Friday, September 21, 2012
I would like to say thank you to all of the people that have supported my book Shadow Dance in some way, from allowing me to pester you about it in its infancy up through the purchasing and reading samples of Shadow Dance.
Please, if you feel inclined, feel free to write a review at Smashwords and Amazon. If you like Shadow Dance, please remember to give it a rating. This will help me devote less time to marketing and more time to writing the next installment. :)
Thank you all again!
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Conversations of Paradise
This is more of a conversation between two people than it is a story. It has been mulling around in my head for a bit, so I thought I would share it with the public at large. The conversation could really take place anywhere...so try to think of it as being set in a contemporary and relaxing locale of your choice. It is a little different and I was playing around with shifting points of view and smooth transitions. I think it turned into more of a guessing game...kind of like trying to deciepher the conversations from what is said and how it is said instead of by who is doing the saying.
I know every inch on your skin. The scars on your arms and the small birthmark where your collarbones are joined are just some of the landmarks that I see when I close my eyes and think of you. I recently realized that I could draw a perfect picture of you if I was just able to tap into the image I have of you in my mind. I could even transcribe your soul into a two dimensional rendering. It's simple really, all I would need to do is to capture the glow I feel in my arms when I hold you. The amazing thing is that this glow spreads like a wave through my body as my caress travels from your cheek to your waist.
My fingers remember every curve in your body as if I was a sculptor retracing my finest work. I can reshape these curves into any malleable surface as I relive the experience of feeling your muscles through your skin. My tongue even recalls the smoothness of the skin behind your ear as it traces the soft curve of your scalp where it shifts from bone to flesh at the nape of your neck. it remembers what it felt like to explore the surface of your thighs. My lips indulge in the memory of your touch. I know you.
My fingers remember every curve in your body as if I was a sculptor retracing my finest work. I can reshape these curves into any malleable surface as I relive the experience of feeling your muscles through your skin. My tongue even recalls the smoothness of the skin behind your ear as it traces the soft curve of your scalp where it shifts from bone to flesh at the nape of your neck. it remembers what it felt like to explore the surface of your thighs. My lips indulge in the memory of your touch. I know you.
You know how my breasts harden when you fiddle them strongly with your fingers. You know how i tremble as you take my hips. You remember how wild you get me when stroking my stomach. With your touch you show again how you can light me flaring, like a small candle, flickering and quavering, all over again. My skin itches when I remember how you nibbled it with your teeth. I remember every bruise, every small scratch, which has ever decorated me as a mark of you. I feel how your faint blow into my ear makes me breath heavier in lust. You know me.
I walk alone, my thoughts are directed at you, at your life. That's what happens normally. It rains. Sometimes I imagine seeing you other side of the street, stepping into every puddle which come on your way. I imagine how water runs down your cheek. I would love to lick that drop. I would love to warm your cheek, frozen in rain, with my own warmth. Every now and then I think I see you in the corner of a street, you're smoking a cigarette. You're leaning against a wall staring the people trudging by. I think I'm walking towards you, against you body. You offer your cigarette to me, I suck the smoke into my lungs and blow it against your face. We don't need words. You stare at me, I stare at me. Your eyes are firebrands, they glow in the darkest red like your heart fire.
You love the floor of my living-room, I love you kitchen table. You love your messy daubs, I love my Sunday's cross-word puzzles. You use two lumps of sugar in your tea, I drink my coffee black. You plan carefully what you offer me, I just throw the noodles into boiling water. But you complete me, you show me what it's like to be one with universe. We are the children of paradise, disciples enjoying our last meal, all over again.
So will you blame m if I g away? Will you remember m although I wouldn't b there i your arms the last Saturday o the month, like I used t be? Will you forgive m if I can't take these lies any more, which our burning longing causes. Can you forget everything between u or will you need someone who will substitute me, takes m place. I can't b your sheltering harbor t where you can sail when you're broken. I can't b the other woman who you'll miss when the one your hear chose can't fill the passion.
Because, you know me and I know you. I was yours when the forbidden, mellow fruit dropped in your arms and taught you to enjoy the broken moments, taught you to get without owning. I was and felt through you. And through you, I found the keys into me. Now I'm just tired, I want to get free. I want to find my righteous soul, the one I lost when you seduced me into the most glorious sin of them all.
Because you know me, you the broken me, the lost soul, who is searching for her heart.
Shadow Dance, New book by our own John Harrison
Well, it seems that part of our crew has been published. His name is John Harrison and his book is called Shadow Dance. Currently the book is only available in Ebook format, but we will see if we can get enough of a fan base behind him to change all of that.
To help us make that goal a reality, the author and the publisher has agreed to allow us to offer a discount for our readers. You can us the coupon code TH49D to purchase Shadow Dance from Smashwords.com for 25% off the cover price. This coupon is only good until October 17th, so please use it like crazy until then.
The book is currently available only at Smashwords.com, however the good people at Smashwords are working on making it available at all Ebook stores.
Here's a quick-link to Shadow Dance:
To help us make that goal a reality, the author and the publisher has agreed to allow us to offer a discount for our readers. You can us the coupon code TH49D to purchase Shadow Dance from Smashwords.com for 25% off the cover price. This coupon is only good until October 17th, so please use it like crazy until then.
The book is currently available only at Smashwords.com, however the good people at Smashwords are working on making it available at all Ebook stores.
Here's a quick-link to Shadow Dance:
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Our 1st "fan" submission!
This story was written with a Lovecraftian flair, taking something that people love and turning it into a phobia. So please keep that in mind as you read it and enjoy.
Heather was headed home from a late night of studying at her favorite coffee shop. She loved nothing better than to relax with a latte in one of their comfortable chairs and do her research there. She had friends that worked there, and they never minded when she would spend hours there. But now she would be happy to just lounge around in her comfy sweats on her couch and finish her reading for the night.
It was a cool night in mid-October. She rolled down the window in her car to enjoy the fresh air. The smell of fallen leaves after this morning’s rain washed into the car. She could see the full moon through the trees, just emerging from behind some clouds and looking like a huge pearl nestled in a down comforter. She focused back on the road just in time to slam on her braked and come to a screeching halt as several deer ran across the road in front of her. Her heart pounding, she bent down to pick up the books that had slid off the passenger seat onto the floor and lit a cigarette before continuing home.
She glanced at the books. Between their subject matter and the hours of drinking coffee, she would probably be up most of the night. She was writing a paper on the use of torture during the Inquisition for class. Not what she would have picked had she been able to chose, but she found it rather absorbing once she started reading about it.
Ahhhh, the last turn and then home. She flicked her cigarette out the window and pulled into the drive. She stopped before pulling in all the way and turned on her high beams for a moment, after noticing some movement in her backyard. More deer. Hmmm. They sure were acting strange tonight, almost like they were being chased. I guess even animals act strange during a full moon, she thought to herself.
Five minutes later found her cuddled up on the couch in her sweats with an afghan over her legs and a cup of chamomile tea. She had the books stacked up on the coffee table and picked up the last one she had been reading. The pitter patter of rain had just started on the roof, as she adjusted the lamp behind her to a warm glow. Oh how she loved to read with the sound of rain on the roof!
Settled in finally, she dove back in to the reading. She had just gotten to the gruesome part. This chapter described the individual use of each of the torture devices, a little too vividly for her taste. What kind of people did they have living back then anyway? Who could conceive such devices that were probably the slowest and most painful forms of capitol punishment she had ever heard of. And for what, because some people had different beliefs than others? Thank goodness she lived here and now and not back then.
There were all the popular ones that she had seen at the wax museum when she was younger; the iron maiden, thumb screws, the dunking chair. But this book described a few that gave her gut wrenching images. There was a metal coffin that was designed with a lid that was slowly screwed down tighter and tighter to crush its occupant. YEAH, like that was meant to extract a confession! Another one looked like a miniature roller coaster. The victim was tied to a wheeled platform and took a ride down its single hill that ended abruptly with a huge saber at the end that would slice them neatly in two. The rain pounded harder on her roof and she tried to relax. But then there was this one! A long rectangular cage was set up with a hole in the middle where the torso of the victim was placed. Rats were placed in one end of the cage and a fire brazier was put behind them. The cage was designed so that the brazier could slowly be brought closer and closer to the rats forcing them to look for an escape route. And what was in the way of their only exit? The victims exposed mid-section. UGHHH! The rats would tear at the only thing softer than the wire of the cage to get away from the fire.
Heather had to set her cup of tea down after that one and shut the book. She closed her eyes and tried in vain to get the images of her reading out of her mind, but it seemed the harder she tried, the harder it was to block out. As she laid there, she almost thought she could hear the victims screams and the squeaks of the torture devices. She reminded herself to thank her professor on Monday.
Well, time for more tea and then off to bed, not that she looked forward to the dreams that would haunt her tonight! She slowly got up from the couch and shuffled her slippered feet toward the kitchen. Passing the hallway, she noticed shadowed movements in the porch light at the front door. She hadn't heard anything, but decided to have a look after refilling her cup with steaming, fragrant tea.
Heather opened the front door exposing the screen door and dropped her cup of tea with a shattering of porcelain on the floor below. Thousands of jeweled eyes turned in unison at the noise, and Heather's heart started to race as she looked at a horde of rats of plague proportions. So that's what all the deer were running from. And the screams she thought she had imagined, were coming from the neighbors houses that had already been broken into. The squeaks were not from the devices she had been reading about, but the furry mass that were making there way toward her now. She heard a crash as something was knocked over upstairs. Taking one last look outside, she noticed that there was one last sound that she had mistaken. It wasn't raining.
Author: Robert Warren
Heather was headed home from a late night of studying at her favorite coffee shop. She loved nothing better than to relax with a latte in one of their comfortable chairs and do her research there. She had friends that worked there, and they never minded when she would spend hours there. But now she would be happy to just lounge around in her comfy sweats on her couch and finish her reading for the night.
It was a cool night in mid-October. She rolled down the window in her car to enjoy the fresh air. The smell of fallen leaves after this morning’s rain washed into the car. She could see the full moon through the trees, just emerging from behind some clouds and looking like a huge pearl nestled in a down comforter. She focused back on the road just in time to slam on her braked and come to a screeching halt as several deer ran across the road in front of her. Her heart pounding, she bent down to pick up the books that had slid off the passenger seat onto the floor and lit a cigarette before continuing home.
She glanced at the books. Between their subject matter and the hours of drinking coffee, she would probably be up most of the night. She was writing a paper on the use of torture during the Inquisition for class. Not what she would have picked had she been able to chose, but she found it rather absorbing once she started reading about it.
Ahhhh, the last turn and then home. She flicked her cigarette out the window and pulled into the drive. She stopped before pulling in all the way and turned on her high beams for a moment, after noticing some movement in her backyard. More deer. Hmmm. They sure were acting strange tonight, almost like they were being chased. I guess even animals act strange during a full moon, she thought to herself.
Five minutes later found her cuddled up on the couch in her sweats with an afghan over her legs and a cup of chamomile tea. She had the books stacked up on the coffee table and picked up the last one she had been reading. The pitter patter of rain had just started on the roof, as she adjusted the lamp behind her to a warm glow. Oh how she loved to read with the sound of rain on the roof!
Settled in finally, she dove back in to the reading. She had just gotten to the gruesome part. This chapter described the individual use of each of the torture devices, a little too vividly for her taste. What kind of people did they have living back then anyway? Who could conceive such devices that were probably the slowest and most painful forms of capitol punishment she had ever heard of. And for what, because some people had different beliefs than others? Thank goodness she lived here and now and not back then.
There were all the popular ones that she had seen at the wax museum when she was younger; the iron maiden, thumb screws, the dunking chair. But this book described a few that gave her gut wrenching images. There was a metal coffin that was designed with a lid that was slowly screwed down tighter and tighter to crush its occupant. YEAH, like that was meant to extract a confession! Another one looked like a miniature roller coaster. The victim was tied to a wheeled platform and took a ride down its single hill that ended abruptly with a huge saber at the end that would slice them neatly in two. The rain pounded harder on her roof and she tried to relax. But then there was this one! A long rectangular cage was set up with a hole in the middle where the torso of the victim was placed. Rats were placed in one end of the cage and a fire brazier was put behind them. The cage was designed so that the brazier could slowly be brought closer and closer to the rats forcing them to look for an escape route. And what was in the way of their only exit? The victims exposed mid-section. UGHHH! The rats would tear at the only thing softer than the wire of the cage to get away from the fire.
Heather had to set her cup of tea down after that one and shut the book. She closed her eyes and tried in vain to get the images of her reading out of her mind, but it seemed the harder she tried, the harder it was to block out. As she laid there, she almost thought she could hear the victims screams and the squeaks of the torture devices. She reminded herself to thank her professor on Monday.
Well, time for more tea and then off to bed, not that she looked forward to the dreams that would haunt her tonight! She slowly got up from the couch and shuffled her slippered feet toward the kitchen. Passing the hallway, she noticed shadowed movements in the porch light at the front door. She hadn't heard anything, but decided to have a look after refilling her cup with steaming, fragrant tea.
Heather opened the front door exposing the screen door and dropped her cup of tea with a shattering of porcelain on the floor below. Thousands of jeweled eyes turned in unison at the noise, and Heather's heart started to race as she looked at a horde of rats of plague proportions. So that's what all the deer were running from. And the screams she thought she had imagined, were coming from the neighbors houses that had already been broken into. The squeaks were not from the devices she had been reading about, but the furry mass that were making there way toward her now. She heard a crash as something was knocked over upstairs. Taking one last look outside, she noticed that there was one last sound that she had mistaken. It wasn't raining.
Author: Robert Warren
Friday, August 18, 2006
12 days of.... Something....
This is a piece submitted by our very own Novembertrees in one of her more Christmassy moods. Enjoy.
(As performed by Sabat, arranged by Penance)
On the first day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
A carcass in my chimney...
(Penance, are you sure this is right?
You are?
Well, okay...)
On the second day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the third day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the fourth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the fifth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
(I dunno, Penance.
This just doesn't sound like what I heard at the mall....)
On the sixth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the seventh day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the eighth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the nineth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the tenth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Ten unmarked graves
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the eleventh day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Eleven spinal cords
Ten unmarked graves
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the twelfth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Twelve days of feasting
Eleven spinal cords
Ten unmarked graves
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
(...Was that where we got Christmas dinner from?
No, you're right.... The grocery store just doesn't carry stuff like that....).
Author: Jamie Worthington
(As performed by Sabat, arranged by Penance)
On the first day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
A carcass in my chimney...
(Penance, are you sure this is right?
You are?
Well, okay...)
On the second day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the third day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the fourth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the fifth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
(I dunno, Penance.
This just doesn't sound like what I heard at the mall....)
On the sixth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the seventh day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the eighth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the nineth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the tenth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Ten unmarked graves
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the eleventh day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Eleven spinal cords
Ten unmarked graves
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
On the twelfth day of Christmas
My victims gave to me
Twelve days of feasting
Eleven spinal cords
Ten unmarked graves
Nine feet of intestine
Eight tiny toes
Seven brains a-bouncing
Six livers leaking
Five ruptured spleens
Four rotting heads
Three severed legs
Two mismatched eyeballs
And a carcass in my chimney...
(...Was that where we got Christmas dinner from?
No, you're right.... The grocery store just doesn't carry stuff like that....).
Author: Jamie Worthington
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Kanner's Story
This story is a prelude to the novel that I am about to publish called Shadow Dance. This story takes place in the book's past and helps shed some light on the history and cultures that abound in the land known as Cennicus. It was also a yule time story, so look for any similarities to what you are used to.
The star fall light the sky with its stunning brilliance as the small group huddled together at the fire for warmth. The smell of burning ash mingled with that of the sage they had used as kindling. The only noises that interrupted their quiet voices were the crackling of their fire and the soft hissing sounds coming from their steeds. These large reptilian beasts lay low against the ground to stay warm in the arctic-like terrain. The wind, laden with the chill of fresh snow, blew mercilessly against them and the lights from the falling stars sent their light dancing across the beast’s features menacingly.
“…and that is why we are thankful each year at the end of the Season of Dread.” Harmandir said softly ending his story. He looked over the group of children with a soft, yet wizened look in his eyes. He was no longer a young man, but tonight, after recounting the tale of Nasihdakymari, he felt renewed and in his prime again. It was as if the last 40 cycles of his life had not left their mark on his form.
“But that still doesn’t explain why there is snow instead of rain during the Season of Dread.” Kalta said obstinately. His young tenor voice pierced the sounds of the fire easily.
“Doesn’t it?” Harmandir asked somewhat bewildered as he stroked his full white beard. He looked across the faces of his young pupils and saw that they all agreed with Kalta. Even Daffer, who usually sided against his younger brother Kalta out of brotherly spite, seemed to yearn for more. Harmandir took his time reflecting on all of the aspects of his story as he looked from the eyes of one freezing youngling to the next. Each one seemed more than eager to understand, with only a few exceptions. Never in the last 20 cycles had there been so many younglings on the annual Nuinasihda vision quest let alone so many that were genuinely eager to understand the stories of Ea and the origins of humanity.
As the icy winds howled against them, Harmandir took in each of his young pupils one more time in an attemtpt to decide where he should start his explaination. Before him sat seven younglings, most of which seemed intent on his every word. Only Daffer, with his stocky frame slumped in an expression of boredom, and Carness, whose stocky build was almost mirrored Daffer’s posture perfectly, seemed to be anything but riveted on the next story that their master was about to launch into. The other children, each of them about ready to pass into adulthood, sat at attention and harkened to the slightest cue that Harmandir might give. Harmandir let their names filter into his mind easily as he drifted through the many stories that he had harvested from his own youth spent in Jarstil. Kalta, Armani, Allair, Saril, Cerona, Daffer and Carness, what an odd bunch of children and such an unlikely group at that.
Before Harandir could reflect any longer on what this particular group might bring with them into the world, Saril’s baratone voice brought Harandir’s attention back to them with a simple question. ”Master, are you planning to answer Kalta’s question directly, or are you planning on telling us another story?” As Saril asked it, the wind whipped his long ashen hair across his frail features and into his light blue eyes.
Harmandir smiled at Saril’s question. ”I am going to answer it with another story of course!” Harmandir’s voice filled his pupils’ ears as he spoke forcing each of them to pay close attention tthough its sheer force.
"This one is not about the God’s themselves, at least not dirrectly. Instead it is about a youth born in the far off village of Mesan. This villiage lies on the border of the Scorching Wastes and was frequent subject to raids by the unholy inhabitants of the desert. This land belonged to the unholy diety Anasir and His treatment of us, the mortal race, was dismal indeed. All that lived in that forsaken land were marked by burns and over theyears their skin was turned red from the exposure to Anasir’s unholy flames.
It was to the populace of Mesan that the God Ea first made His appearance known. Ea, as you all know, was the child of the unholy Anasir and the Angel Kinsara. It was through Him and His benevolence that the Ancient God’s made Their presence known unto mortals again after such a long absence. Ea was the first of the Young Ones and His will became sacrosanct.
The Elder gods gave Ea, the god of the sweet waters, dominon over all of humanity and also the responsibility for seperating the elements in order to relieve strife from the mortal realms. He chose to do this by enlisting the other Young Ones, but they proved jealous and would take from Ea all that He had. This tale is about how Ea found a way around Their ploys.
Ea had fled to the city of Mesan and borrowed a human guise so he could pass undetected by His rival Damakinsa, the mother of darkness. He had learned from His knowledge of the Skill that Mesan was to be the place that He could finally turn the tides against His rivals.
Ea had chosen to appear as a merchant unto the city, however after He had been there for only one day He witnessed firsthand the countless torments that took place in His father’s lands. This changed His heart and instead He decided to become a healer and a carpenter instead, both occupations being scarce due to the violent raids and burnings conducted in Anasir’s foul name.
Hundreds of cycles passed and Ea had all but forgotten His purpose in the mortal realm. He was so busy taking care of His father’s people and trying to ensure that none could guess His true identity, that all else slipped from his thoughts. He had established himself as Jarsef, a humble carpenter and maker of casks, and allowed himself to become a mortal man. Although He still held much power, Jarsef was not nearly as powerful as Ea had been. Ea chose to limit himself so much that the only Skill usage that Jarsef could maintain was through the fashioning of casks and the usage of water in all of its forms.
Thus, when He fashioned the casks Jarsef made it so that any time a liquid was placed into the casks it was instantly cleansed of all impurities. This new liquid would heal any wound and cure any disease. His fame quickly spread throughout the city he was in, but, being the wise and skilled god that He was, Jarsef moved about frequently in order to avoid too much gossip.” Harmandir cleared his throat and took a long drink of water before he continued. He noticed, slightly amused, that Carness and Daffer had moved a little farther away from the others so that they would not have to listen to his story.
“It was during one of these frequent moves into the Scorching Wastes that he came across a caravan surrounded by a unit of forty bandits. The caravan consisted of one completely enclosed wagon of ornamental design and ten soldiers. The bandits had pulled the driver of the carriage down from its boards and had slain all of ten of the guards. Jarsef had become so accustomed to seeing this sort of sight that his step did not falter until he saw them pull a fair skinned screaming woman out of the carriage. She was a vixen to be sure and her image was the most bewitching one that Jarsef had ever seen. Her eyes flashed blight blue and contrasted starkly against the paleness of her lily-white skin. Her black hair fell in ringlets around her delicate features and cascaded around her full figure as she fought against her assailants.
Jarsef was instantly enraptured and He knew that He must save this beauty from the ravages of these heathen dogs. So He quickly devised a plan and slowly walked past the outer ring of bandits. As Jarsef passed each brigand he wove a spell of peace and compliance by using His Skill over the water that he carried in his watering bag. This usage of Skill was so complete that when He finally reached the leader, who had seized the maiden by her delicate arm, none of the bandits was able to move against Jarsef.” Harmandir noticed that, at this point, Carness had slid closer and was completely enrapt in the story. There may be some hope for the boy yet, he thought quickly to himself as he easily picked up where he left off.
“Jarsef then turned to the bandit leader and spoke softly saying, ‘If you were wise you would let her go and take your men to the nearest lake to beg forgiveness from Ea for your sins.’ There was a gleam of authority and daring in Jarsef’s eyes as he confronted the towering brigand.
The brigand was not only surprised to see a man of average stature standing in front of him, but amazed at the this small man’s daring words. ‘What makes you so bold and secure? Why do you think my men and I will let you live after an affront such as this?’ The brigand’s deep voice rumbled around them causing the ground to vibrate with its menace.” Even Daffer snapped to attention as Harmandir’s voice took on the brigand’s aspect and feel. Harmandir let the words sink into his pupils’ minds as he continued.
“‘Can you not see that your men are as statues?’ Jarsef replied evenly with naught to betray His dread of the man’s power.
The brigand looked slowly around to his men and slowly realized that they were indeed as still as statues. He then looked back at Jarsef and replied as he gripped the woman’s arm tighter, ‘So they are. But what makes you think that I cannot destroy you easily without their aide? Why do you assume that I would need their help to kill an insect like yourself?’ The brigand loomed a little taller as he made these statements, all but spitting on Jarsef as he did so.
‘I make no such assumptions.’ Jarsef assured him, ‘but I do know that you will not live if you dare attack me.’ Jarsef saw doubt play in the man’s eyes so he continued. ‘Know that I am a man much like yourself, however I am also more than that. I can command the water to do my biding and my bidding will be your death if you continue to harm her!’ With each word Jarsef’s body became a little larger and a feeling of dread slowly passed through the brigand.
The brigand decided then, that he must try to kill Jarsef or else his men would never accept him again as a leader. With this in mind he slowly released the woman’s arm as he lowered his other hand to the hilt of his sword. ‘Fine, I’ll let you two be on your way.’ The brigand tried to sound defeated as he moved slightly closer to Jarsef.
Unfortunately for the brigand, Jarsef saw these movements and as His would-be assailant was about to attack Him, Jarsef pulled the water from the man’s body. In a final attempt to kill Jarsef, the brigand thrashed missing Jarsef by a goodly distance. It wasn’t until Jarsef turned to see where the brigand’s sword had scored that He felt his world collapse around Him. For the brigand’s sword that had so cleanly missed Himself, had easily freed the woman’s head from her shoulders leaving her life’s blood to cascade down her collapsing body and pool in the sand at her feet.
Without hesitating a moment, Jarsef threw himself at the brigand and snapped his neck with His bare hands. Jarsef then flew to the woman’s side and quickly laid her body on her back. He then found her head and placed it carefully back onto her shoulders. Wasting no time, Jarsef next grabbed His watering bag and quickly blessed it as He would one of His casks. He waited no longer than needed to ensure that the Skill worked its way through the skin of the bag and into the water before He poured it slowly into her mouth and then onto her open wounds.
Thus the resurrection of Marialta occurred and the first of the seven prophecies came to pass. The resurrection took three whole days to culminate in Marialta’s renewed health and Jarsef waited with her. All the while He ensured her safety from the elements as well as keeping the indigenous beasts from devouring her. Jarsef was rewarded for his efforts by Marialta’s undying love and gratitude and on the night of their wedding, during the first recorded star fall, they were blessed with a child to mark their union as a legitimate one. That night they were visited by three profits that claimed their son’s birth was foretold eons ago.
The first prophet claimed that the child Kanner, their son, was to be born of Ea and Marialta’s union. This union would allow Kanner to be anointed the Holy One and allow him to be the vessel through which all humanity would be saved.
The second prophet foretold the coming of a dark age and that Marialta, who had died once, would be slain by the dark mother Damakinsa in an attempt to kill Ea. This second death would be reversed through her son’s grace and this would elevate Kanner to His rightful place as a Young One.
The third prophet bespoke of Marialta’s final sacrifice for Ea so that He could grow fiery wings with which he would ascend to claim His throne as the King of the Young Ones.
Marialta attempted to deny these things, but Jarsef merely placed a hand on her shoulder and cried. As these tears, the first He had shed in mortal form, fell across His features He was transformed into Ea once more. As the tears passed over his skin they froze into small flakes. The coldness, born from His failure to tell His beloved of His true form, spread throughout the northern reaches of the world as these first flakes were carried to them on the winds that took them from the desert. When Marialta saw this transformation, she grew silent and the first seeds of Ea’s betrayal at Marialta’s hands were sown. But that story is for another time.”
Harmandir drew a deep breath as he shuddered in the cold air. He looked around him and noticed that the fire had died out and that the night was almost gone. A fresh powdering of snow had fallen during his story and almost everything in his sight was covered in its shimmering whiteness. He looked over his pupils once again and noticed, for the first time since he had finished his tale, that they had all drifted off to sleep.
I wonder what dreams are filling their little heads? He mused to himself as he reached into the bag that he had hidden in his deep burgundy cloak. Probably of fame and fortune, that is all that the young wish for anymore. He decided easily as he filled their boots with goodies and toys.
He knew this would be the last time that they received these things and it saddened him to do this to them, but it was tradition after all. During the vision quest each one would be visited by the aspects of Ea, Marialta, and Kanner in turn. Each aspect would be their guide showing them the fun times they had when they were younger, what the celebrations are like for adults presently and what they will need to know in order to deal with in their future. This will ensure their race’s survival. They would then awake and enjoy one last boot full of goodies as the children they had been. This tradition has been upheld for as long as Harmandir could remember and he was sure that it was going to continue well into the future.
Author: John Harrison
The star fall light the sky with its stunning brilliance as the small group huddled together at the fire for warmth. The smell of burning ash mingled with that of the sage they had used as kindling. The only noises that interrupted their quiet voices were the crackling of their fire and the soft hissing sounds coming from their steeds. These large reptilian beasts lay low against the ground to stay warm in the arctic-like terrain. The wind, laden with the chill of fresh snow, blew mercilessly against them and the lights from the falling stars sent their light dancing across the beast’s features menacingly.
“…and that is why we are thankful each year at the end of the Season of Dread.” Harmandir said softly ending his story. He looked over the group of children with a soft, yet wizened look in his eyes. He was no longer a young man, but tonight, after recounting the tale of Nasihdakymari, he felt renewed and in his prime again. It was as if the last 40 cycles of his life had not left their mark on his form.
“But that still doesn’t explain why there is snow instead of rain during the Season of Dread.” Kalta said obstinately. His young tenor voice pierced the sounds of the fire easily.
“Doesn’t it?” Harmandir asked somewhat bewildered as he stroked his full white beard. He looked across the faces of his young pupils and saw that they all agreed with Kalta. Even Daffer, who usually sided against his younger brother Kalta out of brotherly spite, seemed to yearn for more. Harmandir took his time reflecting on all of the aspects of his story as he looked from the eyes of one freezing youngling to the next. Each one seemed more than eager to understand, with only a few exceptions. Never in the last 20 cycles had there been so many younglings on the annual Nuinasihda vision quest let alone so many that were genuinely eager to understand the stories of Ea and the origins of humanity.
As the icy winds howled against them, Harmandir took in each of his young pupils one more time in an attemtpt to decide where he should start his explaination. Before him sat seven younglings, most of which seemed intent on his every word. Only Daffer, with his stocky frame slumped in an expression of boredom, and Carness, whose stocky build was almost mirrored Daffer’s posture perfectly, seemed to be anything but riveted on the next story that their master was about to launch into. The other children, each of them about ready to pass into adulthood, sat at attention and harkened to the slightest cue that Harmandir might give. Harmandir let their names filter into his mind easily as he drifted through the many stories that he had harvested from his own youth spent in Jarstil. Kalta, Armani, Allair, Saril, Cerona, Daffer and Carness, what an odd bunch of children and such an unlikely group at that.
Before Harandir could reflect any longer on what this particular group might bring with them into the world, Saril’s baratone voice brought Harandir’s attention back to them with a simple question. ”Master, are you planning to answer Kalta’s question directly, or are you planning on telling us another story?” As Saril asked it, the wind whipped his long ashen hair across his frail features and into his light blue eyes.
Harmandir smiled at Saril’s question. ”I am going to answer it with another story of course!” Harmandir’s voice filled his pupils’ ears as he spoke forcing each of them to pay close attention tthough its sheer force.
"This one is not about the God’s themselves, at least not dirrectly. Instead it is about a youth born in the far off village of Mesan. This villiage lies on the border of the Scorching Wastes and was frequent subject to raids by the unholy inhabitants of the desert. This land belonged to the unholy diety Anasir and His treatment of us, the mortal race, was dismal indeed. All that lived in that forsaken land were marked by burns and over theyears their skin was turned red from the exposure to Anasir’s unholy flames.
It was to the populace of Mesan that the God Ea first made His appearance known. Ea, as you all know, was the child of the unholy Anasir and the Angel Kinsara. It was through Him and His benevolence that the Ancient God’s made Their presence known unto mortals again after such a long absence. Ea was the first of the Young Ones and His will became sacrosanct.
The Elder gods gave Ea, the god of the sweet waters, dominon over all of humanity and also the responsibility for seperating the elements in order to relieve strife from the mortal realms. He chose to do this by enlisting the other Young Ones, but they proved jealous and would take from Ea all that He had. This tale is about how Ea found a way around Their ploys.
Ea had fled to the city of Mesan and borrowed a human guise so he could pass undetected by His rival Damakinsa, the mother of darkness. He had learned from His knowledge of the Skill that Mesan was to be the place that He could finally turn the tides against His rivals.
Ea had chosen to appear as a merchant unto the city, however after He had been there for only one day He witnessed firsthand the countless torments that took place in His father’s lands. This changed His heart and instead He decided to become a healer and a carpenter instead, both occupations being scarce due to the violent raids and burnings conducted in Anasir’s foul name.
Hundreds of cycles passed and Ea had all but forgotten His purpose in the mortal realm. He was so busy taking care of His father’s people and trying to ensure that none could guess His true identity, that all else slipped from his thoughts. He had established himself as Jarsef, a humble carpenter and maker of casks, and allowed himself to become a mortal man. Although He still held much power, Jarsef was not nearly as powerful as Ea had been. Ea chose to limit himself so much that the only Skill usage that Jarsef could maintain was through the fashioning of casks and the usage of water in all of its forms.
Thus, when He fashioned the casks Jarsef made it so that any time a liquid was placed into the casks it was instantly cleansed of all impurities. This new liquid would heal any wound and cure any disease. His fame quickly spread throughout the city he was in, but, being the wise and skilled god that He was, Jarsef moved about frequently in order to avoid too much gossip.” Harmandir cleared his throat and took a long drink of water before he continued. He noticed, slightly amused, that Carness and Daffer had moved a little farther away from the others so that they would not have to listen to his story.
“It was during one of these frequent moves into the Scorching Wastes that he came across a caravan surrounded by a unit of forty bandits. The caravan consisted of one completely enclosed wagon of ornamental design and ten soldiers. The bandits had pulled the driver of the carriage down from its boards and had slain all of ten of the guards. Jarsef had become so accustomed to seeing this sort of sight that his step did not falter until he saw them pull a fair skinned screaming woman out of the carriage. She was a vixen to be sure and her image was the most bewitching one that Jarsef had ever seen. Her eyes flashed blight blue and contrasted starkly against the paleness of her lily-white skin. Her black hair fell in ringlets around her delicate features and cascaded around her full figure as she fought against her assailants.
Jarsef was instantly enraptured and He knew that He must save this beauty from the ravages of these heathen dogs. So He quickly devised a plan and slowly walked past the outer ring of bandits. As Jarsef passed each brigand he wove a spell of peace and compliance by using His Skill over the water that he carried in his watering bag. This usage of Skill was so complete that when He finally reached the leader, who had seized the maiden by her delicate arm, none of the bandits was able to move against Jarsef.” Harmandir noticed that, at this point, Carness had slid closer and was completely enrapt in the story. There may be some hope for the boy yet, he thought quickly to himself as he easily picked up where he left off.
“Jarsef then turned to the bandit leader and spoke softly saying, ‘If you were wise you would let her go and take your men to the nearest lake to beg forgiveness from Ea for your sins.’ There was a gleam of authority and daring in Jarsef’s eyes as he confronted the towering brigand.
The brigand was not only surprised to see a man of average stature standing in front of him, but amazed at the this small man’s daring words. ‘What makes you so bold and secure? Why do you think my men and I will let you live after an affront such as this?’ The brigand’s deep voice rumbled around them causing the ground to vibrate with its menace.” Even Daffer snapped to attention as Harmandir’s voice took on the brigand’s aspect and feel. Harmandir let the words sink into his pupils’ minds as he continued.
“‘Can you not see that your men are as statues?’ Jarsef replied evenly with naught to betray His dread of the man’s power.
The brigand looked slowly around to his men and slowly realized that they were indeed as still as statues. He then looked back at Jarsef and replied as he gripped the woman’s arm tighter, ‘So they are. But what makes you think that I cannot destroy you easily without their aide? Why do you assume that I would need their help to kill an insect like yourself?’ The brigand loomed a little taller as he made these statements, all but spitting on Jarsef as he did so.
‘I make no such assumptions.’ Jarsef assured him, ‘but I do know that you will not live if you dare attack me.’ Jarsef saw doubt play in the man’s eyes so he continued. ‘Know that I am a man much like yourself, however I am also more than that. I can command the water to do my biding and my bidding will be your death if you continue to harm her!’ With each word Jarsef’s body became a little larger and a feeling of dread slowly passed through the brigand.
The brigand decided then, that he must try to kill Jarsef or else his men would never accept him again as a leader. With this in mind he slowly released the woman’s arm as he lowered his other hand to the hilt of his sword. ‘Fine, I’ll let you two be on your way.’ The brigand tried to sound defeated as he moved slightly closer to Jarsef.
Unfortunately for the brigand, Jarsef saw these movements and as His would-be assailant was about to attack Him, Jarsef pulled the water from the man’s body. In a final attempt to kill Jarsef, the brigand thrashed missing Jarsef by a goodly distance. It wasn’t until Jarsef turned to see where the brigand’s sword had scored that He felt his world collapse around Him. For the brigand’s sword that had so cleanly missed Himself, had easily freed the woman’s head from her shoulders leaving her life’s blood to cascade down her collapsing body and pool in the sand at her feet.
Without hesitating a moment, Jarsef threw himself at the brigand and snapped his neck with His bare hands. Jarsef then flew to the woman’s side and quickly laid her body on her back. He then found her head and placed it carefully back onto her shoulders. Wasting no time, Jarsef next grabbed His watering bag and quickly blessed it as He would one of His casks. He waited no longer than needed to ensure that the Skill worked its way through the skin of the bag and into the water before He poured it slowly into her mouth and then onto her open wounds.
Thus the resurrection of Marialta occurred and the first of the seven prophecies came to pass. The resurrection took three whole days to culminate in Marialta’s renewed health and Jarsef waited with her. All the while He ensured her safety from the elements as well as keeping the indigenous beasts from devouring her. Jarsef was rewarded for his efforts by Marialta’s undying love and gratitude and on the night of their wedding, during the first recorded star fall, they were blessed with a child to mark their union as a legitimate one. That night they were visited by three profits that claimed their son’s birth was foretold eons ago.
The first prophet claimed that the child Kanner, their son, was to be born of Ea and Marialta’s union. This union would allow Kanner to be anointed the Holy One and allow him to be the vessel through which all humanity would be saved.
The second prophet foretold the coming of a dark age and that Marialta, who had died once, would be slain by the dark mother Damakinsa in an attempt to kill Ea. This second death would be reversed through her son’s grace and this would elevate Kanner to His rightful place as a Young One.
The third prophet bespoke of Marialta’s final sacrifice for Ea so that He could grow fiery wings with which he would ascend to claim His throne as the King of the Young Ones.
Marialta attempted to deny these things, but Jarsef merely placed a hand on her shoulder and cried. As these tears, the first He had shed in mortal form, fell across His features He was transformed into Ea once more. As the tears passed over his skin they froze into small flakes. The coldness, born from His failure to tell His beloved of His true form, spread throughout the northern reaches of the world as these first flakes were carried to them on the winds that took them from the desert. When Marialta saw this transformation, she grew silent and the first seeds of Ea’s betrayal at Marialta’s hands were sown. But that story is for another time.”
Harmandir drew a deep breath as he shuddered in the cold air. He looked around him and noticed that the fire had died out and that the night was almost gone. A fresh powdering of snow had fallen during his story and almost everything in his sight was covered in its shimmering whiteness. He looked over his pupils once again and noticed, for the first time since he had finished his tale, that they had all drifted off to sleep.
I wonder what dreams are filling their little heads? He mused to himself as he reached into the bag that he had hidden in his deep burgundy cloak. Probably of fame and fortune, that is all that the young wish for anymore. He decided easily as he filled their boots with goodies and toys.
He knew this would be the last time that they received these things and it saddened him to do this to them, but it was tradition after all. During the vision quest each one would be visited by the aspects of Ea, Marialta, and Kanner in turn. Each aspect would be their guide showing them the fun times they had when they were younger, what the celebrations are like for adults presently and what they will need to know in order to deal with in their future. This will ensure their race’s survival. They would then awake and enjoy one last boot full of goodies as the children they had been. This tradition has been upheld for as long as Harmandir could remember and he was sure that it was going to continue well into the future.
Author: John Harrison
Friday, August 11, 2006
Greetings
Well...
Hello all...
This space is reserved for those interested in tales and stories generated from my unique and visionary role-playing game...Darque World!
For those of you, probabally the majority reading this, that have not heard of Darque World...let me give you the down and dirty...it is a table top game.
*Waits to hear the gasps from the audience*
That is right...it is not the normal computer RPG...it is the old and out dated table top verison...what all of the true gamers start with...and eventually wind back up at.
So with that said...the next question that I can imagine being asked is: "How can I post my Darque World story?
"That is simple. All you need to do is send me your Darque World stories at: darqueworld.gmail.com ...
Now, there are only a precious few that can even claim to have darque world stories since the game has not been published as of yet...so to accomodate all of the budding and aspiring writers, I will allow for you to make new stories based off of any character, except the main character, posted in any story found herin.
In laymen's terms I will allow you to write fan-fic from any story posted in this Blog.
So...get the word out and stay tuned. You never know what is going to happen next...in Darque World!
Unholy Trinity
This story is from a novel that I was writing called Unholy Trinity. Who knows. It may be revisited at a later time and date. Enjoy.
Chapter One
My earliest memory is a very brutal one, of having the barrel of a .45 Magnum pressed to my forehead and feeling the bullet pierce my skull. At that moment the only thought I could remember having was not the typical ones of my past flashing before me. Instead it was a very simple one, what had I done to deserve this? Immediately after, I fell into a black and silent nothingness.
That was nearly fifty years ago. You would think I should have been dead. Yet, here I sit today, young, vital and alive nursing a tequila sunrise in a quaint bar in Seattle called The Bitter Rose. In my mind I keep turning over the thoughts and musings of what may have happened before that fateful night. The shot that should have proven fatal, the shot that brought me into the only life that I know.
I look around the semi vacant club, searching, forever searching for a face, a smell, a word, a phrase, anything that will bring back memories that may lead to what brought about my execution. Anything that will allow the moment before to come flooding back into my hollow mind. There is still nothing. Nothing but stark emptiness, and a feeling of despair that overwhelms my soul and mind. There are no clues I can find. Nothing familiar or even remotely close to triggering the memories I seek. I look around the vacant void again; I scan the entire length of the bar and see the blank faces stare back at me, mocking me, disturbing me, smothering me in their anonymity. They make me feel incomplete, as if I am less than nothing.
Maybe that is why I chose to become a loner, an outsider akin to the Renegades of the Second World War. Shunned by the "Society” that created me, and hunted by a past that I cannot remember or even fathom. I have learned complete independence as a form of self-defence and for the safety of others. I do not wish to have the need to rely on another, nor to have another being have to rely on me for their well being or safety, for fear that something from my past may find me and destroy all which I have strived for and taken so very long to create. The fear of never finding the truth of what happened or who I was drives me on almost as hard, as the fear of discovery hinders me. I can only hope what I find is good and meaningful and not just a second chance to repent for my unknown crimes and sins perpetrated by the strange owner of a forgotten life.
This is my life, always thinking about my lost past, wondering if I am strong enough to endure this path I have undertaken and to survive the outcome I may have to face, whatever it may be. Always wanting to regain all I have lost, while harbouring a deep-seeded fear of what my discovery may bring. However, I am determined to recapture that absence, that missing part of my life and make myself whole again.
As I sit contemplating the sad state of affairs that is and may have always been my life; I feel a gentle tap on my left shoulder. Memories of another time, another place race into my mind’s eye. A memory of another such gesture plays itself before my eyes as I start to react to this unwanted contact.
Chapter Two
It was 1949; I woke up in the alleyway in war torn London. As I stood up, I felt a tap left shoulder. I slowly pivoted to find a tall attractive man looking down at my tattered pale form. As I gazed into his hard brown eyes, his worry and concern struck me. He reached down and picked me up from the ground with a fluid motion that would rival any hero in a movie.
He said to me, in a tone full of compassion and relief, “Bella, I have finally found you. Are you all right? What on earth has happened to you? How did you get here and in such a horrid state?”
I could not reply. All I could manage to do was bury my face in his trench coat and cry. He told me, “do not worry Bella, I have you now, you will be safe. Come with me.” I knew at that moment I would never be safe again.
He took me to a flat, which I was to find out later was mine. He proceeded to grill me for details of which I had none. After a while, he helped me understand who I was and what I did for a living. He explained he was Jack Mansfield, the curator of the Royal Museum of Art. It seemed I was an employee of his and I worked with him on new acquisitions for the museum. For the past three years I had been instrumental to the construction of, and the acquisitions pieces of an exhibit that we had jointly named The Fallen Angels. Apparently I vanished over a year ago, on what some thought to be an excursion to obtain more pieces for the exhibit. It appeared this exhibit had been my obsession; I was always looking for more new and interesting pieces to add to it in order to create the most complete and definitive compilation of angels and their visits to Earth.
I asked him if I might see this exhibit that had captured so much of my life. That is when Jack proceeded to tell me of the exhibit’s fate. It seems that my work had gone and toured the majority of Europe and that it finally came to rest in the United States where it was abandoned by the museum’s Board of Directors due to the enormous expense that it had afforded them. Evidentially the Board decided to auction the pieces off to private collectors to help recover some of the elaborate expenses incurred due to its overly extended tour. He went on to explain that since this had occurred six months ago in the States, there was no real method of tracking down the pieces or the buyers. Jack felt there was something amiss when I sent no word and failed to show for the auction. He knew that if I even had a slight inkling of the board’s intentions, I would have found a way of preventing it entirely.
I sat drinking in every word of his tale and to my surprise I was not only overcome by a desire for more information about my life, but an acute and overwhelming sense of physical hunger overwhelmed me. Before I knew what I was doing I reacted to this need, the need to touch Jack. I reached across to him and gently laid my hand upon his, as I did, I felt a feeling of euphoria, a sense of union and somehow of consumption. My mind flooded with a sensation of him, his thoughts and memories filled me with a sense of exhilaration, and a burning sensation flooded my entire body. Suddenly I realized that I was standing over a man, a frail and old looking man, crumpled and writhing on the floor. The realization slowly dawned that this frail old man was Jack. Then I felt it, the sickeningly sweet taste of blood on my lips, the acrid sent wafting lightly in the air of the flat, the horror of what must have happened staggered me. What had I done? It looked as if his essence, his beauty, his thoughts and memories had somehow entered into me through my deed. The next feeling that overcame me is one I will never forget; it was one of fulfilment, as if I had shared something more intimate than sex with this dying man, like my very thirst for knowledge and life had been sated by him. This man, whose only fault was his concern for me. This was the man that had dragged me in from the cold, helped me learn an inkling of myself, and now I was watching him die by a deed I performed.
I dropped to his side, searching my soul, wracking my brain for anything I could do to aid him. I felt the desire well up in me again to reach to him and feel his flesh beneath mine again. I am still unsure if that impulse was some form of sadistic glee that I harboured or one of mercy in the hope of ending his pain. Not sure of any other action, I let my urge consume me again. However, when I placed my hand upon his this time, I said a silent prayer. My prayer was for him, willing him to live. I prayed he would just suddenly recover and turn back into the man that had sat across from me previously. I pictured his visage in my mind and wished everything could return to the way it was before.
This time I felt a different sensation. Numbness passed through me, as if my body had fallen asleep all at once. Then, to my astonishment, when I opened my eyes I saw him sit up, just as handsome as before with his beautifully hard eyes peering into mine.
“What happened?” His quivering voice asked full of concern and confusion.
“I am not sure,” I lied. “You just suddenly fainted.” I hated myself for the lie, but it was as close to the truth as I dared tell. I just could not force myself to reveal I had been the cause of his malady.
The vision of my past flickered away faster than it had come. This time as I turned I saw the countenance of a familiar face, that of Warren McCloud. A face I have looked at often these days and one that belongs to the head of security of this fine establishment.
Chapter Three
“I need a favour,” McCloud says in his usual minimalistic tone of voice, revealing nothing in his inflection or word choice.
“Will it involve a group of people?” I reply, not really caring if it does or not. I focus my thoughts towards trying to get a little more information from him if I can. McCloud has proven his use and his friendship to me time and again, with his ever-vigilant eye and his knack for keeping me out of harm.
“It might,” McCloud replies nonchalantly.
“Okay.” I hope he fails to notice my doubt. “I will help you this time. However, in the future, I will expect the same from you. No questions needed or given.” I figure that I might as well play my hand out to its fullest possible score. In some circles, having McCloud owing a favour is the best possible run of luck. Most consider having him indebted to you is more of a fortune that having an amount of gold equal to his weight. Not to mention that if I did not ask him for his services in return then he would have a little more insight to me than I would like. The gift of insight would be a great one to him, since I know less of him that I know of my true self. He likes to gather his little clues on people and then ply his knowledge against them at the most opportune times. And this way, if did happen to have need of his services, he would be there for me. “And the favour that is so important is?”
With an almost imperceptible gesture, McCloud motions to a seedy figure at the end of the bar wrapped in the shadows. “Do you see that man?”
“Yes,” the word slips out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about what he was doing.
“His name is Win, as in he doesn’t lose.”
“And he is important why?”
“I owe him for something that he helped me with in the past. He has come to collect.”
“And what exactly did you do for him?” I ask as my left eyebrow rises of its own accord. It is not often that McCloud introduces someone, let alone someone he owes a favour to.
“No questions…that was the agreement wasn’t it?” An enigmatic grin lightly touches his chiselled features.
I struggle to keep my disappointment from showing, to no avail. The look in McCloud’s penetrating gaze tells me he can feel my frustration and disappointment. “What did you tell him of me?” I pick my words carefully so as not to loose any more ground to him.”
“I answered him is all.”
“And exactly what does that mean?” I can see his mental stumble. Hopefully he will slip just enough for me to find out more about him.
His face hardened as his reply returned softly with a slightly hollow quality to his voice. “He asked me to find someone that could help him. From what the situation he gave me was, you fit his needs perfectly.” His eyes slowly lost the far away look that had momentarily swept across them.
“Alright,” I eyed McCloud warily. There was something happening I could not quite place. “Have him meet me in Rotary Park by the big oak at two o’clock.”
With another subtle nod, McCloud turned. Already his composure was restored completely. The reverie drained from his face slowly as he left. Leaving me with more questions about him that the meagre answers that this interaction may have given me.
Before McCloud can cross over to the gentleman in question and I take in everything about him. The manner in which he nurses his drink, trying to seem as if he is nothing but a lush, the subtle flick of his wrist as he knocks the ashes from his ebony cigarette. I study him as if he were a subject at the University. I immerse myself into his gestures and mannerisms, taking in all of his traits and quirks. All of this occurs in the same amount of time it takes him to inhale a puff from his clove cigarette.
Watching him between moments, from the shadows, more enwrapped in the darkness than he can ever dream to be. This is going to be fun. I go to the dance floor. Constantly watching him out of the corner of my eye. I shift forms, shift personas, as easily as the light shifts to darkness in the strobes. This is the part I love about doing surveillance in a club. He has no idea, the poor man. After I have shifted into at least four different personas, I decide to watch him more closely. I move over and find a seat behind him.
Again I look at his habits. He wears paten leather shoes that are scuffed in just the right areas to look as if they are not well cared for. His hair is well groomed and the stubble protruding from his jaw looks to be no more than a day or two old. His slightly stained overcoat smells more of coffee than of beer or ale. His mannerisms may be good, but his research is not. Either he is with the local authorities undercover, or he is with the United States authorities. Either way, I think I have just made a Devil’s Bargain. One of these days I will learn not to help those in need, even if they have a pretty face.
With this information committed to memory, I rise to go. I need to get to the oak tree before Win does. Since he seems to have the presence of someone working for the government, I want to ensure that the meeting is one of solitude. Fortunately, I might be able to get a quick snack this way. As I depart, I allow myself a moment of anticipation as my smile creeps over my lips. This might be more fun than I thought.
Author: John Harrison
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