Heath's Fragments

Welcome ...

2011-01-11T11:11:00.000-08:00

The single scenes and inner dialogues found here are just one time bits that don't have a home anywhere else, and I had a need to get them out of my head. They are ideas and thoughts that bubble up, and may someday become incorporated into something else, but for now, they lounge around, basking in the digital world.

Single Scenes are one shot bits that I wrote with no other intentions than to write. I had no direction, and just followed the story as told by the characters. Usually, there is a feeling or a setting I want to explore, but other than that, what happens happens.

Inner Dialogues are even less constrained by a plan. I occasionally ramble on with these inner dialogues, two or more voices in my head, often dribbling out of my mouth, usually when I am driving. My kids quite enjoy the entertainment, and have on occasion, joined the fun with comments of their own. These written here, however, were not while I was driving.

My Hat

2010-10-08T12:32:00.001-07:00

Do you like my hat?

I’m not looking.

Please look at my hat.

I’m not looking.

My hat is mom shaped.

Why are you wearing mom as a hat?

She fell asleep on my head.

I’m still not looking.

Bit it is funny.

Yeah, mom sitting on your head is funny.

Just her head is my hat.

She isn’t sitting on your head?

No.

So, why is this funny?

Just look at my hat.

[sigh]

ID: Zombie Relations

2010-07-22T06:31:00.000-07:00

Bob: "Velma, may I be frank with you?"

Martha: "You are what you eat, Bob."

Velma: "You ate Frank?!"

Bob: "Oh, gosh, no! Thanks, Martha."

Martha: "Sorry. Velma, it was a diffferent Frank, not our Frank."

Velma: "Oh, heavens, you put such a fright into me."

Bob: "This Frank that I ate put up such a fuss, with much kicking and screaming.

Martha: "That certainly isn't our Frank, is it."

Velma: "No, certainly not."

Bob: "When the Dallas Cowboys fumbled that ball, the most we got out of him was a twitch and a moan."

Martha: "If that didn't elicit kicking and screaming, I don't know what would."

Velma: "So, you were going to be Frank?"

Bob: "What I mean was I'm going to be candid."

Martha: "Oh, please, be candid. We are all friends here."

Velma: "That remains to be seen."

Bob: "I'm leaving you Velma."

Martha: "With me."

Velma: "That's fine. I mean, we are zombies. It isn't like we have any semblence of human emotions anymore, right?"

Bob: "Okay. I just wanted to be fair and keep you in the loop."

Martha: "Bye, Velma."

Velma: "Bye, you two."

Elvezes

2009-01-04T11:20:00.001-08:00

.

Drow: (We of the Dow elvezes are dark and dreary"

Rogue: "Wow, that's cool ... a Drow"

Drow: (NOT DROW! you fool. I might just cut your tongue out for that)

Rogue: "Not ... Drow?"

Drow: (Noooo ... they are minions, fools, and cads. We of the DOW Elvezes are deadly, dastardly, and dangerous)

Rogue: "Ow ... Dow as in cow?"

Drow: (Yes, Dow as in - huh? Wait! YOU DARE MOCK ME?)

Rogue: "Um, yeah, dude, yeah, mocking, just so you know"

Drow: *BLAM*

Rogue: "Blam?"

Drow: *BLAM*BLAM*

Rogue: "Try foom" ... /snicker

Drow: (Why won't you die!)

Rogue: "Dude, Rogue here, uncanny dodge, evasion, high dex Blame my folks for not being around enough"

Drow: (But I said *BLAM*, like Three times!)

Rogue: "There is your problem, Mr. dark cow, you don't have a gun".

.

Breakfast

2008-12-07T10:24:00.000-08:00

The party was loud and raucous, but Robert was smiling. His buzz was strong and steady. He looked at Donna and felt his buzz wash over him, but all Donna saw was his silly smile.

“What’s up, Bob?” asked Donna.

“Bob?” asked Robert. “Is that my name?”

“Only to your close friends, Bob,” said Donna.

“Oh, yeah, right,” said Robert. “What was the question?”

Donna smiled softly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, yeah, right.” A moment went by as Robert processed the question. The alcohol clog his cognitive processes, but eventually, he came to a conclusion. “You are awesome, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, right, Bob,” said Donna.

“No, Donna, you don’t get it,” said Bob. His drunken stupor changed from silly to serious in an intoxicated instant. “You really are awesome.”

“Yes, Bob, I believe you,” said Donna.

“Did you know that most of the men in this room want to sleep with you?” asked Robert.

“I kinda figured,” said Donna, smiling shyly.

“And, maybe Melinda and Rachel,” said Robert.

“What?” asked Donna, raising her eyebrows as she searched the room for either Melinda or Rachel.

“Yeah, I saw them kissing in a back room at the last party when I was looking for the bathroom,” said Robert. “And I am pretty sure Chad wants to kiss Brad, by the way he looks at Brad when no one is looking, but that wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah, Brad is married,” said Donna.

“Oh, no, that would be a great cover,” said Robert. “I’m talking about Brad and Chad. I mean, shit, those two names would never work together.”

“You think they wouldn’t work out because of their names?” asked Donna.

“Of course!” exclaimed Robert.

“What about Donna and Robert?” asked Donna.

“I don’t know,” said Robert. “All I can do is fantasize about that.”

“What?” asked Donna, a bit surprised.

“You gotta know I’m one of those guys that wants to get in your pants,” said Robert. “I never will, unless invited, though. I want you to know that you are completely safe with me, because, y’know, I’m your best friend here, but should you ever think, ‘Hey, I want to get laid, and my friend Bob is right here’, you should feel free to let ol’ Bob know, because he, I mean, I would be more than willing and able.”

“Bob, you’ve been drinking too much,” said Donna, red in the face.

“Yeah, but that just means I’m telling you how I feel,” said Robert. “Not a lie in it. Hopefully, I won’t remember tonight. That way, you can just smile at me, like you know something I don’t, but in reality, we both know it. I just won’t know you know it.”

“Do you love me, Bob?” asked Donna. There was a hint of more than curiosity in her eye.

“Of course I love you, Donna,” said Robert, “But that isn’t the point. I hope you have learned by now that men don’t have to love you to want to have sex with you. In fact, they don’t have to even like you to have sex with you.”

“But you like me?” asked Donna.

“Yeah, I like you and I love you,” said Robert. “That’s what true friends do.”

“What do you want for breakfast,” asked Donna.

“Hell, I don’t even know what I want my next breath to taste like, never mind breakfast,” said Robert. He looked Donna with sincere and clueless eyes.

“No worries, Bob,” said Donna, “I’ll ask you in the morning.”

Imagine

2008-11-28T18:27:00.000-08:00

Jason shivered inside as the arctic winds howled by. A few hundred feet away, the wind spun into a small twister, creating a funnel of snow. It lasted only an instant, but that would have been long enough to knock him off his feet and bite him with fangs of frigid air.

“Here is your Irish coffee, sir,” said Jenny, the bartender.

Jason remembered where he was and met Jenny’s eyes with a smile.

“Thank you, Jenny,” he said.

“I don’t get many requests for something hot,” said Jenny.

Jason looked around at the out door tiki bar. Hawaii was the perfect escape from the frozen ice fields. He felt his hair move slightly, as if blown by a distant wind that only he could feel.

“I am haunted by memories of a very cold place,” he told Jenny. “But, with your help, I am leaving it all behind.”

The wind raised its voice in protest, but Jason ignored it. The less he thought about the wind, the less he accepted his isolation in the ice fields, the more he could accept his presence in Hawaii, dressed as a tourist, sweating pleasantly in the shade of the bar’s canopy.

Jason smiled. He had escaped the assasins and the brutal cold, and now he could enjoy a rewarding vacation. He raised his glass to toast Michael. He was the best partner Jason had ever worked with. Jason fought away a frown at the memory of Michael falling into the river after being shot. His body broke through the ice and he was wisked away before Jason could move to help. Jason was able to gun down Michael’s shooter, and that would have to be enough.

Something familiar echoed in the on the wind as it receded into memory, holding Jason in the arctic as he sipped his hot coffee and whiskey. He was almost free, almost completely in the middle of the Pacific, but he couldn’t quite leave the frozen lands.

Jason cocked his head when he heard the sound again. He was on the downhill side of his visualize teleport, but he could always go back. The wind was almost gone from his head when he recognized Michael’s voice cutting through the arctic air.

Jason didn’t think twice and closed his eyes tight, imagining, remembering the sub-zero air that cut his lungs and bruised his body. He had left a generous tip for Jenny, but she would not remember him as anything more than a vague blur of a customer. The coffee had helped, though.

When he opened his eyes, he was smiling. The glaring white made him blink rapidly, until his eyes adjusted. He was right where he left, but this time, he could see Michael on his knees, hugging himself desparately as his wet clothes encased him in ice.

Jason ran to his partner.

“Don’t worry buddy, we are getting out of here,” Jason told Michael.

“Make it quick,” said Michael in a trembling voice. “My vest stopped the bullet, but the ice water is killing me.”

“I was just in Hawaii,” said Jason. “Care to join me?”

“No, New York,” said Michael. “We need to see Melinda.”

“Yes, Melinda,” said Jason. “I forgot. Let’s go see Melinda.”
“The hotel room?” asked Michael. He was barely able to form the words.

“No, Harrison’s basement,” said Jason.

“I hate Harrison,” stuttered Michael.

“Yes, but we pay him well for his loyalty. Besides, he knows about hypothermia, and I will need help pulling you back from the edge of death,”

Michael shrugged. “Harrison’s it is.”

Together, they imagined Harrison’s basement, clean, warm, lit by a single nightlight plugged into the wall. Soon, they would be there. Soon, the artic wind would howl over frozen corpses and bury all evidence that Jason and Michael were ever present. Soon, Jason would be pacing as Harrison warmed Michael back to life in a tub of luke warm water.

The Fix

2008-11-12T21:24:00.000-08:00

I slide the needle into my skin, through a hole I made hours ago in a vain attempt to pump something vile into my veins. The hole never closed, but it no longer bleeds. My skin is cold, dead, numb. Thick black blood seeps from my knuckles where broken glass sliced through. When the heroine didn’t work anymore, I became angry. I miss my fixes, and I fear I will never have them again. I must find something to replace them.

The needles ran dry, and the holes in my arm leaked clear streams. Whatever I pumped in soon trickled out. I hid in fear in the corner, behind the night stand, fearing the oncoming withdrawal, but it never came. I thought I was dead, a loose soul leaving a cold corpse behind, but I was wrong. I have left nothing behind.

My limbs feel clumsy, but there is still strength enough. My friend will come home with his own drugs. All I have to do is wait in the closet and hope he doesn’t notice the odor. When he gets his fix, I can open his veins and get mine. In my lucid moments, I know there will be another fix to find, but mostly, I sit breathless in the closet, waiting for him to return, hoping he doesn’t take too long.

I really need that fix.

Cassette

2008-10-02T08:51:00.000-07:00

Joel pulled the cabinet drawer open and found only a journal and a cassette tape player. He knitted his brow and frowned. Would it be nosy to read the journal of someone you will never meet again?

Joel looked around. It was late. Only Martha was at her desk, working late, stuck in her world of jazz piped into her head through earbuds and an iPod. Joel reached towards the drawer, not sure which he wanted to pick up first, the player or the book.

Joel found himself sitting in the cubicle's chair with the player in one hand and the journal in his other hand. He pressed play as he opened the journal. The machine clicked and the cassette hissed. There were no voices or sounds at first. The first line of the journal read, "There was no sound at first."

"Martha is coming," said a voice from the cassette player. It was an indistinct voice, and could have been male or female. Joel looked at the player, raising his eyebrows slowly.

"Joel, what are you doing?" It was Martha, behind him. she had one of those telephone voices that made men smile. She used to work in the phone center, but after being hit on by half the people she spoke with, she transfered to research.

Joel slowly looked up. "Um," Joel said, "Nothing."

"We already picked this desk clean for supplies," said Martha. She was not too tall, but she had some weight on her. It padded in the curves, though, and she still turned heads. Joel always thought she would be very beautiful if she ever learned to smile.

"Nobody thought to check the drawers?" asked Joel. He thumbed the rewind, then hit play.

"We left those for you," said Martha. "Enjoy." Even sarcasm sounded heavenly when carried on her voice.

There was an awkward moment of silence as Joel waited for the cassette player to say "Martha is coming" but the phrase never came, and Martha headed for the exit. She was done for the evening.

"No one will believe you if you tell them," said the voice on the cassette player.

Joel stared hard at the player. This was a new phrase, one that responded to his thoughts. He thought it was strange that the first phrase never showed up, and he was going to tell Darren the next day. Darren was a huge X-Files fan, and believed that all things unexplained were just being covered up. This would have been right up his alley.

"Why not?" asked Joel. After a minute of silence, he started to feel silly.. He put the player down on the desk top and turned his attention to the journal.

"There was no sound at first," read the journal, "Then it started to speak to me. Everything it said was true, and often helped me to avoid something awkward. It warned me about a wet floor, an elevator that locked up, even heavy traffic."

"Reading that journal is nosy," said the player.

Joel glanced at the player and thought about what he read. "It is getting late," he said, mostly to himself. He pressed stop on the player, closed the book, and brought them back to his desk. When he left the building, they were tucked away in his bookbag.

No One Ever Will

2008-10-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

I thought I had done some bad things in my life, but she quickly put things into perspective.

We met over coffee. I asked, “May I sit here?” and she responded, “If you dare.”

I smiled at her, and her lips returned the favor, but there was something dark in her eyes. I didn’t notice at first, beyond the subconscious shiver that all men feel when a dangerous woman glances in their direction. I knew instantly that my charms were of no use here, that I would not be successful with any lines, cons, or ploys.

She had no games to play with me. We were both here for coffee, hot, black, bitter, for the caffeine, for the quick pick-up that fades too soon, unless stacked into itchy jitters. I dropped any pretenses and accepted her as another social predator.

We exchanged some idle chit-chat, the kind two hunters use to feel each other out, without raising any challenges. I stared at her as she read text messages on her cell phone. Occasionally, she would raise her eyes to me, those dark eyes that hid dark secrets.

I teased her about being a goth, or emo, or whatever it was that passed for fashionably dark these days, and she smiled. It was a sincere smile, which, in contrast to the twin abyssal eyes, seemed to softly glow with hope. She kindly warned me not to be in the way when business called.

I told her I had no interest in professional working girls. She received a message, stood, and said, “It has been a pleasure, but it is time for me to kill someone.”

Five minutes later, I heard gunshots. That night, the evening news had scenes of a dead corporate executive. Witness say a woman shot him, but no one could give a clear description.

From my perspective, no one ever will.

The Bishop and the Dragon

2007-12-29T12:00:00.000-08:00

The Bishop of Brightness snarled and glared at all in the court, panning to his left, then to his right, watching all cower before his wrath. That is, all but two. The visitor and his page stood before him, patient and calm. The page was looking around wide-eyed, watching the fear of the courtiers, but her eyes were filled with surprise and wonderment. Her master, however, stared unblinking at the Bishop. The Wanderer, as he had called himself, waited without bother, watched without reservation. And the Bishop decided to take insult.

Letting out a long hiss with a single breath, then a roar of rage with the next, the bishop suddenly exploded in a burst of magical light. He seemed to suck the brightness out of his courtiers, and channel it outwards again. The light washed over everyone, making them all flash, then drop to their knees.

The Bishop did not, however, take anything from the Wanderer or his page. The light blasted against them like a powerful wind, gusting out of nowhere and buffeting their clothes in an instant. Then, the Bishop stood in silence, a silence that echoed through the grand hall.

The Wanderer's eyes had narrowed, but otherwise he had not changed at all. His clothing, however was in a disarray, with some buttons lost and some edges frayed. He did not seem as content with the proceedings as he was before the Bishop's outburst. Then, he turned to check on his page.

She was back a few paces from where she had been standing, and she was laying on her back, spread out like an eagle. Her eyes were wide, but the light of hope and awe was gone, taken away by her spirit when that had departed her body.

The Wanderer had stopped breathing and his eyes narrowed even more. The few in the crowd that dared to look up at the wanderer, though still careful to avoid looking in the direction of the Bishop, saw white smoke rising from the edges of the Wanderer's eyes. His aura shimmered and darkened, giving off a flickering reddish hue.

The Wanderer inhaled long and slow, turning back to face the bishop with the pace of continents colliding. His chest expanded to the point where the few buttons left on his shirt popped, then he let out a roar of his own, leaning forward as if to brace against the force of his own sound.

The Bishop's eyes had been angry, but curious. A subject of his fury still stood, and now seemed to be preparing a retaliation. A smile crossed his face as the first sounds of a beastly roar came from the Wanderer's throat. The bishop always liked a challenge. It made him appear even more mighty when he swatted it down.

The bishop's smile faded as he heard the roar rumble into something less beastly and more elemental. It was no longer the lion threatening intruders. It was more primal, heard when the earth itself awoke. His screams were high and girlish as he raised his arms to fend off the intense heat and flame that shot forth from the wanderer's mouth.

While dragon fire could melt stone and metal, the Bishop was able to bring up a shield of magic to deflect the blast. He was knocked down and to the side, but he remained intact, shaken, yet, unscorched.

The thunder of the blast echoed in the hall, as if the rumbling was still shaking the stone foundations of the cathedral. No one dared look up at he who defied the Bishop in his own hall.

"You will bring her spirit back to her body, or I will bring this place of worship down to the ground," hissed the wanderer. "And I will know her when I see her, so do not think to place something else in there, with or without her."

Then, the wanderer turned and walked down the long carpet and out through the great doors. The bishop's eyes did not follow the wanderer. Instead, they were locked on the body of the girl laying sprawled on the carpet, still and dead.

Pirate's Code

2007-08-29T18:01:00.000-07:00

Pirate1: "Arrr, why is the cabin boy walking the plank? I thought that was against policy?"

Pirate2: "Eh? Oh, he gave answers to the Code of Conduct test."

Pirate1: "Yeah, but I heard they were wrong answers."

Pirate2: "And that is why he is in trouble."

Pirate1: "I thought that is why he is the cabin boy."

Pirate2: "Same thing, if you ask me."

Pirate1: "So, why is he walking the plank?"

Pirate2: "I think he likes it ... it is a sunny day after all, and we are in port. Good day for a swim."

Voices

2007-08-02T20:42:00.000-07:00

.

P: "Who are you talking to?"

D: "Who are YOU talking to?"

P: "Hush, my voices are talking to someone?"

D: "Who are THEY talking to?"

P: "I don't know. That's the problem."

D: "Ah, I see. And he frighten's them?"

P: "Who are you talking to, Doc?"

D: "My voices. They are talking to your voices."

P: "What is the difference between the voices you hear and the voices I hear?"

D: "Mine share my paycheck."

P: "Why is that?"

D: "They help me diagnose your problem."

P: "Oh? And what is my problem?"

D: "The voices you hear think you are crazy. They are voting on whether they should leave."

P: "That's insane!"

D: "No, you are insane. The voices are imaginary."

P: "Aren't you crazy, also? You hear voices."

D: "Yes, but mine are real."

P: "But they are speaking with my voices?"

D: "Good point. I think my voices are crazy."

.

Sugar and Caffeine

2007-07-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

.

"What's that humming noise?"

"Umm ... That's you."

"Are you sure?"

"Too much caffeine?

"No."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Yes."

"..."

"Oops."

.

"You are buzzing, now."

"You're telling me."

"No, literally, buzzing."

"Sugar."

"I think you have had enough."

"Me, too."

"You do this every day."

"I don't like coffee."

"Pardon?"

"Without the sugar, I can't drink my coffee."

"Have you thought about caffeine pills?"

"I do that already."

"On top of your coffee?"

"No, instead of ..."

"Then where does the sugar come in?"

"Sugar pills help the caffeine pills go down easier."

"Broken! I'm outta here."

.

Maltherian Ways

2007-07-11T17:05:00.000-07:00

.

. . . A Docterine of Mastery . . .

M: "Remember, child, there are no bad Maltharians ... there are only Maltharians, and those that didn't survive training."

c: "And how do I survive the training?"

M: "You must master one thing, before you can call yourself a Maltharian."

c: "And what is that one thing?"

M: "That is what you have to figure out for yourself."

c: "I must ... master myself!"

M: "I will give you an 'M' ... but there are so many letters to go, little one."

.

Eleven Easy Steps

2007-05-29T19:13:00.000-07:00

.

UserName: Knave333
Password: ********

/slash
/bleed
/spit
/stir
/smear
/draw
/summon
/haggle
/blunder
/scream
/suffer-fate-worse-than-death

.

"How to lose your soul in eleven easy steps"

"All Online Action!"

"Never have to leave your keyboard"

(never read the fine print)

Otherspace

2007-05-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

Isabella stood on the sandy shoulder of old Route 66. The sun was directly overhead, hot and bright, but Isabella was used to the heat. She had a leather ball cap and dark sunglasses to keep the sun out of her eyes. She wore a light blousy shirt and loose pants to keep the air from stifling her. On her feet were comfortable sneakers. Her mood was as light as her colors. This was where her dreams were going to become real.

As a child, Isabella had been highly intelligent, but much too dreamy for her parents. “What good are smarts if you don’t use them,” her mother would say. “It is better to be practically stupid than impractically smart,” said her father. When Isabella tried to tell her parents that sometimes her dreams came true, her mother wanted to put her in a “home”, such a polite euphemism. Her father told her if her dreams true, then she should start dreaming of business matters. Isabella’s dreams were never of the future, though, only of distant events.

When Isabella tried to convince her mother of her father’s infidelity, Mother wouldn’t listen to Isabella, but Father certainly listened to Mother. Isabella went to Allison’s Betterment Home, a nice way of saying “crazy house”. Isabella was committed to a high-class mental institution with a warm friendly atmosphere, warm colors and comfortable rooms. The staff was pleasant, but as long as the money kept rolling in, psychiatric help was paced slow and methodical, holding to traditional practices of dealing with wealthy delusional children.

It took only a year for Isabella to learn not to speak of her dreams, especially when the drugs she was given made the dreams go away. Even when the dreams came back, she was very quiet, speaking when spoken to, and telling no one of her visions.

When she was released, she was declared competent and independent and of age to make her own decisions. She completed her basic education with a personal tutor, and considered various far away universities that would help her spend her father’s money while providing opportunities for her to do some real research into her strange dreams.

On her twentieth birthday, Isabella dreamt of a battle in a clear white sky. She saw a strange airplane battling demons of shadow and hate. It scared her, for she knew it was not really a dream. Everything she saw in her mind’s theater was real, somewhere. As she watched, tossing and turning in her bed, the large plane rolled into a dive and dropped away from the dark demons, fading out of the white, disappearing from her dream. That’s when the demons turned their attention on Isabella, and in near panic, she sought the plane again.

Her dream vision shifted to the American Southwest. The plane was losing altitude quickly, trailing a thick cloud of black smoke. It was early morning, wherever the plane was landing, and very dry. Isabella caught a glimpse of a highway not far below the plane, and a sign that read Route 66. From where her vision overlooked the sign, she could see the plane had landed, rotating its many engines so that it could hover for a few moments like a helicopter, then ease itself down behind a large hill of sand and scrub brush.

When Isabella awoke, she quickly packed a large duffle bag with clothes that might be appropriate for an adventure and quietly stole out to her father’s garage. It would be days before her father noticed one of his motorcycles missing, so she strapped her duffle bag to the back of one of the smaller bikes, pushed it out of the garage and down the lane until it was far enough from the house to avoid waking anyone. She started the bike and headed east, towards Route 66.

It took her a day and a half of driving to find the spot she had dreamed of, hoping it was not too late. It was noon, now, and she had parked her bike on the edge of the roadway. Tired from many hours of driving, she stood in the heat trying to remember where the plane had landed. She closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids when she heard the whine of powerful engines.

In an instant, she was running, climbing over a sandy hill. Don’t leave me, she thought, and two things happened that made her stop suddenly, stunned. The first was the plane came into view, gleaming in the sunlight. It was as real as she could have ever imagined it. The second was a voice in her head asking, Who are you?

Isabella blinked. She waited, but she heard nothing more from that stranger’s voice. She was panting, both from the physical excursion and from the emotional shock. As she watched, the engines slowed, the pitch of their whine dropping. Soon, they made no noise at all. Not long after that, a door opened on the side of the plane. It was large, like something meant for small cargo, and it slid back out of the way. She couldn’t see past the glare of the metal hull into the shadows of the plane, but a ramp slid out and someone was walking down to the sand.

Isabella willed her legs to move and she walked down the sandy slope and crossed the flat ground to where the plane sat. As she approached, she saw that the person coming towards her was a tall woman dressed in a bomber jacket that matched her suede pants and brown leather boots. Both Isabella and the woman from the plane stopped when they were about twenty yards apart.

“Who are you?” called the woman, standing with her hands on her hips.

“My name is Isabella,” said Isabella, after a long moment of hesitation.

“Let me see your eyes,” said the woman. Isabella noticed the woman had a strange pistol holstered at her hip, very close to her right hand. Isabella took off her sunglasses and blinked until her eyes grew accustomed to the glaring sunshine. As she blinked, she saw the woman approach. When the woman was only five yards away, she said, “Your eyes look human enough.”

“Were you expecting something else?” asked Isabella, not sure what kind of answer she would get. The woman didn’t answer the question, though.

“So, Isabella,” said the woman, “You don’t want to be left behind.” Isabella stared, gaping at the woman.

“You heard me?” asked Isabella. The woman crossed her arms, then held her jaw with one hand, silent in thought for a long while. Isabella just stared.

“How did you know to come here?” asked the woman.

“I saw you in a dream,” said Isabella, uncomfortable with telling anyone about her dreams. But this dream had been real. “You were fighting shadowy demons, then you were landing here.”

“You saw into Otherspace?” asked the woman, genuinely surprised. “Maybe I do have room for you as part of my crew.”

“Otherspace?” asked Isabella, confused and curious. Then excitement hit her. “Crew?”

“My name is Maraia,” said the woman, “And I am the captain of the Graceful Albatross.” Maraia half turned and pointed towards the plane. Her eyes never left Isabella. “That little battle you saw did some damage to my ship, but we should be ready to leave by dusk.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Isabella, “I’m ready – oh! Let me get my things.” When Isabella didn’t move, Maraia smiled.

“I’ll send out Russell to help you with your things,” said Maraia. “He’s my pilot. I think you might like him.” With that, Maraia turned and walked back to her plane. Isabella noticed she walked with a carefree confidence, like she owned the world, but she had left the paperwork at home on purpose.

Isabella waited in the hot sun until Russell came out to meet her. He was tall and lean, dressed in combat boots, khaki pants, and a white button down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up just below his elbows and he wore fingerless gloves. He carried himself with a mythical charm that reminded Isabella of her grandmother’s description of Grandfather Bill.

Grandfather Bill had always been sweet to Isabella when she was a little girl, but the stroke had landed him in a hospital for a year before he gave up on life. Grandmother always spoke of Grandfather Bill as if he were still a young navy officer, calm and collect, charming in his mere presence. Isabella wasn’t sure which made her knees weak, Russell’s radiating charm or his handsome stare that never left Isabella as he approached her.

“You must be Isabella,” said Russell, his voice slightly deeper than Isabella expected. “Fancy meeting you out here.” He smiled gently, as if trying not to scare off a doe in the woods.

“Um, yeah,” said Isabella, immediately regretting her schoolgirl anxiety. She was a woman, after all, and not as crazy as everybody said. “Um, this way. My things are this way.” She turned abruptly and walked over the sand hill, hoping he was following behind her.

When she got to her motorcycle, she turned and saw Russell still standing on the hill. He was looking down at her as she turned back to the motorcycle and started unstrapping her dufflebag.

“Your not taking your cycle?” Russell said, speaking loud enough to be heard. Isabella stopped what she was doing and looked back at Russell. He continued, “That seems to be a pretty nice toy, if you ask me. It would be a shame to leave it out here.”

“I can take this?” Isabella asked, patting the seat of the motorcycle.

“Sure,” said Russell, coming down the hill. “I’ll help you push it around this hill.” Isabella restrapped the duffle bag to the back of the cycle and waited for Russell. Isabella walked beside the bike, steering it, while Russell pushed from behind. The two of them were able to get the bike around the hill and across the sandy ground to the base of the ramp.

Russell put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. After a moment a large black skinned man appeared at the door at the top of the ramp. His skin was so dark, he seemed to melt out of the shadows of the plane’s interior. He had handsome African features: broad nose, full lips, and bright sparkling eyes.

“Could you give us a hand with this?” said Russell, gesturing down to the motorcycle.

“If it were for you, I would invite my brothers to watch you struggle by yourself,” said the strong man, as he marched down the ramp, “But, for the beautiful woman, I would gladly steal a dragon’s egg if it meant being the first of my kin to give her my name.” When he reached the bottom of the ramp, he stood towering over Isabella, smiling with straight white teeth. He was nearly seven feet tall, and made Russell look like a boy. He wore a long black silk tunic that came down to his knees and showed half of his chest.

“I-I’m flattered,” said Isabella, trying not to stammer.

“My name is Ga’ru,” said the tall man, bowing. He then turned and grabbed the motorcycle and heaved it off the ground. Isabella could see he was straining to carry the motorcycle, but he made it to the top without hurting himself, and she was mightily impressed.

Russell sighed loudly and said, “Show off!” Then he marched up the ramp into the plane. Isabella stopped ogling, since she was the only person outside, and she hurried up the ramp.

Welcome to my collection of writing fragments

2007-05-19T11:22:00.000-07:00

My writing is not in any chronological order. In fact, some of the items I have up here predate the Web (though, not the internet). To browse through the writings, use the Label list. This will group the various items, and hopefully create some kind of cohesive organization. So far there is only one series of fragments that have a specific order. That would be Chess. It also needs to be re-written, but I will get to that eventually. Currently, it is in reverse chronological order, but I will fix that this weekend.

04/27/07

Green Eyes

2007-05-10T21:43:00.001-07:00

Yen stared intently out from the shelter of an abandoned hotel into the rain, trying to catch glimpses of individual raindrops. She looked young for her 18 years, skinny, only 45 kilograms, but tall for a girl, about 170 centimeters. Her pale skin and splash of freckles made her look frail, but her deep green eyes betrayed an intensity borne of survival. Her hair was short spiky red, a common street fashion among the local scavenger gangs. Her black and grey clothing was an assortment of ripped and shredded scraps, worn so that there were no overlapping holes, although, nothing she wore lacked holes.

The raindrops fell as big globs of slimy water, smacking the hard concrete of the narrow street hard and loud. Yen had read somewhere that the terraforming process that made the planet Crimson capable of sustaining human life had, also created a harmless bacteria that drifted on the air currents, until the humidity reached a certain point. Then, the bacteria promoted rain, gathering moisture from the humid air, growing raindrops as they fell. Raindrops that formed at higher altitudes were naturally larger, hitting hard like marbles. Yen watched for these, hoping to see it collide with the concrete.

Suddenly, Yen saw one of the largest globs she had ever seen, a few centimeters across, shining dully in the grey light, streaking towards the street with almost impossible speed. Yen’s eyes flashed downward, following the glob in the split second before it crashed. Her eyes had barely enough time to widen, and she gasped with a sudden jerk of her diaphragm.

Smiling, Yen turned away from the street and looked sideways across her shoulder to where her brother squatted. Dala, her twin, matched her in height, short for compared to the other boys on the street, but he had more meat on his bones, weighing about 60 kilograms. He kept his hair black and at shoulder length, pulled back tight and tied with a long shoe lace. Anyone looking at their eyes, however, would know in an instant that they were siblings. His clothes were similar, being ripped and torn, but his colors were shades of black, faded and fresh.

Dala was staring out into the rain, but not up, not at the rain, but down the street, and he was not smiling. Yen followed his gaze and patiently waited, scanning the grey for signs of movement. It took a few seconds, but she finally saw what Dala was staring at.

Because the rain tends to fall in large heavy drops, people tend not to walk in the rain. It can be painful, and, after long exposure, it can be harmful. Even a quick sprint across the street was uncomfortable enough to keep most people from getting wet. But Yen and Dala watched as someone was walking slowly down the center of the street. They couldn’t see clearly through heavy rain, but it appeared to be a bulky man, and he was carrying something with both hands.

It was a soldier, wearing full body armor and carrying a weapon. Instantly, Yen’s stomach tightened. It was as if the moment she saw the man, her mind synchronized with Dala’s, fear binding them mentally. The twins slipped back, further into the recesses of the hotel lobby. The air was warm, but the ceramic floor was cold, and Yen’s thoughts echoed Dala’s. Was there a heat signature left where they had just been standing?

Yen and Dala looked into each other’s green eyes, then they both turned and ran. They did not speak, but moved as one, through the lobby, down the main hall, past the shadowy convention rooms, into a dark service corridor, past the dimly lit kitchen, and into an open rear service area which. The main vehicle door had long since been torn apart for the scrap metal. They snuck across the alley to the emergency exit of a building that used to be the headquarters of a major in-system bank. Two large doors hung on broken hinges, leaving barely enough room for a skinny scavenger to squeeze through without making any noise. They breezed through like a whisper, Dala first, into utter darkness. They felt their way along the wall until they reached a dimly lit teller lobby. They climbed the stairs to the balcony level and slipped into what was once an executive office overlooking the main street.

Behind Rosie's

2007-05-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

Behind Rosie's Bar, Lenny sucked on a cigarette, then stifled a choking cough. Troy eyed Lenny, suspecting that his buddy really didn't know how to smoke. John, too self-absorbed to notice anything his friends were doing, pointed his finger into the shadows of the alley.

"Boys, I think we found ourselves some fun," said John.

John's two companions looked towards the edge of the shadows in time to see an older man, twice their age, jog out of the unlit alley. He wore loose faded jeans and western cut boots, and a white t-shirt under a faded red flannel shirt. He stopped right under the single bulb on the far side of the alley, only ten yards from John and his friends.

The older man seemed to be out of breath, and when he stopped, he leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and panted heavily. Sweat dripped from his face.

"I don't think he could outrun even Lenny," said Troy, slipping off the trashcan and onto his feet.

"Hey, I run fast," said Lenny, lying to himself and his friends.

"Sure you do," said John absently. "This old man, though, he isn't going anywhere."

The three young men slowly walked to their positions, surrounding the older man. The older man turned slightly, so that he could see the the other three, but he stole glances down the alley, back the way he came.

"No help will come from there," said John. "You are running from something. Maybe you are just afraid of the dark, but there is no where to go, now."

"Are we going to break something, tonight?" asked Lenny, as if it was his job to help John narrate the evening.

"I think we are, Lenny," said John, "I think we are."

The older man glanced down the alley once more, then rose up, arching his back slightly with a muffled pop. He tilted his head to one side and another audible pop sounded.

"Getting old sucks," said the lone man.

Before John could reply, something big and dark leapt from the shadows, from somewhere high, as if it had been clinging to the brick wall. It passed Lenny so closely that he flinched and backed into a pile of trashbags.

Troy yelped and ran. His gut told him the rules of nature were being broken, and it was time for him to leave.

John just stared numbly at the struggle before him.

The older man stepped into the things charge, grabbling a spindly apendage with one hand, and placing the other hand on the things shoulder area. It was as big as a man, but built like the cross between a praying mantis and a cockroach. It moved in sudden jerky spurts, blurring, then stopping, rock steady, then blurring.

The older man avoided some quick strikes, then flipped the thing on its back, cracking the head on the ground. Most of the body went immediately limp. The limbs twitched and spasmed.

"I can make this quick," said the older man, "Or we can be here all night."

The thing chittered excitedly.

"Just tell me who sent you," said the older man. He drew a large hunting knife from a sheath on his back under his shirt.

The thing chittered, then was silent.

The older man drove the blade into the forehead of the thing and twisted. There was a sickening sound, then a crack. Black ooze seeped out of the broken carapace of the head. It evaporated quickly, leaving an oily stain on the pavement.

The older man looked up at John, then at Lenny. "Don't touch it. The ichor is toxic. Don't worry, though. The body will crumble to dust by morning."

The older man wiped his blade clean with a rag found in the trash, then resheathed it. He walked away into the night without a sound.

Stage Names

2007-05-09T16:39:00.001-07:00

b: "Hey, aren't you Richard ... or Thomas ... I can never figure out which is --"

*FOOM*

b: "... Oh ... You must be Richard."

R: "What? ... Still alive?"

b: "Um, yeah, dude, I --"

*FOOM*

b: "Dude, please stop"

R: "You are not dead!"

b: "No, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

T: "Foolish one, you shouldn't have said that."

b: "Ah, you are Thomas, right?"

R: "Thomas?"

T: "Yeah, Maltharius is just my stage name"

R: "Really? I never really considered that."

T: "Not that Richard is a bad name, it just throws people off. It doesn't really fit the necromancer image."

R: "But I have titles!"

T: "And how often do people get beyond 'Richard'?"

R: "Good point."

b: "Um, excuse me."

*FOOM*

b: "Please stop that."

T: "Yes, Richard, please. It won't kill him."

R: "Why not?"

T: "Not sure he believes in magic."

R: "No, it can't be that simple."

T: "Let me try something"

R: "Sure, be my guest."

*BLAM*

b: "gasp"

*BLAM*BLAM*

b: "..."

R: "Nice job. Harsh on the ears, but ... effective"

T: "Thank you ... Learned it from a dragon."

R: "A Dragon? Are you just name dropping?"

T: "No, no, this one is ... scary ... let's just say that he has more control over our little world here than you can imagine."

R: "Reeeelly? I might have to --"

b: "brains."

T: "Um"

R: "Oh, don't worry, THIS is what I am good at."

b: "brains!"

R: "Go get me a beer!"

b: "bra... ... okay ..."

T: "Nice ... can he grab some chai tea?"

R: "CUP OF CHAI TEA!"

b: "... ... ... ... ... ... 'kay"

Discomforting Disturbance

2007-05-09T16:26:00.000-07:00

“I sense a great discomfort in the universe.”

“A what? A Discomfort?”

“Yes, I can sense these things.”

“A discomfort? Isn’t the word supposed to be ‘disturbance’?”

“Well … I find such disturbances, uncomfortable.”

“Ah, I see, still haven’t traveled far from the center of the universe, have we?”

“Glare.”

“What?”

“I said Glare.”

“Glare?”

“Yes, glare! We don’t have form or bodies or faces, so ‘Glare’! We are merely voices, feelings expressed, inner workings of twisted mind, so I cannot glare at you. Thus, I must say ‘glare’ to get my point across.”

“If you were more articulate or literate, you most surely would have done better. In fact, you could have said, ‘I am glaring at you’.”

“Then you would have questioned my ability to glare, without all the physicality required for such an act.”

“Yeah, well, that might have been a more fulfilling discussion. As it stands … I roll my eyes at you.”

“Wha! Whatever!”

“So tell me about this discomfort.”

“Like you want to know.”

“I do, I do … I just asked a simple question … I didn’t mean to get you all bent out of shape.”

“Glare!”

“Okay, I accept your glare.”

“I sense a … disturbance …”

“Tell me.”

“… As if many who did not wish to die were about to die …”

“What about those who do want to die?”

“… What?”

“Do you sense the deaths of those who wish to die?”

“No one wants to die.”

“Plenty want to. Most of them don’t, but there is a significant population, albeit small in the grand scheme of things, that do wish death.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know who. I was just saying, there are people out there … do you sense them?”

“Oh, how I wish.”

“What?”

“I said how could anyone wish … such a thing.”

“My turn to glare.”

“Bah! You make things up and steal my ideas.”

“I’m not making it up. And I just borrowed your idea.”

“You are teasing me.”

“What?”

“You are teasing me about these people that wish death.”

“Teasing you?”

“Where are they? Please introduce me … I’ll be generous! It will be quite rewarding!”

“There is something wrong with you. You know that don’t you?”

He made me do it …

2007-04-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

Back in 1996, I started working for Compuserve. I dove into the internet in my off time like a fiend, stuffing html up in my eyes and shooting it back out through my fingertips. I had a 150 page website with pictures, essays, writing fragments, profile information, everything.

Things changed. I changed jobs, habits, locations, family ... again, everything. And my website sat neglected on its perch until I took it down, burned to a back up CD somewhere in my pile of things I never look at anymore.

But I still write. I share my writing with friends, family, and strangers. Everyone who has read my stories has had a similar response: "What happens next?" The word on the street is, "Keep them wanting more." That I have done. However, maybe it is because of my short attention span, or lack of motivation, or family and work stresses, or maybe all this and more, but I have only finished one or two short stories ... ever. All I have are fragments.

A friend of mine, a book maker and a blogger, hinted, nudged, and pushed me towards starting my own blog. "Been there, done that," I said, but he wouldn't listen. "Why?" I asked. He just smiled silently, knowing that his work was done. The idea would stew in my brain for weeks, maybe it was months.

He didn't need to say it. "Why not?" was my own response. It would be a way to share what I have, with whomever. Maybe ideas would trickle back to me, and with enough attention, I might find the motivation to continue, or even finish a story.

In the meantime, however, I have this. Short snippets of day dreams and ideas, fictional characters that introduce themselves to me and tell me who they are, and unreal places that need to be described.

04/21/07

Nathan and Az-El

2001-01-08T12:00:00.000-08:00

Nathan fell slowly through the open sky light of the warehouse like a shadow of a of a corpse weighed down, drifting towards the bottom of some murky quarry. When his feet touched the concrete floor, there was not a single sound, no shuffle or tap, to mark his landing. He continued his fall into a crouch and looked around warily. He saw everything with perfect clarity, undaunted by the darkness. Nothing moved, not even the rat hiding in the darkness, emanating fear, heart racing, lungs pumping, whiskers twitching.

Then, something landed on the roof, beside the open skylight.

The rat was gone as fast as mortal feet could carry it away, into the bowels of the night, the secret hiding places of rodents, where only cats and runaways know of. Nathan leapt gracefully, pushing off with his left leg, arms wide for balance, arcing into the air. After many yards, he landed on his right leg, and, like a ballet dancer, did a pirouette before sprinting into an alley of crates, out of sight.

Az-El fell like a comet, landing hard, loud, and fast, grunting as he absorbed the energy of the impact in his bones. He let out a snarl of anger and scanned the darkness with eyes that burned with an orange-red fire. He lowered his face to the floor and sniffed where Nathan had been standing moments before. He sniffed around, searching for another footstep, another drop of scent. His eyes caught a faint trace of residual heat left behind by a frightened rat. He knew Nathan didn’t leave clues so obvious, but he could smell the man nearby. There was no breeze in the warehouse, so he only needed to let his nose lead him to the higher concentrations of scent.

“You were foolish to enter here,” whispered Az-El.

Az-El ran, inhaling, smelling the air. He stopped when his lungs were full, and he exhaled with a hiss. A moment later, he was on the trail again, moving swiftly, faster than a running dog, catching a scent barely perceptible, seeking a prey as unnatural as himself.

He found Nathan at an intersection, waiting.

“Az-El, I know this is a futile attempt to reason with you, but I thought I would try,” said Nathan.

Az-El lunged forward, hands out stretched, grasping at the space Nathan had just occupied. Az-El whirled to follow Nathan, swiping wildly with an angry hand, but Nathan slipped out of the way like a shadow dancing in the light of a blazing fire.

“You cannot evade me forever,” said Az-El.

“I don’t have to,” said Nathan. This made Az-El pause for a moment, waiting for Nathan to explain. “I only have to evade you until somebody else figures out how to put an end to you.”

Az-El didn’t like that comment, snarled, and sent a flurry of strikes and grasps at Nathan. Nathan evaded, dodged, ducked, and wove in and out of Az-El’s attacks.

“It will happen some day,” said Nathan. “You have made many enemies. Ironically, I am not one of them.”

“No, Nathan, you are my prey,” said Az-El, pausing to read Nathan’s face and body.

“And what did I do to get my name on your menu?” asked Nathan.

“Among your thefts was a goblet, something I cherished, deeply,” said Az-El.

“Okay, so it is a cup. I’ll give it back,” said Nathan.

“You no longer have it,” said Az-El. “I already retrieved it. I used it to drink the blood of the man who bought it from you. The last time that cup held blood was almost two thousand years ago. Some poor Jew needed money for food. He tried to sell me his goblet, along with the story of his Messiah.”

“What?” asked Nathan, incredulous.

“Someone wrote it all down … ‘And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it; For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.’ I showed him my opinion of symbols. The residual power in that goblet, however . . . if only I could get my hands on the One”

“You are talking about the Holy Grail!” exclaimed Nathan. “You mean I had the Holy Grail in my hands and I sold it?!”

“No, you ignorant dog, you held the goblet of some unknown apostle,” said Az-El. “He never had time to write anything down.” Az-El sneered as he spoke.

“Dude, you are a total freak,” said Nathan, eyes wide. “If you already have it, what do you want with me?”

“I am paying you back for breaching the sanctity of my home,” said Az-El. “I owe you, a theft for a theft, but the only thing I know how to steal is life.”

Nathan suddenly leapt up, out of reach of Az-El’s twisted rage, rising swiftly, landing with his toes on the top edge of a stack of crates. The crates didn’t notice his passing, no creaking, no groaning, no swaying. “Yes, Az-El, you are right,” Nathan thought to himself, “I was foolish to hide in here. But now it is time for me to leave … alone.” Nathan readied himself, focusing his mind to break reality’s rules, rather than merely bend them.

Az-El was clawing his way up the side of the crates. They protested his passage, desperately trying to shake him, cracking under his grip, moaning as if in pain. The closer to the top he climbed, the more the stack shimmied and shook. As his eyes cleared the top edge, he saw Nathan leap across the main alleyway among the crates. When he was under a sky light, Nathan suddenly sky rocketed, as if the earth no longer desired his presence, expelling him, and not with the same force that it held the rest of humanity. It was as if Nathan had so deeply offended Earth, that she borrowed the forces of her sister planets, ejecting Nathan up and out in a blink of an eye.

Nathan had miscalculated, however. He did escape, but he did not hear Az-El’s roar of frustration and anger over the sound of glass shattering around him. He had chosen a closed window as an exit.

Geppo

2000-01-02T10:20:00.000-08:00

Geppo woke in darkness. As he lay in the dust on the hard stone floor, his catlike eyes adjusted to the dim light. A fire smoldered around a corner, illuminating his small world in a dim red glow. The Great Hall was no more than a maze of cracked boulders and dusty crevasses.

Geppo tried to sit up, to investigate the dull ache below his waist, and he found his short, thick legs were crushed under a fallen pillar. He shoved at the stone and pulled at his legs with his massive ape-like arms, but he was pinned. He held still for a moment, twitching only his hairless dog-ears, but no sounds came to him but settling sand.

"Master," he croaked through a dry throat. His weak voice echoed back to him.

"Master," he said more loudly, his voice cracking. The silence he heard and felt was deafening. The darkness seemed to press down on him as dread churned in the pain in his stomach.

"Master!" he bellowed. Panic held him for a moment, then despair settled in and he began to sob.

"Don't leave me," he whined. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his broad, flat nose. "I was good, and I was loyal," he cried into the darkness. "I did everything you told me to do." The pitiful echoes that came back to him taunted him.

"Master!" He roared again. "You said I was your favorite! How can you leave me like this?!"

Suddenly, through eyes that were blurred by darkness and tears, Geppo saw movement. Sniffling, he wiped his eyes and strained to see what was coming for him. With the collapse of the immense fortress, surely some of the nastier beasts his Master created had been loosed. Crouched on a ledge in front of a small tunnel was a human shape, moving awkwardly and cautiously through the ruins. Geppo sniffed, smelling dust and smoke and his own sweat and tears. There was another scent coming to him. When he recognized it, his Master's voice came to him from the limping silhouette.

"My little Geppo, did you really think that I would leave you behind?" The Master crouched next to Geppo, and Geppo saw his Master had one arm in a sling. Weariness was weighing him down.

"Master," Geppo whispered, "forgive me, I ... I was scared."

"Geppo, there is nothing to forgive," said the Master. "In my defeat, I was nearly killed. As it is, I am broken and fleeing from my enemies.” The Master dropped his head, then raised his eyes to Geppo. “But, I came back for you, despite the presence of those who wish to kill me, despite the things that have been set free to lurk in the shadows, and despite my own pain and injury."

"Master, I am ashamed to think for a moment that you wouldn't come, but they had told me that I was merely another creation of yours. They told me if you lost me, you could create another Geppo."

"Geppo, you are not the brightest of my creations, nor the strongest, though you are strong. I could create another that would look like you, but I could not name it Geppo." The Master gently pinched one of Geppo's ears, bringing a smile to his creations broad mouth. "That name would be revered in my halls, for there is only one Geppo. No one else has your loyalty, your humor, your memories. When I am victorious, who can I share my gloating with, if not my friend Geppo?"

"Thank you, Master, thank you," sobbed Geppo. The Master held him with his good arm and comforted him for a long time, until the tears were dry. "Master, why is it that you gave me the ability to cry?"

"Because tears are one of life's little pleasures,” explained the Master. “The Bondu, with its gnashing teeth and ferocious snarl cannot shed a tear when it is in despair. The Lom, with their communal mind, have known defeat and loss, but never did they sob. They hold all these things in. But you, Geppo, you have cried away your fears and loss. And now, you are fresh and free from those torments, are you not?"

Geppo thought for a moment in silence, enjoying the comfort of his Master’s arm. Then he smiled. With a sigh, he tried to sit up again, but was reminded that he was pinned, immobile. "Master ..."

"Yes, Geppo, I know. You will have to lose the legs. Fortunately, I did not give you much perception of pain. If you will accept the loss, I will take you away from here." The Master pulled a hilt of a knife from his belt and gripped it tightly. He focused his will into the weapon and a blade of light grew from the crosspiece. It was a small, but bright light, and it cut through Geppo's powerful leg muscles and thick thighbones with very little effort. Geppo sat and watched, vaguely aware of the dull ache that told him of his loss. He could smell his own skin burn as the wounds seared closed.

When the Master was done, he looked into the dark greenish skin of his friend and tried to smile. "I never did like the smell of burning flesh," he said.

Geppo was silent for a moment, then said with a shy grin, "I like it."

The Master put away his knife handle, wrapped his good arm around Geppo, and stood up. Geppo clung to him like a baby ape as they disappeared into the maze of rubble and darkness.