Late

Carson Cramer and Jake Caster have been best friends since high school. Now a rising tv anchor and a successful comic book artist, they’ve found that some things change, and some remain very much the same. What Jake isn’t telling Carson: that car accident in high school triggered his super powers, which he now uses for good under the name Phantom. What neither of them know: that same car accident in high school turned Carson into a split-personality superhuman, and the other personality with all the powers is evil. This story was to fill an object prompt. I had to use seven of the following ten items: lighter, ring, light bulb, hamster wheel, giant salad, lipstick, potted plant, boxers, vw beetle, stick

–

They were already going to be ten minutes late, so Carson Cramer didn’t bother to knock on the door until he was already halfway into the apartment. “Get a move on!” he shouted across the living room. “We’re already late!”

“Well, I hate you,” Jake Caster’s voice called back. He appeared from the direction of his bedroom, looking every inch the lazing artist that he was. He’d just pulled a shirt over his head, leaving his hair rumpled, and his belt wasn’t even fastened around his waist yet. Carson pointedly looked away; eleven thirty in the morning was too early to be confronted with even a glimpse of his best friend’s boxers. He kept his eyes on the withered potted plant that Spook used as a scratching post until the sounds of metal and leather subsided and it was safe to look again without too much mental scarring.

Clothes intact, Jake still looked like he’d crawled out of a comic-lined hole in the ground moments before. Carson shook his head in despair. “How are you just getting out of bed? It’s nearly noon!”

“Had a late night.” Jake brushed past him to check his hair in the mirror by the door. After a moment of consideration, he just ruffled his hands through it to make the mess look more intentional, and then bent down to gather up two matching shoes. He settled on the edge of his ratty old couch—the one that Carson constantly offered to replace with something that wouldn’t scare a woman away if Jake ever brought one home—and started to untangle the laces. His movements were a little stiff, and he held himself a bit to one side, like his left leg was hurting him.

Carson knew he had worry lines forming on his face, and didn’t quite manage to wipe them away before Jake glanced up and caught the expression. “Bad workout.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it—they had too much practice reading each other to get away with stuff like that, which was part of the reason this friendship was probably deeply unhealthy to Carson’s mental health. Before he could ask, Jake looked back down again and sighed, “Remind me again why Springfield’s most eligible televised bachelor can’t find a date to a stupid company picnic?”

“It’s the annual ‘Green Peace’ auction,” Carson corrected. “And shut it. You’re not exactly my first choice as a plus one, thank you very much.”

Jake tilted to his feet and stifled a yawn. “With sweet talk like that, no wonder.” He grabbed up his keys from their tray on the counter, adjusted the satchel magically on his shoulder, and made a grand gesture towards the door. “After you.”

And despite himself, Carson smiled. He’d never admit it, but they hadn’t seen much of each other lately, and he’d missed it. Jake had been holed up trying to meet his next deadline, and Carson was fronting the myriad charity events and PR appearances that the station put on every summer.

Besides, it was worth the whole exercise to see Jake’s face when they got to the car.

“What is it?”

“A Volkswagen,” Carson said unhelpfully. He grinned hugely at Jake’s alarm and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, don’t look like that. It’s not a bloody Flinstones car. It’s a classic.”

As a matter of fact the thing was a death trap on wheels, but there was a certain charm to the old VW Beetles that made it seem like part of the experience. Or so Elizabeth had insisted, when she signed Carson up to drive it to the auction since no one else would dare. This one tried its best, sitting there in the sun all painted with blue and yellow flowers. He had to admit, the advert people at the station knew how to promote a theme; this thing screamed “Peace, Love and Go Green” better than any poster.

It took them a few minutes to wedge themselves in. The car was barely big enough to hold the two of them, and Jake had to throw his satchel in the back next to Carson’s bag. Jake contorted his arm in an attempt to grab his seatbelt. “So how did you end up with the death trap on wheels, exactly?”

Carson gave him a look, despite thinking the exact same thing himself two minutes ago. “I’m the only anchor in the station who can drive a bloody manual without a diagram.” He gestured at the long black stick between them, stuck out at an odd angle like some kind of antenna. “Alright, let’s get a move on.”

The car started with great reluctance, grumbling and grinding into life like an old woman roused from sleep. It took some yanking on the wheel to get it away from the curb and drifting down the street. They were halfway to the park before the engine rumbled into something more like a purr, and the teeth-knocking shakes just became strong vibrations. Carson let up on the clutch a little and tried to pretend he’d done it on purpose. “There. Walk in the park.”

Jake laughed and rolled down the window. “Remember the first time we tried to drive a stick? When Mr. Jackson said that we could have the Impala for ten dollars if we could drive it down the street and back without stalling?”

Carson smiled at the memory. That car had barely lasted them the summer, between Carson’s part-time job at the paper and Jake’s ill-fated career as a hot dog vendor. It had blown out on them half way out to the lake just before school started, and they’d had to walk five miles in the dark before they found someone to give them a lift home. He could still remember the warm summer air, the smell of pine trees, the exhilarating feeling of being on their own, with no adults in sight to help.

“Wasn’t all bad, I suppose. At least it finally convinced Mum to buy me–”

He stopped dead, right in the middle of the sentence, because the air had just gone out of his lungs.

Buy me that green mustang, he would have finished. The mustang that Carson had been so proud of, the one he’d shined up to take Laurie Holstrum to senior prom. The one that Jake had driven them home in, after they’d both been dumped. The one he’d fallen asleep in, oblivious, only to wake to a bright, terrible noise, and the world turning upside down as the other car hit them head-on and spun them off the road, Jake’s scream ringing in his ears.

They’d never talked about it. Not once in the decade since it happened. He glanced over; Jake was fiddling with the cigarette lighter, ducked down so Carson’s couldn’t catch his eyes.

Jake had never driven a car with Carson in it, since then. Had barely driven one at all, really. They’d never talked about it. They’d never talked about a lot of things. He’d never really noticed why.

They were only three blocks from the park. Carson pulled the car over and turned it off. The sudden silence rang in his ears; the vibrations cutting out finally made Jake look up, finger resting on the lip of the lighter like he was thinking about testing it. It took a long time for their eyes to meet, and even then, Carson couldn’t find the words.

Because it was Jake right next to him now, just like he’s always been since the minute they met. And Carson should have been driving, and neither of them had been hurt. Well. That wasn’t quite true, was it. The words died on impact still rang in Carson’s ears, and he hadn’t even been awake for the collision with that poor sod in the other car.

Sometime in the minutes Carson had been staring into the middle distance, Jake had looked away again, this time out the window. He was trying hard to pretend nothing was wrong, and it made Carson’s chest squeeze a little.

This was ridiculous. They were two grown men in the middle of a summer day, angsting silently about something that’d happened twelve years ago, in another car entirely.

Well, what did he expect, really? They’d never grown up in any good ways, either.

Carson reached out and put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. He left it there, patiently, until Jake managed to look at him again.

“We’re gonna be late,” the other man pointed out, voice not quite steady.

“We’ll blame the car.” Carson didn’t know how to say it, any of it. He’d never been good with words that weren’t scripted for him. So he did the only thing he could think of. He tugged the key out of the ignition, twirled it on its ring, and then silently held it out to his passenger.

Jake’s eyes widened. “No. No, seriously, don’t–”

“You’re driving,” Carson told him, and got out of the car.

Jake got out too. They stood there glaring at each other over the yellow roof of the Beetle, Carson trying to be calm and Jake’s knuckles turning white around the keyring. A car whipped past, and the sound started them out of their showdown.

Finally, Jake took a deep breath and rested his hands on the top of the car like a sign of surrender. “Tell me one good reason why I should do this.”

Carson thought carefully about that. Because you’re my best friend and I trust you seemed the obvious answer. Maybe It wasn’t your fault or I’m sorry I fell asleep and left you alone. Maybe most of all, I’m sorry, because if one of us had to kill someone, even by accident, it bloody well should have been me.

But Jake knew all that, didn’t he? Surely, after all this time, he knew. Carson just had to remind him.

“I’ve been told,” he said slowly, “That they’re going to throw Elizabeth into a giant salad as part of the Go Green demonstration.”

Jake stared at him, and then all at once he smiled. “Yeah. Alright.” Carson breathed a sigh of relief. That had gotten more touchy-feely than he ever wanted to be again, and they hadn’t even talked about it.

They got back into the car, positions reversed, and Carson took a deep breath in unison with Jake as the key turned and the car started.

Jake looked over at him, just once, and gave something like a smile again. “Don’t fall asleep on me, alright?”

“No,” Carson agreed, far more seriously than either of them needed. He cleared his throat again. “Not likely, in this death trap.”

“I told you!” Jake glanced at the mirrors and took another breath. “Alright,” he said, mostly to himself. “Moving on.”

Carson barely hid his grin, and settled back into his seat as they pulled back out into the street.

They ended up being thirty minutes late. Carson couldn’t find it in himself to care.

 

 

this time

Another free-verse originally posted over at Long Awaited’s Poetry Thursday. This is basically a chick-flick in poetry form, though on repeated readings there does seem to be a kind of other-wordly feel to some of it. Maybe neither of them are entirely alive, or one of them is, or it’s just a plain old romance story. I’ll leave it up to you to decide for yourself.

–

 

The first time

he walks by her

little table

in the sun-lit plaza

she misses him

entirely

because she is

looking

–long, intently–

at the building.

It reflects the light

all arches

steel and stone

reach high and soar

into the cream-blue sky

–beautiful, elegant–

and so she

doesn’t notice his

quick gaze.

He thinks she is

–captivating–

in the golden afternoon

with her dark eyes

pointed far

above his head and

he wishes

–fleeting, wistfully–

that he was just

a fraction

taller to her

notice.

 

The second time

she strolls by

him in the rain

where he

misses her

barely

as he watches

–tired, absently–

the figures shudder past

in the puddle

at his feet.

The lights shift

and the world dances

–uncertain, trembling–

in the water’s skin

where he

catches glimpses of her heels

and writes it off

to mere

imaginings.

She marks him

–striking–

and wishes he

would leave

reflections

and see her

stepping past.

 

The next time

he looks

left at the flash

of a camera

–blinding, sudden–

instead.

She glances down

when the crack

nearly trips up her

heels

–jarring, uneven–

and

they walk past.

–Nearly.–

 

But this time

he turns

as she rounds the

corner golden

sun in her hair

reflects in his eyes

–Sorry, I didn’t–

–No, really, it’s fine–

They step on

together, future

unknown past

the next bend

in the

street.

First time of

many.

–Hello.–

Fine Work

Mitch Sherbourne is one of the great unsung heroes of Imaggen: hard worker, dedicated uncle, and understanding person in general. So when he comes face-to-face with the Mill’s questionable new arrival, Dirk Pickerd, he has to play his own game to keep his family safe.

-

It was one of those bright, clear mornings that made even a little place like Mill seem new and alive. Still, Mitch found himself slowing as he reached town; there wasn’t much room to navigate in a place this small if he ran into Pickerd or Batta. He took the long way around to the Leesons’, back behind the grain store and away from the normal meeting places. He felt silly doing it—paranoid with no good reason except a bad feeling from last night—but Wilfy and Quentin’s warnings hung heavy on his mind.

He got there right on time even with the detour. Jan’s Imaggen Nella answered the door. “Mornin’, Nella. Here to finish up those railings.”

“Well, aren’t you on time,” she said with a smile. “I’ve got one of the little ones in sick today so you just shout if you need me. Mr. Leeson went into the office for a meeting, but he said he’d be back just as soon as he could.”

This porch in back of the Leeson house was something of a pet project of his; he’d been working on it all spring, and now it was all done but for a few railings and that last coat of finish. It was made from a nice light-colored wood and big enough to hold a small crowd; there were talks about a town barbeque when it was finished. Mitch got to work and soon lost himself in the soothing shush of wood peeling evenly beneath his blade, the slide of his brush along smooth corners. He soon lost track of his worries entirely, like he tended to do when he was working. He was just touching up the finish on the porch’s step rail when he heard Bret Leeson step inside the house. “That you, Mitch?”

“Yeah, just finishin’,” he called back. “Looks right pretty.”

“I’m sure it is!” The man stepped out onto the porch, and Mitch was distracted by a splinter in his nail just long enough to miss that Bret had brought someone home with him.

“Ah, this is very-ah, thank you, Nella—very fine work.”

Oh, he knew that voice after last night. Mitch winced internally and turned to face Dirk Pickerd. The man looked like he should be sweatin’ right through that black suit of his, even clutching a glass of lemonade. Pickerd’s odd gray eyes looked Mitch over like a searchlight, and he just worked up the gumption to look the man straight back without flinching. “Well, I do what I can,” he said coolly. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, haven’t you?” Bret’s honest face was beaming, oblivious to Mitch’s sudden desire to be anywhere else but right here on this porch he’d just finished building. “Well, let’s just fix that right now! Mr. Pickerd, this is Mitch Sherbourne, the best handy-man in town. Mitch, this is Dirk Pickerd, our very own new employer.”

“Sherbourne,” Pickerd repeated softly. His gaze focused abruptly on Mitch’s face. “A fine name, a very fine name.” Mitch backed up a step under the pretense of making room for Bret to step into the house.

Bret had carried on right over them. “We’ve been talking numbers up at the mill, and Mr. Pickerd walked me back. You’ll never believe it, but he’s promoting me to assistant manager in charge of finances! Isn’t that something?”

“Well, ain’t that nice.” Mitch managed something like a smile and a nod in Pickerd’s direction. “I’ll just leave yeh to talk shop, then.”

“Don’t be silly,” Leeson said with a laugh. “I’ll just settle the porch with you right now. You don’t mind a quick bit of side business, do you, Mr. Pickerd.”

“Certainly, certainly,” the man said with an oddly hollow smile. He set Mitch on edge just by standin’ there; something wasn’t right about this guy, even without Batta in range. It was like he was only a picture of a person with a few extra faces tacked on. In that dark suit, he somehow put Mitch in mind of the charcoal sketch he’d done of the porch before he started it. The thought made him mighty uneasy. “As a representative of Barrows Industries I am proud to support local businesses. A hah.”

“A hah,” Mitch agreed, deadpan.

Pickerd gave him a sharp look, but after a moment he gestured. “After you, Mr. Sherbourne.”

He didn’t have much choice then but to follow them inside. Nella settled him on the sofa with a glass of lemonade that he used as an excuse to direct his eyes away from Pickerd’s unsettling inspection.

Bret filled the uneasy silence with a string of cheerful chatter. “Mitch’s niece Rose is in school with my oldest, Jan. They’re great friends, we have Rose over all the time. She all finished with her work for the weekend?”

Mitch shifted uncomfortably—he didn’t want Pickerd knowing any of this, but there was no polite way to stop the information coming out. He settled on a safe answer. “She’s been complaining somethin’ terrible about projects, but that’s nothin’ new.”

“Jan too,” Bret said with a sympathetic wince. “It must be time for summer.” He turned back to Mitch and held out his check. “Well, there you have it, paid in full.”

Mitch drained his glass to cover a sigh of relief. He pocketed the check and nodded to both of them. “I’ll be on my way, then.” Pickerd was still watching him with that unsettling intensity. Mitch cleared his throat and made a break for the door.

“Hey, I nearly forgot!” Bret called just before Mitch could get outside. “Tell Rose happy birthday from the family, would you? It’s next week, isn’t it?”

“Ah, a birthday? Salutations from Barrows Industries as well.”

“Sure thing,” Mitch agreed with a nod, and firmly shut the door behind him. He waited until he was a good halfway to the bank before he risked muttering, “Not on your life, you suited weasel.”

Variety Pack #2: Alternatives

All of the following excerpts consist of the same two characters, Alia and West. Some of their friends show up too. These all come from a selection of stories called Fragments, in which I used these characters to create 20 stories in different realities, time periods, and situations. It’s a little bit of fictional “If Only…”  that seems somehow appropriate for the last day of the year. Happy 2010.

—

When she failed to scoff or yell or turn away in disgust, he ventured to ask, “Are you new, then?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He glanced at the schedule crumpled in her hand. “Where you headed?”

She smoothed the paper out and squinted at it with blue eyes a few shades darker than his own. “Magickal Defense. I have no idea how people find anything in this place! I followed one boy’s directions, but I ended up in the wrong building. And then I got my foot caught in a trick stair.”

“Sounds like you’ve gotten the normal first-week runaround,” he said sympathetically. “It’ll get better, as long as you–” That sentence ended with, As long as you aren’t me, but that seemed a little much for her first day, so instead he continued, “Here, I’ve got that class too. It’s just up the hall. I’ll walk you.” Belatedly, he stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m West, by the way.”

There were a thousand things attached to that introduction. I’m a vampire, but I have a soul and a guilty conscience. I’m the school pariah, but that’s fine because I can’t stand anyone here. You’ll never talk to me again when you find out who I am in another ten minutes, so I don’t know why I’m bothering anyway.

She shook his hand firmly and smiled up at him. “Alia. Alia Pryce. Thank you for the help, West. You’re the first decent person I’ve met all day.”

It turned out later on that there were lots of things attached to her introduction too. Things like, I happen to have been raised by an organization specifically trained to kill vampires and Your cousin killed my mother and I was actually assigned to be your friend to kill you, but it’s turning out differently than I expected.

—

Later that night, Alia finds herself on the porch, tea in hand, watching Aya and Hope gamboling on the lawn. West joins her and they sit companionably in the fall air.

“Who would’ve thought it?” West says with a shake of his head. “She’s a great mom.”

Alia finishes off her tea and puts the mug aside. “You know, I thought she might be, if we ever lasted this long.”

He glances over thoughtfully. “Did you ever think we would?”

She considers that as she watches Aya tumble dramatically into the leaves, Hope dangling in her outstretched arms, both laughing at their twig-stuck hair. She feels West’s leg against hers, his presence comfortable and familiar, and thinks of all the things they need to do before they take over the Council on Monday. The air is cool, the sun setting, and she feels a warm weight in her chest at the rightness of it all.

“I hoped,” she answers him honestly. “On my braver days, I think I hoped for this exactly.”

—

Three and a half weeks after the world didn’t end and the Council mostly exploded, West started to admit to himself that maybe Alia was gone this time after all. As soon as he let the thought in the world grayed and he felt sick. He took several deep, slow breaths where he sat on his bed, and wondered what exactly he was supposed to do now.

The vampire stood up slowly and went to go find Micah. He could get through the funeral first—there would be time to melt down and run and kill something (anything) after Alia had a nice burial with her friends and family and—

“Micah!” he shouted to keep from losing it.

“Down here!” his friend called back from what sounded like outside.

West tramped down the steps, threw open the front door, and came face to face with Alia Pryce. They stared at each other for a moment. She was bruised and scraped, and wearing completely different clothes than the ones they’d been looking for her body in. Her hair was about three inches shorter, for no apparent reason he could see.

“I’m back,” she told him, with what he thought was less than the appropriate amount of apology in her voice. “Sorry about the delay.”

—

What he absolutely does not count on is the door being opened by an Alia Pryce that has never met him: a woman with Micah McCallister’s ring on her finger and his last name, and apparently his child about four months on the way if her rounded belly is any indication. “Do I know you?” she asks politely, and swipes loose hair back from her eyes with a hand half-coated in flour.

He stares at her blankly. “I’m, uh—I’m an old friend. From the…Council?”

Her eyes shutter unexpectedly. “Look, I don’t know how to make this any more clear to you people—we’re not interested in working for you, and we never will be.” She gives him a critical look-over, and it suddenly occurs to him that she seems a whole lot older than his version. “You’re a little young to be a Council delivery boy, aren’t you?”

Before he can answer, shouts start up behind him. West turns, tensed and ready to fight. He’s gobsmacked into submission as Micah McCallister comes up the walk, a little blonde girl running ahead and a matching boy cradled in his arms, sound asleep.

—

Two years after the apocalypse, they settle themselves on the Continent, where there’s less chance of seeing someone they know decayed and gray and trying to kill them. They avoid the safe places they created, live on their own. It’s not that they want to be together, per say. Alia’s simply forgotten how to be without him at all, and ensuring their mutual survival is an easy habit from better days that serves them now. Occasionally they speak of things and people gone before, but it hurts too much.

Three years after the apocalypse, they’re still alive, but they haven’t survived.

—

She gave the side of his head a stern look. “West.” There was a lot packed into that word. Her hand reached up of its own volition to brush a wet strand of hair away from his eyes. “You’re always welcome, wherever I am. You know that.”

“Thank you. It’s just…” she recognized the expression on his face that said he wished he hadn’t started. But to his credit he finished it, without looking her in the eye. “If I depend on you for everything, what happens when there’s only me left?”

She stared at him, a little gobsmacked. “For the record, I was talking about the summer. We were making life plans?”

West waved her off good-naturedly. “No, no, just had a freakout there. I’m done.” He settled back onto his elbows.

“Good.” She settled next to him, arm pressed against his. “Besides, your life expectancy is probably half mine, even if you are supposed to be immortal. You get into far more trouble.”

They stayed like that for countless more minutes. At some point he sat upright and leaned against the trunk of the tree, and she found her head pillowed on his leg. She had a tilted, monochromatic view of his face above her, surrounded by the dark dripping branches and the gray sky and the black stone of the School. She reached up to brush a disconcerting raindrop off his face where it trickled down his cheek like a tear.“It’d be enough,” she told him so quietly she half hoped it would blend in with the rain and be lost all together. He looked down at her curiously, so she shrugged and explained, “To know you’d remember me, after…well. It would be enough.”

Cold Outside

Arthur Dallancy is a great character that I’ve been playing with for months. A little Casting, a little professorship, and some snow welcome him back in this scene, where he has just returned to the School he headmasters after time away.  Written in honor of the weather currently outside my window.

–

The headmaster’s office was freezing in the morning, despite Dallancy’s best attempts at central heating and portable flame jars. He could practically see the frost forming on his books, like it was on the heavy window pane. A huge fire blazed in the ancient grate in the sitting area. This was the one season of the year when his desk, surrounded by windows and separated by the rest of the room by two shallow steps up, was far more of a hindrance than a pleasure. Sometime around eight thirty, Arthur had finally given into the inevitable and abandoned his beloved desk chair to sit at the couch next to the hearth with the remainder of his Advanced Theory papers. He kept his coat and scarf on, though he finally shed his gloves since they interfered with both his grading and his Casting.

Snow was still drifting down outside, serene and quiet and bitterly cold. The School was beautiful under snowfall, but even the best of modern technology and sealing charms couldn’t keep warm air from escaping the old stone buildings. The occasional squeals and shouts of students below on the lawn reminded him that school was technically in session today, even though it felt like everyone should be inside. He avoided looking out his window when he heard a particularly loud shout around nine o’clock; it was a day for snowball fights, and what he didn’t know probably wouldn’t hurt him.

Theory papers were always his favorite. This semester his class only consisted of ten students, and so he could indulge himself in real grading, scribbling questions and comments in the margins of their discussions. The Simple Law was one of the trickier cornerstones of Casting Theory. He was starting to think he’d left something out of the lectures, because even his best students seemed to be struggling with the topic. Three papers in, he reached for his tea and flinched back when his fingers met icy cold porcelain. “Brilliant,” he muttered. He flicked his fingers in a warming Cast; the motion was a little more vehement than he’d meant, and the tea boiled in the cup before settling again. He picked it up gingerly and took a sip. For the thousandth time since he’d gotten his reading glasses, they fogged over with the steam. “Ach!”

In the middle of his flailing to get his glasses off without setting down his tea, someone knocked on the door. A second later it opened, and not for the first time Dallancy missed the days when everyone was too intimidated to enter without asking first.

“For heaven’s sake, it’s freezing in here!” Elena Moran protested she came in. Well, that was hardly an unusual occurrence—Elena had never bothered with Arthur’s privacy once in the thirty-odd years they’d known each other, and that wasn’t about to change just because she worked for him. Her mouth twitched into a smile when she caught sight of his half-smudge glasses. “Good morning,” she said sweetly. The lack of comment was as good as actually making one, and Arthur offered a half-hearted glare in response. Despite the fact they were both approaching old and flirting with gray (more than flirting in her case), Elena never failed to make Arthur feel fourteen years old again.

Elena settled across from him in the overstuffed armchair and held her hands out to the fire. He noticed that she’d brought her coat and scarf with her, though she left them draped over the chair . “Good trip?”

Dallancy made a face that she interpreted with long years of practice. “That good, eh?”

He sighed and shook his head, sitting back on the couch. “I’m getting too old to gallivant about like this at the Council’s every whim.” This last adventure had taken him all the way to Croatia; he was starting to suspect that the other Council members were sending him on these wild goose chases just to keep him out of the way.

“How many more of these are they going to send you on?” He glanced over to see her brown eyes evaluating him carefully. Dallancy tried to pretend she hadn’t just read his mind, failed, and shook his head.

“I imagine it’s quite convenient for them,” he admitted. “It keeps me apparently active in Council business while simultaneously keeping me away from anything pivotal.”

“Not to mention it keeps you away from being here,” she pointed out. Arthur wasn’t about to admit that one aloud, not even to Elena, but he didn’t have to.

He finished off his tea and gestured to the teapot in a Beckoning Cast. It floated over from its place on the warmer and drifted gently to a stop on the low table next to his cup. It was the kind of unnecessary Casting that he chided his students for, but he was in his own office and it was too bloody cold for him to care today. He raised the pot in silent invitation, but Elena shook her head.

“Actually, I came with purpose. Do you have a minute to walk with me?”

Dallancy glanced down at the remaining papers and knew he didn’t. But he was tired of the office, and he’d only gotten back last night. He’d missed his School, and he hadn’t had a chance to settle in properly yet. A walk would do him good. “I do,” he told her, and stood to fasten his coat. “Where are we going?”

“Out to the wall.” She wrapped her scarf snugly about her neck. “I almost sent you a Caller while you were gone, but Lee and I decided it could wait.”

Dallancy’s worry and curiosity were piqued in equal measure. He finished with his gloves and gestured grandly to the door. “After you.”

She laughed and led the way. “Lee’s already waiting for us.”

Arthur paused at the threshold and snapped his fingers. Light sparked from his skin at the friction, and the lights in the office turned off. He closed the door firmly behind him and followed Elena down into the Hall.

Mountain High Enough

Ano and Becken tend to find themselves in peril, especially when they get trapped in the mind of a mentally disturbed client who’s virtual world is eroding around them. As the team struggles to escape the rapidly disintegrating reality they’re stuck in, the two senior team members take an accidental detour. (Excerpt from Corrupting Paradise, the first story in the series for these characters.)

-

Ano’s head whipped up from the book she’d been attempting to code back into coherency with a velocity that made her neck crick. “Did you hear that?”

Becken was already standing on a nearby couch, his dark eyes piercing the acres of gloomy shelves in the direction they’d walked from. “That really loud crashing noise? It was kind of hard to miss.”

She rolled her eyes a little and activated her earpiece. “Tri? Jenny?”

It took Tri several moments to answer, and when he did it was with a groan. “Yeah, Boss?”

“What happened?”

“We nearly got killed by boiling magma is what happened!” Jenny said. “We rematerialized ten feet above the ground in here right when we should have been dying painful, burning deaths.”

Becken and Ano traded uneasy glances. “Do we want to know?”

“You guys didn’t get stuck in the tropical volcano?” Tri demanded incredulously.

That earned a raised eyebrow from Becken. “Not last I checked,” Ano answered. Ignoring the dark muttering coming from Tri’s end of the line, she got back to her original question. “What was that noise?”

“The dying gasps of the table that broke our fall. Which I will of course be recoding later,” he hastened to add at Ano’s disapproving silence.

Before Ano had the chance to respond, the bookcase nearest to them toppled over, driven by a hurricane-force wind that whipped her hair around and slammed her into Becken’s solid bulk. His arms came around her to hold her in place and she shut her eyes tightly against the stinging wind. As suddenly as the gale started, it ceased. Ano opened her eyes warily.

They weren’t in the library any more. They stood on the apex of a mountain so high Ano couldn’t see any details of the ground below them. Close enough to brush Becken’s head, the bottom of a cloud bank misted cold rain onto them, the liquid sparkling in the blinding sunlight. Far, far below them, a gray-green ocean crashed against the foot of the mountain. Just looking at the sight gave her vertigo. Considering her hover pad experience, that was more than slightly worrying.

She blinked. “Becken?”

“Yes,” he affirmed her silent question. “We are.” He reluctantly let her go, keeping close by her side as he let his protective nature take over. When Ano strayed towards the edge to look down again, he grabbed her firmly by the arm and pulled her back to him, activating his earpiece in the same motion. “Anyone there?”

The only response was static. The big man cursed softly, ignoring Ano’s disapproving look.

Becken was trying very hard not to look down. He hated heights, especially when they were forced upon him unexpectedly. Ano took pity on him and sighed, looking around to find something to distract him with. “Well, it could be worse.”

Naturally, that was the exact moment the hurricane-force gale started up again. Grabbing Ano’s smaller frame to his, Becken planted his feet in an attempt to keep them both anchored to the mountaintop. But the wind was relentless, pushing and pulling at them so forcefully that he felt his feet slip, inch by fighting inch, towards the edge of their small pinnacle of rock, the rain seeking to force them off and into infinity.

She was so intent on staying upright that Ano realized a second too late that she was closer to the edge than he was. She felt her foot slip, and his arms tightened around her in a vain attempt to keep her on solid ground. They swayed, toppled, and then she was floating backwards. Becken grabbed her arm and she jerked to a stop, held up by her hand in his. Her shoulder wrenched and she winced.

Ano had to yell to make herself heard over the roaring wind. “Let me go!”

“You’re insane!” He shouted back, resolutely clinging to her even as he felt her start to fall. His footing wasn’t much better than hers, and he scrambled for purchase as her weight dragged him towards the edge. In a moment of ironic clarity, Ano found it appropriate that they were about to die because he followed her over the edge of a cliff.  Then he lost his footing, Ano fell backwards and the two of them catapulted off the mountain and into bottomless space.

…Only to fall about ten feet before meeting the library’s cold stone floor. Somewhere in those ten feet Becken managed to twist them so when they hit the ground, Ano was on top. For a moment they lay there, breathing heavily, cheeks still smarting from the cold wind that had been tearing at them only moments before.

Ano rolled off of him and gave him a hand up, dusting a stray piece of gravel from his shirt. “Don’t do that.”

“What, keep you from falling off mountains?”

She stopped to think about it. “…Well, no. Not when you put it that way.” He grinned smugly, and she turned away and activated her earpiece again. “Anyone there?”

Variety Pack #1: Action and Inaction

This is my first shot at posting a bunch of story snippets that don’t actually go together, except that they’re all centered around a similar theme. In this case I’ve chosen to focus on action and inaction: various moments when a character or characters are faced with a choice and must decide to do or not to do. It doesn’t matter if you’ve read any of the stories these go to, as this is more thematic, tonal exercise than anything else.

-

The house was empty now, of course. It had been for a long time. Some people, that hadn’t been in town back when it happened, thought that the place had always been empty of any kind of family or people or any life at all. Glancing at it now, it was certainly easy to think that way, if you didn’t know better. It was just a house, as long as you didn’t really look at it.

No one ever went inside the house, or into the yard out back. The townspeople weren’t all given to believing superstitious urban myth, but none of them were stupid. They lived right near the place, after all. They went by it when they couldn’t go around. They saw what happened every year.

During the spring, the huge old half-dead crab apple tree in the front yard covered the roof with thick white-pink blossoms that hid much of the squalor, and probably fell right through the gaping holes in the shingles, down into the abandoned rooms below.

Summer brought the faint stench of old wood decaying in the humid heat of long days; a few windows always got broken during this season by adventurous kids throwing rocks on dares. In the fall, huge piles of dead leaves drifted up against the stained once-blue walls and stayed there until they rotted into the soil. It was appropriate, in a depressing, maudlin kind of way that everyone in the neighborhood tried very hard not to notice.

*

By now, it should be obvious that Professor Dallancy never made his train. This is because he was distracted by a small crowd gathered to the side of the street, near the mouth of an alley between two shops. Curious, he thought. It should here be noted that Arthur Dallancy was not like other people–he was completely incapable of leaving curiosity unanswered. He went to see what was going on, and this is, of course, when he met the vampire Yuki, even if the undead in question was still unconscious in the snow.

“He’s dead!” the woman next to Arthur said hysterically.

“Yes,” he murmured, rather surprised. “Dead, but not finished yet, I think.”

A vampire in the middle of Plain London, on Christmas Eve. Dallancy reached out with a few particular sense towards the cold body and found–no. Impossible, and yet there it was, right where a human being’s was meant to be. A soul. The biggest question he had ever encountered. There was no recourse, really, not for a man so used to entering horribly complex situations without fear or hesitation.

With a string of long silent words and a deliberate, slow motion of his hand, the vampire’s body disappeared. The faint wisp of smoke left around the space, remnant of the transport spell, lingered briefly in the shape of a body before dispersing. Arthur cleared his throat and turned to the hysterical woman to ask, as calmly as he could possibly manage, “I’m sorry–what is everyone looking at?”

He stepped away into the street, already making the gestures of the spell again, identical to the one that had just sent the unexpected visitor away. When he disappared three steps later, leaving a vague halo of gray smoke in the air, no one notcied. Five minutes later, the people gathered by the ally were all well on their way to convincing themselves that they’d been seeing things.

It is amazing, really, what the plain human mind will let people like Arthur Dallancy get away with.

*

Ano saw him, of course. Her eyes went straight to his, and their gazes held there, practically solid in the air. Her Almarian eyes were green, no telling gold to show fear or rage or despair. She wasn’t afraid. Becken hated her for that—for being calm so easily when she was held at gun point and he was hiding there just twenty feet above her. When this place, his world would come crashing down without her in it. When he’d never even told her.

She must have seen something of it in his eyes, though, the split-second she hold it. Her face softened just a fraction. Her eyes dropped at the corners. She’d never said it out loud to him before, but he recognized the message now. I’m sorry.

And that-that was the absolute final straw because how could she possibly–

Becken didn’t move. Because he suddenly understood the message. Not I’m sorry I’m not doing anything. She meant, I’m sorry–there’s nothing you can do.

*

“It’s completely atypical of his historical pattern,” Annison murmured. “I’m beginning to think that he’s not just incognito; I think that except for the people on this beach, no one even knows he’s here. Can you imagine? One of the Greats hidden in the World, inactive all this time right under our very noses.”

Rose had given up on playing; she flopped back into the sand, arms spread above her. York winced at the thought of where all that dirt would end up later. Quentin sat beside her, the two in their own little universe that ignored the barrier between Plain and World that so separated them. Yes, he could begin to understand why Quentin never risked her. “Until now.” He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud.

“Until now,” Anni agreed. “This is something new. He’s changing, and Greats aren’t supposed to do that.”

York looked at the sunlight playing over her hair and the sand clinging to her toes and his chest ached a little. “We all change,” he said, despite himself. “Especially when we’re not supposed to.”

We have lost a thousand ways of knowing…

This will probably be my last shot at free-verse for a while (I’m starting to itch for more structure), but I thought it was worth posting. The quote in the title comes from someone else. This is not how she meant the phrase, but it is how I find myself applying it to her speech. The content of the poem (and especially the ironic sense) naturally comes from me.

-

“We have lost a thousand ways of knowing…”

Cool fall outside
Bright wind, sharp sky
Oft held at bay
By glass and screen
Trickles in
Breezes through and
Makes the
shutters bang
against the pane
Loud percussion
strikes the air
and bounces
against her wise
words of
philosophy
Phrases of man
and nature bound in
walls and
theories
Quick-silver in quiet
Tossed like
seafoam
crackling leaves
blown by the wind
that bangs
the shutters open
Will you not
close the
window,
teacher?

Your deep speech
of man and his
place in the
world are
soon lost in
the long
tone of the
breeze which
whistles in
Carrying the dying
world in its cool hands
The shutters
rattle loud
against
your stronghold

Quick, teacher,
before
you too
are blown away
After your
speaking.

Traces

Another excerpt from the first Imaggen book: Rose, while recovering from a fight with Quentin, goes looking for comfort in the form of photo albums. She finds Wilfy instead, and sees the old Imaggen properly for what’s probably the first time.

-

Rose couldn’t sleep at all, and her head hurt from the crying. She never slept well without Quentin sitting in the corner of the room anyway; the dark seemed strange without him there. Late that night when she was sure the house was quiet, she eased her door open and crept out into the living room. She stifled a gasp when she came upon Wilfy in one of the chairs. His hands were folded across his chest, his legs crossed, and if he’d been a Person Rose would swear he was asleep. But he wasn’t, of course, and the Imaggen’s eyes snapped open as soon as she entered. One eyebrow raised in silent question, but even in the dark she knew it was friendly.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I just wanted to…” she gestured at the low bookcase on the other side of the room where they kept the dictionary, her old storybooks, and the photo albums. She felt a little embarrassed; she’d done this a hundred times before, and she was sure they all knew about it, but she’d never been caught in the act.

Wilfy’s dark eyes looked her over, and the wrinkles around them softened into something like a smile. “That was some fight this afternoon,” he offered.

Rose sighed. “He’s leaving.” The words still hurt to say. Wilfy didn’t look even a little surprised, but then he’d never expected much of Quentin, really.

Wilfy levered himself up in the chair a little and winced, like his bones were hurting. She wasn’t sure he even had bones. Rose watched him with concern—was he always like this at night, all tired and sore-looking, and she’d just never noticed?

“Did he say when?

She shook her head. “Doesn’t really help.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. His eyes flickered over to the bookshelf. “Don’t let me stop yeh.”

She went over and stood before the shelf for a moment, uncertain as always now that she was here. Finally, her fingers gravitated to the last album on the shelf, the big off-white one that was only half full. She hefted it off the shelf, its weight familiar under her arm. Rose had planned on taking it back to her room with her, but something about Wilfy sitting there all familiar and warm and somehow lonely made her sit by the window instead, where the moonlight was brightest. She sank onto the worn carpet and propped the album on her knees.

One by one, she traced the pictures tucked away here in rows beneath a plastic sheath. Whole pages she didn’t recognize at all—great aunts and uncles, grandparents that Uncle Mitch told stories about–but she didn’t pause to wonder at those tonight. She flipped through steadily until she came to her favorite page: the fourth to last. Her parents’ wedding. Uncle Mitch never talked about this. All she had were these pictures, silvered over with moonlight until they seemed like something from a story book.

There were suits and dresses and a tall white cake, and Uncle Mitch with a big smile next to her dad. She paused at the picture of her mom laughing, arms above her head as she threw her flower bouquet behind her. Rose saw herself in that picture, all grown and wrapped up in white lace and flowers. Her dad looked like Uncle Mitch, the same blue eyes and wispy hair. Here in her hands they were happy, still, walking arm-in-arm down the aisle or dancing with their Imaggen’s indicator lights on either side, never to be captured in photograph. Rose wished she remembered what they looked like—no picture could bring them back, not even Named.

She sat looking at the wedding for a while, playing the scenes together in her head, a well-visited dream of the sounds and sights between the pictures. She wished Uncle Mitch would talk about it. He missed them too, but he missed them differently. At least he had more than pictures.

Rose had to blink tears away as she turned to the final filled page of the album. There were only two pictures here. One of her mother, laughing again, lying on her back looking up at the camera. One hand rested on her rounded stomach, the other above her head. Rose liked this one the best: it was almost like having a picture of just the two of them, even if Rose wasn’t born until months later. She touched her mother’s face, just once, tracing her smile.

The last picture was of her parents and Uncle Mitch, sitting on some stone steps somewhere. Her parents’ arms were wrapped around each other, smiling at the camera. Uncle Mitch sat a little behind them, holding Rose as a little baby wrapped up in a pink blanket. He was looking down at her with the same smile she saw every morning, oblivious to the camera.

Rose stared at that picture, trying to remember being there, feeling that happy, until she fell asleep. Hours later she woke up, curled on the carpet with a blanket thrown over her. Wilfy was quiet and still in his chair, so she put the album back and shuffled off to her room, blanket still around her shoulders.

at the corner

This free-verse is a little long, a little depressing, and turned out more than a little different than I expected it to. Ah well–sometimes poetry shows us what we don’t expect to see, and that’s half the beauty of the thing, I suppose. It wouldn’t be half as much fun otherwise.

-

I find him on the

street corner covered

beneath the awning to

avoid the driving rain

that beats against the grime-smeared

cement of the sidewalk

and pounds against my red umbrella

like a funeral drummer drumming

He leans against the rough brick wall

hands in the pockets of

his gray coat

looking down at the water running

over the pavement

and looking oddly

like himself

or at least the himself

that I remember from

so long ago

Not the same man though

because with him looking down

not seeing me (like he ever did)

he seems hollow

a shell empty

of the emotions I have

so long attached to him

and without those he just

stands gray and still

and utterly strange

Just a man now

a man I haven’t met

and am about to now

Why am I here?

It takes so much effort

trying to start again

when there seems nowhere

left to start

except for this rain-slicked corner

on the grimy sidewalk

where I am about to meet

the man who used to be

my father

I pause on the street

rain drum-drumming on

my red umbrella

and I think about turning back

just turning on my heel and

leaving him behind

to the rain

and the corner and the awning

and all the rest of it

that I worry to approach but

then I see him there

He stands beneath the awning

hands in the pocket of his gray coat

eyes downcast and he looks

sad and lonely

and hollow and not at all like

I remember him

Maybe that’s because

I remember him wrong but

I know that look

all dark and absent and inside the head

like no one can see

I have often seen it in

the mirror

on the days I think of him and me

and little else

I could turn and run

off into the gray rain and

leave him far behind but then

what would that do

except leave me

too?

He looks up at me

Our eyes meet across the

few feet of sidewalk

between us and I see a

bit of something in his eyes

that I relate to

And maybe I see him now

the other memories

washed out by the loud

drum-drumming of the rain

that sends my footsteps

like a forced march

towards him like an invitation

I am not my father

But he is

standing here looking cold

and wet

and miserable

and like the human being

I didn’t remember

but that I can see right here

in front of me

So I walk forward

and let the red umbrella

drop because

what’s left

to hide

now that we seem to

be different

people than the ones

we came to meet?

Hi Dad

It’s been a while

Yeah

Me too