carry on better ones inside of ourselves.”  She looks away for a moment and fidgets with something.  She’s turned around with a lit cigarette just as Adam figured out what she was attempting.  She pulls away from her mouth with the smoke and shows a sliver of a smile as the glances back his way.  “What brings you here tonight, Adam?”

I don’t know.

That’s horseshit Adam, I told you to go over there and make a friend.

Oh yeah.  Thanks mom.

“Friends.  Misery loves company, I suppose.  But thinking on it, that’s melted away.”

“You’ll be needing to find company without misery then, from the sound of it.”

“I think I already have.”  He smiles back at her, and extends the crook of his arm as he brushes his scarf out of the way.  The space is filled with something warmer, more reassuring, than the frosted cotton weave, as she takes it.  They go inside, neither one fully understanding what happened between them, yet both being certain that the other was still rather miserable on the inside.

They danced the steps up to the double doors of the bar, each pushing one aside with their free arms, pausing in unison to enjoy the intense contrast of the warm air bathing them from inside.  She takes the lead by pulling him over to a pair of stools.  He takes a closer look at what she is wearing as she takes off her coat.  It’s rather low cut for the weather, but in a classy way, skirting the line between strumpet and supervisor.  It impresses him, in part because of the surprise of it.

She’s assertive, clearly an important woman.  Good for you, Adam!

Mom, lay off.

Boy, I love you.  So don’t fuck this up.

You too Dad!  What the hell.

She sits down in the corner stool of the bar and leans into the faux mahogany grain of it like a lover.  Overhead, a lamp that doesn’t work swings slowly by a chain.  Adam sits next to her, lit halfway from behind by a lamp that does.  Glasses are clinking, laughter juxtaposed with forks scratching.  People walking, pool balls clacking, triangles racking and smokers hacking collective lungs with sighs of spent desire.

She catches the eye of the bartender, and he calmly walks over.

“I’ll have whatever’s on tap,” she tells him.  He blinks and lowers his head perceptively, and silently looks Adam’s way.

“I’ll have 3 ounces of Jack, 3 ounces of heavy cream, poured over ice in a glass and stirred,” says Adam.  It gets him an interesting looks from Jayna, but the bartender doesn’t give a shit.

Adam turns to his left and their eyes meet.  They hold it there, together, as they both just relax and warm up to the idea of warming up, of opening up.

Adam starts:  “So, what’s yours?”  It’s cliché and he knows it, but one of them was going to ask sooner or later.  Maybe by skipping straight to it he can keep up with her surefooted navigation of the turbulent social waters.  That’s what he tells himself, anyway.  Jayna looks away to drink from her bottle, and when she looks back he gets hit with that same damn feeling as the first time, and feels another shot of fight or flight being squeezed from his adrenals.  He knows that’s what it is, intellectually, but it feels like coming back to a home you never knew you had, and just as the longing and relief and tension and ecstasy and melancholy of it all stew together and come to a head, it drifts away like smoke through your fingertips leaving only traces of emotion behind, just in time to dovetail with the realization that something amazing is happening.

“Wow.”

That’s going to be addicting.

“How long can you hold that stare, Jayna?”

“Seven minutes and thirteen seconds on a good day.  The last time I was tested, anyway.”

He mulls this over.  “Do you have any friends that can predict when a person is going to die, by any chance?”  She looks up, pausing to give the question legitimate consideration.

“No, why do you ask?”

“I’d like to spend the last seven and change I have left in this world like that with you, is why.”  It gets another smile, but he knows its truth doesn’t keep her from brushing it off.  As well she should.

This is going well.  Maybe I’m even winning her over.  Maybe she likes me.  Just a little bit.

“Why wait?”

Silence.

Neither of them seem to know what to do next, since no obvious move presents itself.  A probable mixture of individual stressors and the cultural trauma of the times.  It’s a comfortable pause, which gets broken by “What about you?  What do you do, Adam?”

He gives a half-smile and looks down sheepishly, knowing he won’t incriminate himself yet rarely being asked.  Who would trust a man that can plant pieces of emotional residue and fragments of thought into their most cherished and private memories, like a desperate fisherman carving out niches in minds and hearts with emotional hooks?  No one, that’s fucking who.

No one.

“I daydream.  Kind of.  It’s like a turbo-charged daydreaming.  I can get lost in my own mind, in a way.”

She gives a slightly approving facial expression, a dubious token of approval that one would expect to be doled out to starving artists and others who willfully but unnecessarily suffer for their trade.  It’s positive overall.

“That’s better than some people I know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.  My friend Dave?  He can sneeze on command.”  She couples a flourishing of her hand with a wild, unhinged facial expression.  “Allison can draw a perfect circle every time.  And Mary, well… she always seems to find crying babies.  Or rather, they find her, no matter where she goes.  ‘It’s not a very super power at all, if you ask me, thankyouverymuch.’ She always says.”  She does a good impression of her friend Mary.  Adam can tell.

“Some people have it so lucky,” Adam starts.  “This one guy I knew in grade school?  Thomas?   The government found out he had the ability to make people fall in love with him.  A Supra Power they called it, like a power over other people and things.  Not just your average Super Power like being really strong, or even a power like being really good at Carney Games or cooking a mean grilled cheese.  So they took him and groomed him for some foreign relations thing in the military.  An ambassador or something like that.”  Jayna looks on, quite interested, as the barkeep brings Adam the Cowboy he ordered.

I wonder where Thomas is now.  I wonder where they all are.

“He’s quite lucky indeed.  The government usually kills people with Supra Powers they can’t use for National Interests, or measure imperically.  Too much risk letting loose cannons run around and all, you know.”  Adam nods – knowingly – as he begins to feel the spots on his pant legs where the snow is melting and creeping up to grab his calves.  He hates that sensation.

Absolutely fucking hates it.

I want to get out of these clothes now.  Shit.  Maybe I can use the hand dryer in the restroom.

He takes a sip from his drink, puts it down, and says “I’ll be right back.  Don’t go anywhere now!”  to which she reassures him that she won’t be, giving him a smile as the traces the whirling grain of the bar with her fingertips.  She hates to see him go, but watching him walk away isn’t all that bad.

Edging open the door of the men’s restroom, Adam pushes himself inside after pausing to assess the situation.  It’s empty, so he makes his way to the hand dryer and pushes the cold, wet button to start the warm air.  After wiping down the counter next to the sink he hops on up and moves his legs around under the dryer.  It’s a small ordeal.  His wallet is in the way, so he takes it out of his back pocket and moves it to the front.  The drying takes the better part of fifteen minutes, but he gets it done and walks out satisfied and much more relaxed.

Adam turns right towards the bar and notices Jayna watching the television mounted overhead.  He walks past other patrons and takes his seat beside her quietly.  He doesn’t interrupt her concentration, and looks upward to see what’s going on as he sips from his glass.

A steel-jawed woman is giving a report.

“An alliance of burnt out scientists that came together two years ago to form the research corporation Calibrated Genetic Logistics Incorporated have made the merger between them and the Science and Industry division of the United States Armed Forces official today.  While their work is top secret, today’s interview with the Commandant of the Marine Corps confirmed that their recent innovations are on the fast track to being rapidly deployed with our troops in the Arctic Conflict…”

Oh what good news!  Don’t you think, Adam?

I don’t know.  I’m tired of this war.  It’s going nowhere, it benefits no one, and it doesn’t concern me.

You’re wrong, boy.  Listen to your mother.

How can I not listen to her?

Don’t get fresh.

“Nothing new on the news, big surprise there!” laughs Jayna.  “So Adam, where do you work?  That’s what I’m supposed to ask you next to come across as a normal member of polite society, right?”

I like her already.

“I work for Mexican Royal Industrial.  Or rather, I did, before they laid me off.”

Jayna nods.  “Times are hard, even for us at Russian Confectioners.  People aren’t buying like they used to.  But what can you do?”

“Lose yourself in the night, meeting strangers at dive bars” he says.  They raise their drinks with perfunctory nods, a glass in his hand and a bottle in hers.  Adam waits until just before she can touch it to her lips and interrupts her by saying “A toast.”  He says it with confidence, from the belly.

“To hard times.”

Hopefully you’ll have some hard times later tonight. I want some damn grandchildren.

Honey!

Knock it off, both of you!

“I’ll drink to that,” Jayna replies with a smile.  Just then, the warm air circulating in the bar hits her just right, and for the first time Adam catches the fragrance she must be wearing.  He feels outclassed, and suddenly like a thief and a liar.

Lime… cloves… and other things… well whatever it is, it’s really nice.  And she didn’t bathe in it like ninety-nine percent of people seem to.

They drink, and talk, and stumble back to her place two blocks away as the wind claws at the world outside, indifferent to the men and women jerry-rigging one night stands inside the weather-beaten hollows of snow they walked out of.

Jayna fumbles for her keys and, fingering the right one away from the ring, slams it into the cold, sticky lock of her double-doored apartment building.  Once inside they giggle and drift upstairs to apartment 2C.  As soon as she lays her left hand on the doorknob she swiftly spins around, her scarf floating around her like a halo, and puts her slender index finger up to her lips.  She lets out breath, like steam, ushering Adam into silence and solemnity.  “Either my son left the television on, or he’s up past his bedtime and is about to be in trouble, so wait out here until I find out which.”

Didn’t think she’d have a kid.  A mother and businesswoman.  Wow.

Without waiting for Adam to respond she cracks the door open and peers inside.  He stands back while Jayna gets bathed in the artificial glow of the television set, which sternly proclaims the current program’s title in the sort of voice that reminds you of elementary school intercoms and bullhorns that are past their prime.

“Stay tuned for The Adventures of Cerealborg and Combat Groper in… Lizzie Borden and Paul Bunyan Go to Mars, Part 9: The Return!”

…What the hell are kids watching these days?  That sounds more entertaining than what I used to watch.

Jayna creeps in and takes an initial survey before stopping and quietly walking over to a blanketed lump on the floor, shotgunned with electronic snow from the old Magnavox.

I guess that’s her son, then.  Kid must have gotten up then fallen back asleep.  Fortunate.

She bends down and picks him up more tender skill than her hardened punk exterior led Adam to believe she was capable of, at least before he knew she was a mother.  Still, he stays outside and watches her walk down the back hallway before veering left into another room, coming out a few minutes later.  She stops just in front of the television set, silhouetted by its glow, as she beckons Adam forward with a single expressive motion of her hand.

She really does look striking in black, shadows and cloth alike.

He steps forward into her apartment and, closing the door, slides the bolt and chain home.  Warmth finds its way under his charcoal coat as Jayna’s hands slip under the wool and around his hips, her chin finally resting on his shoulder.  Flakes of snow have turned to dew on her hair, and they coat his neck as she draws closer. 

“I’ve been looking for you a long time, Adam Remaster.”

She speaks with more confidence than she should.  He can’t echo the sentiment.  Her shaved temple brushes his stubbled chin as she moves into his neck.

I never told her my last name.

All of my entries here are going to be in one consistent world, but from multiple perspectives.  This first one is from the perspective of a younger... minor noblewoman?  Some sort of equivalent of that.  Enjoy.

She honoured the gods.  It was her civic duty, what else could she do?  When there was drought she offered to the god of rain, and when she had sewn her seed she offered to the god of plenty.  But now was not the time for such things, now was not the time for such things, now was not the time to think of rain of seeds.  There were greater things at stake.  Now was the time to offer to Thraitis, the goddess of womanly strength, and of warfare.  She was a goddess from the north, and her ancestors had not worshiped her, but now was not the time to quibble over such things.

Lysistratas was a fair woman, curly dark brown hair reaching past her shoulders and piercing golden eyes, a ring of dark brown edging inwards.  Her handmaiden bound her hair behind her head, braiding it loosely to reveal her long face with high, pronounced cheekbones.  Her skin, just like her hair, was darkened a natural olive complexion.  Once her hair was back, her handmaiden helped her to dress, and she was to dressed in her father’s clothing.  She was his only heir, and so his armour, belonging to his father before him, was left to her, perhaps in the hope that she would bear it to her own son.  Alas, she had no son, and her husband was far and away in armour of his own.

While her husband wore a square bonze plate on his chest, she slipped over herself a fine corselet of chain.  It was folly for him to not have taken it, a man’s honour.  It’s to my advantage, she supposed.  The chain bore heavy on her shoulders, but was made lighter once her belt was fastened, distributing some of the weight onto her waist.  As bronze greaves were strapped to her calves, Lysistratas regarded how the chain doublet flattened her breasts, and that beyond the linen wrappings, she didn’t need any more help to make her breasts look any smaller.  This thought took her for only an instant, as she knew that now was not the time for such things.

Her armour having been donned, Lysistratas entered the household shrine and went to her knees.  She begged of the gods, “Household gods and Thraitis alike, I require of you your strength and good fortune.  I need you to grant me your protection, to sweep away blows which might do me harm, make my blade sing true as it strikes any who would do me harm.  In addition, I request of you that minimal damage be done unto this household, in that its structure remains intact, its stores unmolested, and its slaves unharmed.  I offer you now a cup of wine and a broken arrow.”  She pauses and stares downward towards the floor, her hands out with palms facing upwards as her handmaiden slowly pours a cup of wine over a small fire in the shrine, and next as another slave breaks an arrow over her knee and places it in the fire.

“Should my wellbeing be kept intact,” she continued, “I plan to sacrifice the joints, sinews, and heart of a young bull in your honour, which time now does not permit.  Household gods, I have always sacrificed to you fairly, and Thraikis, I shall do you the same in the future permitting good result.  My fate rests in your hands now.  This is Lysistratas, wife of Titus Gaudius Ferrus, father of the Gaudius Ferrus family.  Do unto me fairly, and likewise I shall do unto you.”  She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, deeply, before exhaling and slowly opening her eyes.  She stood up and turned to her handmaiden, saying to her, “Our fate belongs to the gods now.  Is everyone prepared?”

“Yes Domina,” she replied in a somber tone.  “Everyone who can hold a weapon has been given one so best as we’re able to provide.  But…”  She trailed off and dropped her old, tired eyes towards the ground.

“What is it?”  Lysistratas inquired.

“They’re scared, Domina.  Everyone is scared.  I’m scared.”

Welcome one and all to my blog, fair and new.  It is designed as a means to motivate me to write, giving me a deadline where I have to have something written every week.  I also wanted to get others to join me, for twofold reasons.  One of which is that I'm sure that no one is going to want to follow me and me alone, and multiple posts up a week will certainly draw more attention.  Secondly, it's my belief that everyone should exercise their right of creativity, to express themselves and to develop themselves as a person.

I don't know yet which day of the week I'm going to update on, but in the meantime I'll certainly make at least one post of fiction every week.  If anyone has any suggestions or criticisms, I'd be more than happy to hear them, be they the content or style of my writing, grammatical or spelling errors, or even the layout of the blog itself.  And further, should anyone want to contribute to the blog itself, as a one time thing or regularly, by all means let me know.

Thank you for coming to visit my blog.  I hope that you enjoy some of my (and/or other's) writing, and come back time and again to enjoy some more.