Fade to Grey

Two people standing in the woods, bright acrylic greens and reds surrounding them in royal sunbursts, cocooned by colour. There's a pause between them, a distance that could just as easily be a breath as a chasm. One speaks five words, the other does as they are told. Fade to grey.

A figure splayed across the ground, shattered glass lying in specific patterns around them, the last fragments of their broken wings. Hair like flames - not like? - and eyes green enough to dance in, dance until your feet bleed, red swirling with green. Fade to grey.

A crowded dance floor here, two terrified teenagers here, but there. Fog swirls and twirls, mimicking the dancers or perhaps drawn by them, impenetrable either way. The teens jump, no way of knowing what lies beyond. Fade to grey.

A flicker of a city, a flicker of a man writing on a train. The man could be in the city, but he could just as easily not. There is the warmth of the sun, dividing his face into light and shadow. The light writes apologies; the shadow does too. Fade to grey.

The seeds are planted, ideas coiling tight around the brain stem, some brighter or bolder than others. If you grasp at them too soon they shirk away, slowly smothered by the light of attention. They must be left in the dark to morph, find the shape they want, the face they will show the world. Then they will allow themselves to slowly uncoil and breathe on their own, and only then can they Fade to grey. No.No no no. Clutching at one, forcing its tail down, there is a burst of colour before it fades to grey. There is colour here, he KNOWS there is, but the shell is all a harsh, dead grey. He digs his fingers in, tearing apart the carapace, finding the entrails so vibrant in hues and piling them end to end along the paper, but the hues fade from the visible spectrum, the intangible not meant to be given form, not like this, and at the end with heaving breath and bloodied hands all he is left with is grey.

Sideways, Into Eternity

The forest glowed a vibrant green, the rich scent of animals and wood and decay and sunshine mingling beautifully. Scott walked beneath the boughs that reached far above, listening to the sounds of the birds. Dappled sunlight broke through the canopy, laying shifting patterns on the leaf litter underfoot. A deer ahead heard Scott approach and darted away, dancing from step to step, a spring uncoiling.

The sound of laughter and merriment gradually rose above the ambient noise of the forest, coming from a small campsite of men in earthy greens and browns. They welcomed Scott warmly, with wide arms and open smiles. He joined them a while, drinking and carousing, before whispering something to their leader and taking his leave. Once out of sight, he found a shadow and slipped into it, into the in-between places. Stepped sideways, into eternity.

Eternity swallowed him as an old friend, its cool embrace familiar and comforting, his step stretching out longer and longer. After a moment, an hour, a minute, Scott stepped out into the light rain, a gentle drizzle that slowly worked its way down the back of his neck and shoes. The city was grey and dismal, dark clouds hanging low and brooding over intermittent spires and flat roof slats. He stepped under an overhanging eave and covered his nose to block out the smells that ran down the street like rivers, the fetid stench of unwashed bodies pressed too close together and human waste. Lightning crackled in the clustered clouds, forks of light spearing the sky for far too brief a time. This was no place for him. Scott found an open doorway and stepped inside. Stepped sideways, into eternity.

People milled around each other, smiling and laughing and hugging, all the while speaking in a language he didn’t understand. Eternity had placed him in the middle of them, next to a graffiti-covered wall that people sat, stood, sang and juggled atop. He was jostled relentlessly as he attempted to make his way out of the crowd, or perhaps he jostled the others. Their joy was infectious, and he found himself grinning when men and women embraced him, rather than pushing them away. Finally he broke free from the main press of the mob, leaning on a brick building to regain his breath. The crowd was an incredible sight, thousands of people celebrating… something. Scott couldn’t make out the object of their rejoicing. The sky was a clear, pure blue, radiating a clarity that only weeks of rain can bring, as if the heavens themselves are glad to be open again. A smile lingering on his face, Scott found a fold in the world and slipped into it. Stepped sideways, into eternity.

He regretted the deal. He knew something was wrong at the time, but had been too excited to care. The man had been so nice, his too-white coat matching his too-white teeth. The prospect of being able to slip out of time, through time, between time, landing anywhere and anywhen... how could he refuse? But he was tired now. He just wanted to go home, to find himself before he made the deal and stop it from happening. He'd been slipping for years now and he feared just what it was that he was slipping towards.

He stumbled over the uneven ground--no, not uneven, swaying. The view over the edge of the boat was limited by a heavy fog that pressed down on all sides. Despite it, there were people mingling on the deck: clearly passengers, not a deckhand in sight. He grimaced. He knew how this one ended.

There was a band playing, elevated on a small stage, the music swallowed by the mist. He pulled his coat closer around his body, futilely attempting to shield himself from the cold. He stepped backward, into the shadow. Stepped sideways, across the deck.

He frowned. Stepped sideways, into the railing at the edge of the boat, the sliver of eternity slipping infuriatingly away.

Speed, that's what I need. He thought, gripping the railing.

A shudder rocked the boat and would have knocked him from his feet had he not already been holding on. The sharp keening of shredding metal filled the air, drowning out the cries of the passengers.

Now or never.

He vaulted over the rail, the water looking impossibly far away, only just visible through the fog. As he fell, he tried to tried to slip between the world, but something was wrong, very wrong. Eternity was there, just in front of him, just out of reach. He knew that if he could just get a bit more speed he could make it.

The water hurtled toward him, no longer so far away, but still eternity eluded him. He stretched his hand out and managed to hook a finger through. He pulled hard, trying to heave himself forward but the water was too close now and he struck it hard with only half a hand through. The pain wrapped around him, shielding him from the cold, forcing his breath out in an explosion of bubbles. Weakly, he registered that he still had a hold between time and let himself slip down, sideways, into eternity.

He opened his eyes, unsure if he had made it or not. He was lying on a bed in a white-walled room, there were electronic displays around him and an incessant beep-beep that was gradually speeding up. He knew this place. He did not want to be here.

A woman walked in, wearing a too-white coat and a too-white smile. He tried to move, to roll over, to escape, but his limbs were sluggish and unresponsive. The woman held down his arm and inserted a needle, shooting something into his veins.

Gradually, his panic subsided. The beeping slowed once more and, under the woman's watchful gaze, he felt himself slipping.

Slipping sideways, into eternity.

Ready to Fall

     The wind tousled his hair, gently nudging him from side to side. His hair occasionally blew in front of his eyes but he barely noticed, seeing only the inside of his eyelids. The afternoon sun was warm on his back. He had been standing in place for several minutes and no one had yet noticed him, or if some had they made no comment. He knew what he would see if he opened his eyes: the city laid out before him, streets weaving jaggedly around each other, towers of glass reflecting the light much like the one he stood atop now. The metal beneath his feet felt as solid as any footpath he had walked but he knew that a step forward or back would land only on air. He did not step forward. He did not step back.
     He knew that he stood there for a reason but with the rest of his life so far below it was easy to forget, to stand still and simply exist. The wind was not as strong as he had expected it to be, this high up. Keeping his footing had been decidedly easy. The smell of smoke drifted up to him, exhaust and cigarettes and woodfire, acrid and pungent and undeniably earthy but below all of them lay something fresher, the barest hint of something that can only be felt where no one has yet settled.
     A car backfired somewhere far below and he opened his eyes slowly, as if waking from a dream. The sun was low enough to set the city alight with hues of orange and red. He breathed deeply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. It shouldn't be long now. The people far below carried on their everyday lives, the workaholics just now heading home while those keen for a drink arrived. The handover of the city had begun, from work to play.
     The eighth storey of the building across from him exploded with a kra-KOOM, hurling glass and metal outward over the city. Grey dust and smoke mixed with an orange gas that leaked from the ruined level. The entire building groaned and began to tilt as similar explosions rocked the glass towers around it until finally he felt the building that he stood on rumble, its fifth and sixth floors blown to bits. He smiled grimly. He had been told that he would know his cue when it came.
     Closing his eyes once more, feeling the dying sun warm his back, he took a step forward into the air.

Inspired by the song Ready to Fall - Rise Against.

Ribbons of Sound

I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of old popcorn and public carpet. Colours flicked through my head, the general thrum of the crowd mixing into an indistinguishable dark palette of browns and greys with the occasional flare of emerald or sky blue as a child cried out or a woman laughed aloud. I turned up my iPod, blasting Rise Against and letting the flashing ribbons of crimson and magenta wash through me, the chorus occasionally dropping into violet—no, lavender. Dully, I noticed a voice calling my name in a dirty yellow, the colour of a highlighter accidentally dragged through a black line, never to be pure again.

“You’re so antisocial.” Mark collapsed into the seat next to me, slouching in the deep cushions as he offered me a chip, his meticulously spiked blonde hair standing at all sorts of ridiculous angles. I waved away the bag, wrinkling my nose at the smell of vinegar and putting away my music.

“Well it’s hard to be social when your friends are fifteen minutes late.” I rebuked, smiling despite my reproachful tone. “Late to an event that you organised, might I add?”

“Prefer it if you didn’t, to be honest. Any idea when Geoff’ll get here?” Mark munched on his God-awful salt and vinegar chips, seemingly oblivious to my disgust. I could practically taste the acidity in the back of my throat.

I shook my head. “I texted him a few minutes ago.”

“Bloody Geoff. Never answers a text.” Mark finished his chips and crumpled up the packet in a crimson crinkle, lobbing it into the nearest trash bin just as Geoff waltzed around the corner. “Speak of the devil…”

“And the devil doth appear,” Geoff finished as he approached, throwing his long arms out in a grandiose gesture that almost toppled a small child. He apologised quickly to the child and her mother before turning back to tower over the two of us.  “How are you guys? Talking about me again?”

“As always.” I stood and began walking towards the bored-looking candy bar employee, still dwarfed by Geoff’s height despite no longer sitting down. “Just the thought of you makes me swoon.”

“What can I say? I just exude raw masculinity. Honestly, I’m surprised you can hold yourself back.”

“It’s a constant struggle, I assure you.” We both laughed. It’s a conversation we’ve had many times before.

“Are you guys going to buy a ticket, or are you just going to hope Geoff’s manliness brings one forth from the void? C’mon guys, only I can do that.” Mark held up a ticket of his own.

I stepped behind a short, balding man—the extent of the midday queue. The light shining off of his smooth crown was quite distracting. “When the hell did you even get that?”

“Just then. The void. Sorry, were you not listening just now?” Mark waved the ticket in my face until I hit his arm with a grin.

“You’re so annoying.”

The balding man moved from the counter and I stepped away from the others to buy a ticket. The cashier had a nice voice: a buttery sort of yellow, much more appealing than Mark’s dirty fluoro. I thanked her and went back to the boys. Mark had somehow managed to get Geoff in a headlock, despite a six-inch height disadvantage. Geoff took the distraction of my return as an opportunity to reach up and muss Mark’s hair. Mark immediately released the headlock and put his hands to his head, an expression of utter horror on his face and a cyan shriek escaping his lips. I let out a wild laugh at the sheer perfection of his equally distraught and furious expression, earning a dirty glare.

“I worked for like an hour on this.” Mark’s voice dripped with venom, sinking from yellow to dark jade.

“Oh come on, it looks exactly the same as before.” Geoff punched his shoulder gently and we started to walk to the movie theatre. “You’ve got enough staying power in your locks to stop a landslide. Actually, I think I might’ve cut myself on one of those points…”

While Geoff made a show of inspecting his fingertips, I nudged Mark. “Are you going to get yours?”

“Way ahead of you.” He brandished a piece of paper, giving it to the ticket-ripper-person. What are they even called? I pondered. “Geoff taught me the whole ‘summoning from the void’ thing.”

“Oh?” I raised my eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Mark nodded enthusiastically.  “It’s easier than you’d think. Oh!” He raised a hand suddenly. “You guys’ll never guess what I found out today.”

“You’re actually a woman?” Geoff looked up from his inspection, seemingly satisfied that Mark’s hair had not drawn blood.

“Everyone has a skeleton inside them?” I chip in.

“Dumbledore dies?”

“Dude, spoilers.” Mark shook his head disapprovingly at Geoff. “No, I was watching YouTube videos—”

“See, we should’ve been able to guess that.” I said to Geoff as we walked into Cinema 4.

Mark glared at me again. “As I was saying, I was watching videos, and I found this thing called synaesthesia. You guys heard of it?”

Geoff and I shook our heads. The cinema was almost empty, the only other occupants an elderly couple sitting up the front. I caught a few purple words from the man before Mark continued.

“Some people have this mental thing where, like, one sense is linked to another. Wait no, that’s not quite right. Give me a sec.” He held up a hand, concentrating on his phone. I exchanged a grin with Geoff as we went to the far back row of chairs and filed in, sinking into the poorly padded, blushing red chairs and resting our feet on the row in front. I sat in the exact middle seat, with Mark on my left and Geoff on my right.

“Okay, I got it.” Mark continued, reading off his phone. “It’s where ‘the stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway’.”

Geoff and I looked at him blankly for a few seconds. “English, please?” I asked.

“It’s like there’s a few wires crossed. Like, when they hear sounds, they see colours too.”

I looked from Mark to Geoff and back again, waiting for the rest of the story. “And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?” Mark exclaimed. “You don’t think that’s awesome?”

I frowned, confused at his enthusiasm, now mirrored in Geoff’s face. “Not… really, no.” I looked at the two of them again, an uncomfortable flitting sensation forming in my stomach. “How is that weird? It’s just normal.”

“No…” Geoff slowly shook his head. “No, it’s really not.”

“Yes, yes it is.” I insisted, starting to get a bit annoyed. The flitting upgraded to churning, my intestines turning over themselves. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, like I’d had a mouthful of cinnamon.

Mark gently laid a hand on my arm, as you would a small animal that you were worried might bolt. “Does this happen to you? Do you… see sounds?”

My head moved back and forth between the two of them, the puck in a game of air hockey. “You guys don’t?”

Mark barked a laugh; a short, sharp green sound that drew disapproving looks from the couple down the front. “Honestly?”

“You’re messing with me, right?” I punched him gently even while a fist of apprehension clenched tightly around my stomach and lungs, making me feel lightheaded and faintly nauseous. “No way can you be serious. You’re in on this too?” I asked, punching Geoff harder than I had Mark.

“No way can you be serious.” Geoff rubbed his arm, his look of incredulity so perfectly matching Mark’s that I could almost believe they were telling the truth.

Mark’s voice pierced the silence after a few seconds, excitement tingeing his voice apricot. “What colour are you seeing now?”

“No.” I hit him again, harder than I had Geoff, anger and disbelief making me misjudge the power of the blow. “No, we’re not doing this.” I sat back and looked pointedly at the blank screen, all too aware of the fuchsia pink music drifting gently from the speakers lining the walls. My palms were sweating and my chest felt heavy. It was a mistake to sit between these two.

“What colour is the music?” Mark pressed, as if reading my mind. I said nothing, my face as blank and composed as the screen while my guts competed to see how fast they could tie an assortment of unnecessarily complicated knots.

“What about my voice?” Geoff asked from my right. “I’ll bet it’s… crimson. Or gold.”

Silver, I thought to myself.

“Wait, seriously?” Geoff goggled.

“Did I say that out loud?” I groaned when Mark positively beamed at me.

“You have no idea how cool that is.” He bounced up and down in his seat. “Do you see them all the time? What colour is my voice? Does it work for all sounds?”

“Mark, stop.” I held up a hand. “Can we deal with this later? I just… need some time.” As if on cue, the lights went down and the first of the ads came on.

He nodded vigorously. I could practically see the questions lining up behind his eyes. I sighed, settling into my seat. The thought of not seeing a sound’s colour… No, I can’t imagine it. It doesn’t make sense. They’re just too connected. I tried to listen to the music of the advertisement on the screen without seeing the colours, but they flashed unbidden into my mind. It’s not possible. I can’t even think it. It’s like trying to hear without sound.

The more I thought about it, the more questions came to mind. How would you decide if you like a song? An instrument? How dull everything must be.

I sank lower into the chair, the screen only barely visible over my knees. The lights dimmed entirely and a wild green forest faded into being on screen. The soundtrack began, deep, vibrant red violins, soon joined by paler flutes in soft blues. How could others not see this?

    Colours flashed from the screen and the speakers, surrounding me and sheltering me in a cocoon of sensation, ribbons of sound running across my mind. I felt the warmth of the two boys on either side of me and smiled. If this is my gift, my uniqueness, well… I think I can live with that. 


A thing I wrote a while ago for uni about synaethesia. I like it.

Journey

The still-blue sky was turning ashen, a thick cloud bank lined in the smudged pink of sunset resting at its base. Where no cloud marred the horizon, the sky dissipated into white tea and, on the side opposite the vanishing sun, a three-day old bruise. Their breath misted before them as a constant reminder that, for now at least, they were still alive. The quiet was punctuated occasionally by the unconscious sounds of the weary; a dull exhalation, a quiet sniff, the hard swish of one unwashed pant leg brushing past the other. The dark would not cease their journey. They had traveled for too long to be concerned with sleep. No, they would rest when they reached their destination. The sky was darker now, the clouds since moved on, and the chill surrounded them, drawing the crowd closer together as surely as any rope. Under the watchful eye of the sickle moon, they walked on.



Just a quick snippet today, something I had on my mind.

Concrete Cracks

The city breathed. She could hear it, ear pressed against the dirty ground. In, hold... out. In, hold... out. In, hold... out. At first she thought that there might be some enormous beast under the concrete but no, the city itself was the colossal creature. It murmured to itself, deep and rumbling, in words no one has said but everyone knows. The city breathed. Some people walked past and some of those people looked at her and some of those looks were filled with disgust, disgust at the girl with dirt on her hands and dirt on her dress and now dirt on her cheek, but she paid them no mind. Perhaps they would not look at her if they, too, could hear the city. Perhaps they would anyway. The city breathed. She held her breath to better hear the murmurings of the metropolis and felt its expansive attention turn slowly, inexorably toward her. It whispered three words, and then three more, and she smiled. If any of the clean-cheeked passerbys had stopped to watch her they might have seen what happened, but they were all to busy focusing on their board meetings and barista-made macchiatos, and so no one saw the cracks in the concrete widen just enough to let a girl in a dirty dress slip through, falling away, falling home.


A short piece based off of "The Dirt Whispered", by Rise Against.

2: Assembly of the New World

The room was tense, everyone within stretched nearly to the point of breaking. Seven exceptionally well dressed women and two men sat around the large, ornate wooden table in the centre of the room and one more man stood at the end closest to the door. The nine leaders of the New World and Pret Deavos, Captain of the Guard to the Central Dominion. At that moment, the grey-haired Lady Reyleere of the Far South had her jaw set resolutely against the verbal onslaught of Pret’s own employer, Lady Ashen.

“I’m not entirely aware of how you can be surprised, Lady Reyleere.” Lady Ashen was a heavyset woman whose chin shook when she pounded the table with her fist. “It is no secret that you have long since sought a position in the Central Dominion.”

“I do not deny that; the Far South is a small territory, and I have many daughters who are more than capable of ruling it. But to accuse me of assassination?” Lady Reyleere made a cutting motion with her frail hands. “You go too far.”

Lady Cail of the Florant rested her slender chin on her delicate fingers. “Pardon, Lady Reyleere, but I believe Lady Ashen only accused you of hiring an assassin, not of performing the act yourself. I doubt any of us assembled believe that you would have the strength for such a task—physical or mental.”

“I am more than strong enough to maintain control of my dominion, something not all of us can claim.” Lady Reyleere retorted.

Lady Cail’s face flushed a bright red, but before she could defend herself Lord Kophan spoke up. “Enough with this. We are here to discuss justice and the future of the New World, not fling accusations as children do snowballs.”

The eight other leaders had the sense to look suitably abashed. Lord Kophan may have been a man, but he had ruled the Darklands for thirty years, the closest dominion to the Rift. Anyone who had survived such a time in close proximity to the Taint deserved respect.

“The future indeed.” Lady Ashen spoke first, as was her right as Host of the assembly. “I do not need to tell you all the importance of the Duchess in the Central Dominion. The loss of her cunning and intellect will be sorely felt in the coming years. She was a wise adviser and a loyal friend, and I intend to find whoever hired her assassin and ensure they face justice.”

“Do you expect our help?” Lady Tillen of the Plains asked, her lower jaw jutting forward arrogantly. “After accusing us of employing the assassin ourselves? You have always tested the line of respect, Lady Ashen, but this time you go too far.”

“We are only just recovering from the Fracture, Ladies and Lord.” Lord Weidan simpered. “We are close to reuniting the dominions. We of the Dominions must work together; let us not devolve into opposing territories again. Perhaps we should ask the man who chose not to stop the assassin when he had the chance?”

Lady Reyleere barked a laugh. “A man cautioning against conflict? I never thought I would see the day. Still, you raise a fine point.” She turned to Pret. “Tell us again, Captain. Why did you not apprehend the assassin?”

Pret Deavos ground his teeth. The implication was unfair, but he could not deny the request of a Lady. “The assassin had Tainted my second, Marc. I was forced to decide between preventing a potential outbreak and—”

“And your duty to protect the Duchess?” Lady Tillen interrupted.

Silently seething, Pret was forced to nod in agreement.

“It seems to me, Lady Ashen, that your problem may lie closer to your heart than you think.” Lady Reyleere mused. “And yet you accuse us instead. Perhaps Captain Deavos bears closer inspection?”

“The Captain has served me faithfully for years!” Lady Ashen growled. “I will not have you deflecting the matter.”

“If you cannot bear to consider that your own people could be at fault, how can you trust any of us?” Lord Kophan asked. “Any information we give you could simply be covering our tracks.”

“If you wish for my dominion’s aid, you must first send your Captain away for good.” Lady Tillen demanded.

“You cannot expect me to do this!” Lady Ashen protested.

 “My terms are the same.” Lady Cail nodded, followed by a general murmur of agreement from around the table. Pret felt sweat bead on the back of his neck.

Lady Ashen shook her head vigorously. “I refuse. He has done nothing to deserve this.”

“Then I must retract my dominion from the treaty.” Lady Wicten spoke up.

Lord Weidan let out a cry. “Lady Wicten, you cannot! The New World cannot sustain itself unless we all reunite.”

“I second Lady Wicten’s sentiment.” The corners of Lady Reyleere’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Either the Captain goes, or I do.”

“I—I can’t…” Lady Ashen had turned the colour of her namesake, showing weakness for the first time that night.

“Then I suppose the treaty is off.” Lady Cail drummed her delicate fingers on the table. “And let it be known that it was Lady Ashen who prevented We of the Dominions from getting back together.”

“I will send him away!” Lady Ashen burst out. “He will be sent from the Central Dominion for the duration of the investigation, and should he be found at fault he will be formally discharged from service.”

A pregnant silence followed, finally broken by Lady Tillen. “I find this acceptable. Talk to your people, have them talk to my people, and we shall arrange suitable terms.”

Lord Wicten’s sigh of relief was barely audible under the assorted agreements of the remaining Ladies. Pret released a breath he could not remember holding, feeling his undershirt grip his back, now slick with sweat.

The assembly ended shortly thereafter, leaving the Lady of the Central Dominion alone in the room with her Captain of the Guard.

“I am sorry, Captain.” Lady Ashen sighed.”

“I am sworn to serve you, Lady, and you are sworn to serve the people. Do no apologise for doing that which is best for the New World.”

“You have a house in the Florant, I believe?” Lady Ashen enquired.

Pret nodded. “I can make my own way there, Lady, you need not trouble yourself.”

“Thank you, Captain. I will send you the rest of the details after Lady Tillen and I have negotiated them.”

Pret bowed, recognising the dismissal. His walk back to his quarters was filled not with thoughts of the Florant, however, but the elusive assassin, the Lady in gold.

Licence

Got a couple of posts today to make up for the lack last week. This first one was inspired when I was looking up the difference between 'licence' and 'license'.

The antechamber was spartan and impersonal. Plain white walls with perhaps a hint of blue surrounded two cream armchairs that were as comfortable to sit on as they were plain, deep enough to sit on but not enough to relax. There was no other furniture, no small table with old magazines or television playing the news. A single painting hung opposite the armchairs, a modern art display, whorls of colours on a background white, with perhaps a hint of blue.

Leo alternated having his hands on the arms of the chair or in his lap every few minutes, occasionally checking his watch. He had been fifteen minutes early for his appointment forty minutes ago. He was dressed in a middle-range suit: fancy enough to definitely be formal, casual enough to still be able to talk to people in regular clothes. He had just graduated to alternating the placement of his hands in under a minute when the door to his right opened and a tall, honey-skinned woman stepped out, holding a clipboard at a calculated angle. She wore a suit that was slightly more formal than his and looked down her impressively pointed nose at him.

“Mister Jones?” Her lips pursed as she spoke, making no attempt to hide her distaste.

Leo stood. He wasn’t sure why she had asked. There was no one else it could be.

The woman eyed him up and down for a moment, narrowing her eyes. Finally, she moved to the side and said, “Miss Reave will see you now.”

Leo walked through the door, acutely aware of the daggers she was staring at him. The room beyond was much larger than the waiting room, but it still contained only what it needed to. At the far side of the room was a wooden desk, no larger than the one Leo had at home. On his side of the desk was a chair that looked marginally less comfortable than the one he had been sitting on for the past three quarters of an hour. On the other side was a chair that looked significantly more comfortable, but was unfortunately occupied by a woman with vivid blue eyes and nine fingers, the left pinkie ending at the first knuckle. She sat with her fingers interlaced and resting on a small stack of papers on the table, almost appearing to be in prayer.

“Welcome, Mister Jones.” She said, leaning back slightly and motioning to the chair with one hand. “Please, take a seat.”

Leo obliged, although he didn’t really see much choice. On his way to the chair, he heard the door close behind him with a soft click.

“Mister Jones, I expect you enjoy small talk about as much as I do, so I’ll skip to why we’re here. You application has been reviewed and discussed and the board has decided against issuing you with a Class-A licence. This is partially due to your past demeanour and partially to your skill set, which the board thought was too limited and not quite what they were looking for. However, if you wish to reapply for a Class-B licence, the board feels you would have a much stronger chance to—”

“I don’t want a Class-B licence.” Leo interrupted calmly. “I want a Class-A. If I wanted a Class-B licence, I would have applied for it.”

Miss Reave waited a beat before speaking again. “Mister Jones, I don’t want you to mistake our relationship. I am not your equal. I am high enough above you as to barely consider you a person at all. If you interrupt me again, you will cease to be a person, and will only ever again bother the poor soul who will have to clean that chair. Do we understand each other?”

Leo fought back a sneer and nodded.

“Good.” Miss Reave nodded. “As I was saying, the board feels you would have a better chance applying for a Class-B licence. Do you wish to go through this process now, or would you rather think about it?”

Leo sighed. “Now.”

Miss Reave rifled through the papers on the desk. “Very good. If the board issues you with a Class-B licence, you will be assigned a territory and will be expected to stay within your borders unless otherwise specified. You will have a large degree of freedom, but will be expected to defer to and Class-A licence holders. Do you agree to these terms?”

“I agree.” Leo nodded.

Miss Reave handed Leo a slim booklet and a pen. “In that case, please fill out this questionnaire. You may notice that some of the questions are similar to the Class-A licence form.”

Leo scanned the booklet. “Class-B Licence Application” was written at the top of the first page in clear, bold print. The yellow paper was rougher on one side, but only slightly. Some of the questions were indeed similar to the Class-A form he had filled out the week previous, such as “Have you been convicted of any criminal offences?”, “Would you say that you have difficulty respecting others?” and “How many 10-year-olds do you think you could take in a fight and win?”, but there were a few differences.

When he had finished filling out the form, Leo lay down the pen and passed the paper back to Miss Reave, who had sat silently while he wrote. Her blue eyes flicked rapidly back and forth as she read over his answers, then placed it precisely on the stack of papers.

“Thank you, Mister Jones.” Miss Reave said curtly. Leo heard the door click open behind him. “I will contact you when the board has made its decision.”

Recognising this as a dismissal, Leo nodded and left the room, past the glare the honey-skinned woman was giving him. It’s probably not personal, he thought. Some people just look like that.

He stood in the antechamber until the telltale buzz filled him and closed his eyes to avoid getting motion sick. When he opened them, he was standing on the street beside a nondescript apartment block. A booming sound preceded a shape flashing past him, a man in a tight-fitting red and white outfit carrying a whip. Whiplash. The Class-A licence holder in Leo’s town. Leo scowled, letting flames begin to lick at his hands as he began to walk home.

So I can’t get a Class-A yet, he thought. That’s okay. I can get a Class-B and work my way up from there. In the meantime, though… he let the flames work their way up his arms and trailed his hand along the wall beside him, leaving a ragged line of scorched brick and concrete. He spied a young couple cowering in a corner, still hiding from Whiplash’s passing. In the meantime, I can still have fun.

Salmon

Note: a female salmon is called a hen, males are bucks.

The river was lit by sunlight filtering through the ripples and currents, bouncing from stones and silt that formed the bed, glinting from the scales of the salmon that wove their inexorable way against the flow, locked in a battle of wills between themselves and Nature. Hundreds of them battled their way upstream, setting the water ablaze in refracted light, turning the usually calm brook into a blue sequined dress that spun and twirled around the dancefloor. What goes through their tiny heads as they swim this almost futile path? Do they know where they are going, or do they just know that they must go? What drives them to do this, year after year?

Salvatore looked intently forward, trying to ignore the childhood friend that had insisted on pestering him for the entire journey.

“Quit playin Salv, ya know we gots ta leave some bling at da upcreek crib.” Sally said yet again.

“Yo das what our rents told us.” Salvatore retorted. “Gurl you knows I’mma prefer swim all up the other river. This buck needs a bromance, emphasis on da man.”

“Aight, if you won’t do it for yo selfish ass, then least do it for cha homegurl.”

“Sally babe I love ya, but we both knows chu’d be swimmin in the bucks if ya didn’ keep houndin me. Yo grill slammin, bets ta all them chanky hens.” Salvatore ducked around a particularly large buck, letting his gaze linger longer than his parents would have preferred. But hey, his parents weren’t here.

“So ya’ll admit ya think I fine!” Sally crowed.

Salv sighed. “Gurl you gots ta know there’s a diff in knowin you pretty and wanten to bump uglies. You smarter than this.”

“I know, I know, but shortie can dream can’t she?” Sally cosied up to his right, brushed their scales together. “Sure there ain’t some way I can clean ya?”

“Hoooo, girl you playin.” Salv replied. “Ain’t something I can just flip.”

Sally pouted, leading Salvatore to roll his eyes.

“I’mma jet and see yo skinny ass upside.” Sally said, eyeing off the small rapids that they were approaching.

Salvatore grinned. “Ya know it, shortie.” Sally was the better swimmer out of the two of them; she would undoubtedly make it up before him. She winked and sped ahead and, sure enough, by the time he reached the turbulent whitewater she was nowhere to be seen. He sighed and set about flinging himself up the rapids, occasionally pausing to take a breather or admire the eye candy around him. Only the strongest bucks had made it this far, and he was not disappointed by the show they were putting on. He wasn’t sure why Sally didn’t make more of a move on the other bucks. She knew he wasn’t interested, but he never saw her with anyone else. It certainly wasn’t because she was shy. She dominated their discussions. The only reason he could get a word in edgeways now was because she was tired from the swimming.

Eventually, he made it to the top of the rapids, feeling a bit dizzy from the exertion. He looked around, calling for Sally, but he couldn’t see her around. Strange. He swam back and forth for a bit, waiting for her to appear, but as time went on he began to worry. He should have seen her by now, or at the very least she should have found him. She was creepily good at finding him.

He brushed up against something cold and turned to have a look. There was a morsel of food attached to… his blood ran cold(er). The subtle glint of metal shone through the food, the point of the hook just barely poking out. Salvatore swam to the surface and stuck out his head, looking at the riverbanks until he saw what he feared. Three humans on the left bank, each with a fishing rod. Even as he watched, though, they began to pack up. The human with short hair held up a hen to show the others and Salvatore instantly recognised Sally. She was still alive, but only just.

Salv began to swim frantically toward her, calling her name, but his voice didn’t carry well out of the water and either she didn’t hear him or she was too far gone to respond. The riverbank appeared before he noticed it and he landed hard on the rocks, bouncing back and forward as he gasped for breath. Something rough and strong picked him up in a grip as strong as a shark and the world pitched and rolled until finally he was put down in a small amount of water with three other salmon. Two were dead. The last was Sally, still flicking her tail weakly.

“You cray, Salv. Ain’t no reas fo ya’ll to be here.” She gasped.

“Quit playin Sal, lez clear. I wouldn’ta helped none of those playas anyway.” Salvatore could feel his brain slowing. “Better I conversate with my main girl, all lone.”

Sally smiled, then the light left her eyes. Salvatore stopped moving before the darkness took him, just lying with his best friend, enjoying the feel of her scales one last time.

This one is a bit different. I was tasked to write this with 3 main guidelines: It must be about homosexual salmon, if they speak it must be ghetto and if they die it must be through sustainable fishing. Now, I've never actually written from the perspective of a salmon before, nor tried to write 'ghetto', so I was VERY apprehensive about this. However, I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. I had to write a 'regular dialogue' version first, so that I could actually get to the end, then go back and change the words.

As always, comments and feedback are welcome.

Imogen

“You don’t have to keep going.” A small voice said from behind him.

Atlas looked back at Imogen. “Do what?”

She gestured at the tents, the people around them. “All this.”

“Of course I do.”

“You can stop.” Her hands were balled into fists.

“Gen, I have to do this."

“No you don’t!” She shouted.

Atlas shook his head, shocked. It was the first time she’d ever raised her voice with him. “Don’t you remember what the Empire has done to us? To our parents?”

“Of course.” She echoed. “But you’ve done enough. We’ve had our due. We don’t need to keep fighting anymore.”

“If we stop now, everything will go back to how it was. The Empire will go back to how it was. Nothing will have changed.”

“And if we don’t stop now, we’ll be no different from they are.” Imogen stepped closer, her grey eyes beginning to glisten with tears. The wind flicked her hair around her head. “Can’t you see what’s happening? What you’re becoming?”

“What would you have me do?” Atlas stepped towards her, his initial shock turning to anger. “The Empire needs to be overthrown. If not for us, then for everyone else, the generations to come.”

“Then let them fight this war.” She threw her hand out at the encampment. “Not you. You’ve done your part.”

Atlas looked at her incredulously. “Are you giving up?”

“No!” Imogen ran her hands through her hair. A tear escaped her left eye. “I’m not giving up, I’m letting go.”

Atlas looked at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, “What would you have me do?”

“We’ll sneak out while they sleep. We can take a boat, sail off in the night. We can come clean, start over.” She stepped closer. “Atlas, we have the rest of our lives. I don’t want to see you die for this cause.”

The wind died. To Atlas, the whole world ceased to move. The noise of the camp around them faded out of existence; all he could hear was Imogen’s breathing. Her heart thudded loudly in the silence, threatening to break free of her chest.

“I’m sorry, Gen.” He said finally. “I started this. I have to see it through to the end.”

The tear began to make its way down her face. She turned and began to walk away. “Then you’ll have to go on without me.”

“Imogen, stop!” Atlas grabbed her hand.

“No!” She yanked her hand away and stepped back. Her face was filled with fury, but none of it touched the sorrow in her beautiful grey eyes. “When I first met you, you knew what you were trying to do. You were trying to help people. To stop the suffering the Empire wrought.”

“I’m still trying to—”

“No, you’re not.” Imogen shook, her jaw clenched almost as tightly as her fists. “This isn’t about helping people anymore. You won’t stop until the Empire and everyone in it is either dead or in chains. You’ve long since stopped giving them a chance to redeem themselves.”

“They have killed our friends! Our family!”

“And we have killed theirs!”

They stared at each other, three feet apart and miles away. The camp around them truly had gone silent now, anyone nearby either politely leaving or listening intently.

“Why can’t you just let this go?” Imogen asked. “Why can’t you trust anyone else to do it?”

Atlas shook his head. “I just can’t. I need to finish this.”

Imogen stood for a long time, tremoring faintly. “Fine,” she said finally, running her hand through her hair. “Fine. But I won’t follow. I can’t watch you, what you’re becoming. I wish you luck, Atlas. And I hope you realise before it’s too late.”

“Gen, please…” Atlas held out his hand, but the grey-eyed girl just turned and walked away, disappearing in the maze of tents. He felt a drop of rain land on his outstretched hand, then another on his shoulder. The rain gradually increased, pouring from the grey sky, until Atlas felt he might drown under its weight.


Look! More Fifth Citadel!
Feedback and criticism is welcome.

The Slow Regard of Silent Things.

I finished this novel a few days ago and I felt the need to write about my feelings at the time of finally shutting the book. So I wrote.

The Slow Regard of Silent things is a book that ends on paper and not in your mind, a book that you close and hold and feel with your eyes closed and heart open and you feel. I have read books like this before, books that whisper to you when they're nearby, books that fill a hole in your soul that you didn't know existed and yet you know you are bigger inside for it. The Slow Regard of Silent Things is a rare thing, an experience more than a story and yet a story still. It makes me want to write and think and feel and laugh and love and look at the world in a way I haven't done before, in a way I'm not sure I can. Much of the book is spent finding things that are perfect, that fit in their place. This story fits, perfect and whole inside of you without pretending to be something that it is not. And if that's not enough to make you want to read it, I don't know what to give you.

Remember

The angel was heavy in Stacy’s arms, but still lighter than a person its size would normally be. Its eyes were open, staring, less a single colour and more a prism reflecting all light in different, constantly changing directions. Its skin was alabaster, not in colour but its smooth and unyielding nature. No, it was paler than alabaster, an almost blinding whiteness matched only by the wings that unfolded from its back. The wings were spread wider than the angel was tall, the tips only just brushing the ground, far to each side. The feathers that touched the ground were wet and gold from the pool of blood that spread gradually around Stacy, steadily dripping from the gaping hole in the angel’s chest. The angel’s eyes moved slowly, ponderously, until they met Stacy’s.

“You caught me.” It said. It did not speak the words, but Stacy heard them regardless.

Not trusting herself to speak, Stacy simply nodded, tears streaming from her eyes. She couldn't remember when she had started to cry. The angel seemed to sigh, although whether it was capable of breathing Stacy was unsure. The prismatic eyes burned brighter for a moment and Stacy was aware of the angel’s hand at her temple. She hadn’t seen it move.

“Remember this, Stacy.” The angel spoke-without-speaking. “When the darkness draws close, when you feel you have lost your way, remember this.”

Stacy felt a searing pain in her temple and screamed, her entire body convulsing, soaking her jeans further in the golden blood. Before she was aware that she made a noise, the pain was over and the angel’s arm was back in its lap.

“How do I fix this?” Stacy’s voice came out cracked and broken. She didn’t know how long she had been crying for. “How do I help you?”

The angel smiled, an expression so full of kindness and benevolence that Stacy almost forgot that it was dying. “You cannot help.” It replied. “My time is done. Such is the will.”

The angel drew in a breath and let it out slowly, the sound like a flock of doves taking flight. By the time it had finished sighing, Stacy was alone, kneeling in a room she didn’t recognise, her hands soaked with the blood of an angel. She stayed in that position, crying until her eyes dried up and then for a while longer. The blood dripped like honey, each drop swallowed eagerly by the pool under her. Her temple throbbed in time with her heart, but somehow she knew that it wasn’t her heartbeat she felt.

When her chest finally stopped heaving, she stood up. She had not noticed in her fugue state, but the golden blood had been slowly moving, draining from her jeans and forming a large shape around her; a circle but more complex, although she couldn’t say where or how. The blood began to glow softly, then brighter, then brighter still, until the entire room was awash in the golden radiance, so bright that Stacy had to close her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was in her room. Her jeans were dry, her hands clean, but she could still feel the blood on her palms and between her fingers. The pulsing in her temple had stopped, but not gone away. Stacy could feel it lurking just out of sight, waiting around the next corner, waiting until it was needed. A tsunami of exhaustion nearly brought her to her knees and she stumbled over to her bed, lying down fully dressed. She closed her eyes and within moments, woke up.




This was inspired by a couple of lines from Bridges, by Rise Against. If you listen to it you'll hear the ones I mean.

1.5: Infiltration

Estelle strode through the gardens with a confidence she did not feel. Her golden gown felt too long and she had to constantly try not to step on it lest she damage the material, or worse the facade of nobility she was trying so very hard to project. She could feel the two vials hidden in the cole at the back of her neck, the slim glass tubes cold against her skin. She imagined she could feel the one with the Taint inside pressing harder into her neck than the other, reaching for her. Shivering slightly, she walked a little faster.

The gardens were unlit save for the dim moonlight, but even without the broad path she would have had no trouble seeing where she was going. The sculpted mixture of vines and flowers, so vibrant in the sunlight, were now dull, muted. The night sucked the colour from them, leaving them looking grey and dead.

Ahead, Estelle saw a statue outside of a grand building that slowly seeped light and laughter and life. The statue faced the overflowing building in mid-stride, a spear held in his outstretched hand, as if he had been midway through charging the occupants when the lack of light froze him, locked his limbs and stole the fire from his eyes. Estelle hiked up her skirts as she made her way up the stairs, trying not to look down. A Lady knows where her own feet are, and does not trip or stumble. Estelle didn’t understand why they didn’t just wear longer pants.

There was an armed guard standing by the heavy wooden doors. His weapon seemed to shine despite the minimal light outside, the curved blade of the axe appearing spectral. He did not question Estelle’s late arrival to the ball, simply turned and pushed hard against one of the doors before standing aside. Light clawed at the door, pulling it open all the way and bursting out into the darkness, scrambling over the statue and the flowers before escaping into the night. Estelle stepped gracefully—she hoped—inside and the door swung to a close behind her, cutting off her only means of escape.

The crowd before her was a convoluted mess of colours and personalities, with well-dressed nobles criss-crossing each other’s paths at every moment, yet somehow none of them colliding or even breaking stride. It seemed to be in constant motion, each person a part in an incredibly complicated machine. On a raised platform behind the crush of bodies, the Duchess and her husband overlooked the celebrations. High above the couple was a balcony, where she had to be for the plan to work. A man stood with arms crossed, his ripped and pleated sleeves stopping just short of his elbows. His face looked darker than his vest as he surveyed the congregation below. The Captain of the Guard. He would be her main obstacle tonight.

She had a moment of indecision. This plan was crazy. There was absolutely no way she would get away with it. There was no way any of them were escaping this alive. Panic rose from her gut, clutching at her throat and attempting to escape as a scream. She swallowed it down and took a deep breath to centre herself. In the end, it didn’t matter if she escaped or not. What mattered was that she had to succeed. If she didn’t escape, well, that would be one life weighed against thousands. Estelle exhaled, letting her doubts escape with the breath, and set off through the crowd.

She struggled a little at first to anticipate the movements of the people around her, especially in this damned dress, but after a few near bumps she settled mostly into the flow of the crowd. It seemed to swell and flow, an unseen force guiding each person toward and around one another. She felt like a virus, infiltrating the system, not quite in tune with the rest of the organism. By the time she made it to the door on the opposite wall, she found herself flushed and breathless, far more than she would have expected from walking across a room, even one as large as this. She took a moment to regain her composure and make sure her cole was straight before opening the door and slipping through.

The short hallway beyond was almost startlingly dark and it took her eye a moment to adjust, the sharp edges and corners of the walls and the stairs at the end of the hallway lighting up ever so slightly. She walked between the spectral lines, slowing when she heard someone descending the stairs. She ducked into an alcove that would have been nearly invisible but for the lines she could see. A young man with a torch appeared on the stairwell, sharply dressed in a black and crimson uniform.

Damn, she thought to herself. There was only meant to be the Captain on guard tonight, and this would cause… complications. Still… perhaps she could use it to her advantage. She carefully withdrew the vial containing the Taint from the back of her cole, handling it with extreme caution. She shrank back into the alcove as the torch approached, then passed her. She crept from her hiding place and took short, sharp steps to close the distance between them quickly and silently. Looking into the flame drew forth too many lines and hurt her eyes, so she focused instead on the back of his head, each of his short hairs showing as a faint light. Timing her steps with his, Estelle uncapped the vial, reached around the man and attempted to pour as much of the viscous smoke down his throat as she could. Almost immediately, he bucked backwards, knocking her over and sending the vial flying. It didn’t matter. One look at his face told her all she needed to know. His eyes were already lined with darkness and the skin at his throat had swollen from the contact with the Taint. He collapsed to the floor, gasping ineffectually. Estelle backpedalled as fast as she could, scrambling backwards across the stone floor. She examined her hands, praying that none of the Taint had spilled onto her. After a few tense moments, she sighed and lay back down on the cold, hard ground. So far as she could tell, she was clean. For now.

Estelle picked herself up, dusting the dress off as best she could. She felt inside the back of her cole and was relieved to find that the other vial had not shattered. She allowed herself another breath to calm down once more, before leaving the Tainted man behind and ascending the stairs, staying vigilant for stray dress hems. The lines in the stone walls grew gradually clearer as light bloomed up ahead, the stairs opening to the balcony overlooking the ballroom. She hadn’t realised how quiet the hallway had been until the sounds of merriment swelled, washing down the stairs. Silhouetted against the light and laughter was the Captain of the Guard, Pret Deavos. He was facing away from her, thankfully, standing with his hands on the railing before him. His sword sat at his left hip, pistol at his right. He seemed intent on the scene before him so she took her chances, slipping each weapon from its sheath as quietly as she could. She’d barely unholstered the pistol when he reached down for it, nearly knocking it from her hand. She stepped back and pressed against the wall, out of his reach, and pointed the pistol at him. Despite the adrenaline coursing through her body, her hand stayed mercifully still. He looked down at his belt where his sword should be and moved a hand to the scabbard even as he saw that it was empty. Estelle decided to end his confusion by delicately coughing. Deavos whirled to face her and she saw in his eyes his decision to try to grab her, so she cocked the pistol and shook her head. His hair had more than a touch of grey in it, but judging by the rest of him that was due more to stress than age. He might not have quite been in his prime anymore, but he was still definitely solidly built. And, she had to admit, not unattractive.

“I was expecting more from the Captain of the Guard.” She said, trying to sound nonchalant. This was the Captain of the Guard, and she had just disarmed him without a hitch. Something had to go wrong. “You men are all so brutish, so heavy-handed. You don’t even notice when a lighter touch is used.” His face darkened further at her needling. It was perhaps unwise to intentionally antagonise him, but for this to work she needed him emotional.

When he spoke, his voice was rough, gravelly. “How did you get past Marc?”

“Oh dear, that wasn’t the man you sent to look after me, was it?” She brought her eyebrows together in exaggerated sympathy. “I’m afraid he won’t be waking up tonight. Whether he wakes at all… well, that’s up to what you do now. You see, he someone swallowed a lethal dose of the Taint. However, I happen to have a dose of the cure here.” She let the sword lean against the wall and reached into her cole for the other vial. It contained a curious reflection of the other vial, a faintly transparent liquid that danced around itself.

Estelle began to panic when the Captain seemed to lock up. Maybe this hadn’t been the right way to play this. She should have stuck to the plan, let the younger man go and use the Taint on Deavos. It was stupid to change it, stupid—

“For all I know, you’re lying.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying his fear. Estelle didn’t blame him. The Taint was an atrocious sickness, but her mission had to succeed, even with the possible damage the Taint would do here if left unchecked.

She tilted her head, trying to get a read on the man. This was the crux of the conversation. If she failed now…

“Can you really take that chance?” She asked. Then, before he could formulate an answer, she threw the vial towards the stairs and ran headlong for the balcony, leaping off and falling down toward the Duchess and her husband, followed by Deavos’ anguished yell.

Had a few short pieces lately, and I feel like this one sorta makes up for that. Didn't really mean for it to get as long as it did, but I think it worked out. Any feedback is of course welcome.

Hope

David looked down on the small valley from his hillside camp, down at the sprawling mass of bodies. Small fires flickered here and there, spluttering points of light dully illuminating the couple of thousand refugees, or rebels, or whatever they were. Most of the time, they were both. Those who had been prepared or were lucky scavengers rested in tents, while the rest slept on pallets or the hard dirt. Little grew in this harsh soil but a few brambles, stubbornly refusing to die. These people fit this place well, David thought. Repeatedly refusing to give in to punishment, abuse and starvation. Perhaps in future the brambles would be able to reclaim this arid ditch, soften the soil for trees and flowers to come.
   These people worked as one, sharing resources as best they could and marching together to Emerate, the last free city, which, for all anyone knew, was nothing more than a myth. Surely, they said, if Emerate had ever existed, then the Corporation would have found it by now. Found it and razed it to the ground. But the rebels pushed on, clinging to what little hope they had. Hope was all they had left. 
   David knew he should be getting some rest so he could think clearly tomorrow and lead the people--his people--further east.There was a faint glow on the horizon, and though it could be merely a trick of the light--Cayn knows how often that had happened--something about it made him almost certain it was what they were looking for. 
   He watched his followers for a minute longer, and then ducked into his tent and lay down to sleep.