Draven sat on a smooth granite boulder that was more than half buried in the earth, leaning back against the fencepost that butted against the stone and taking a rare break from his chores. Since his brothers had left more of the work had fallen to him and he had much less time to goof off, but he knew his family wouldn’t begrudge him a few stolen moments. His thick fingers were surprisingly nimble as he braided sections of his beard idly, twisting the thick hairs to bind the ends of the braids.
His mind drifted into a stream of consciousness that led him from one memory of Eva to another, her laugh and her smile. Her warm whiskey colored eyes, her honey and strawberry scent, the feel of her in his arms. She was his first love, a human noble who had stopped at the Darius farm to have her sister’s mare re-shod and their first encounter had ended with her pinning him to the ground under her knee.
In spite of the training she’d already obviously had, Eva had asked him to teach her how to fight, she didn’t like relying on others to protect her and Draven was only too happy to teach her what he knew. She’d taken to dual wielding short swords like a duck to water, which suited her petite frame, barely an inch taller than him, and she was a quick study in hand to hand as well. Draven closed his eyes and recalled their sparring matches, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth at the thought of how many of those matches ended in a hot and sweaty tumble in their secret meadow.
They were an unusual pair, human and dwarf, noble and farmer, and yet they complimented each other as rain did spring. Neither of their families knew about their relationship, they’d surely frown on it for any number of reasons, but the idea of being without Eva caused them both physical pain so they held their secret close.
Draven heard footsteps and his eyes opened to find Lord Townsend looming over him, Eva’s father, and his heart lurched into his throat. The human was very tall, towering over Draven at six foot four and staring down his narrow nose at him, his gray eyes cold and menacing.
“Dwarf,” he began in a low voice that was just as cold as his eyes. “You shame my house with your low and shabby self. You dare to lay your hands on my daughter, to violate her and steal her maidenhead, making her useless to me.”
With every poisonous word Lord Townsend spoke Draven found his frame vibrating more and more with fury, his hands fisted at his sides.
“And now, to add insult to injury, your filthy seed has taken root inside her traitorous belly.”
Draven felt the blood drain from his face. “Eva is pregnant?” Hearing the word out loud didn’t make it feel any more real, he had to see her, had to get her away from her toxic father and without waiting for Lord Townsend to utter another word Draven hopped up onto the boulder and launched himself at the man, swinging one meaty fist and landing a solid blow that laid the human out.
Running the five paces to Lord Townsend’s horse he pulled himself into the saddle and dug his heels into the animal’s sides, sending the stallion lurching forward. The 20 minute run into town felt like an hour, scenery passing in what felt like slow motion until finally Draven pulled the horse to a sliding halt in front of Eva’s house, leaping from the saddle and running through the front door.
“Eva! Eva!” Draven called out to her and was only met with the screams of scared servants. Bolting up the stairs he looked up and down the long second floor hallway, his blue eyes locking on a matronly figure blocking the farthest door. Turning to his right he ran at her and with a shriek she pressed herself to the wall, allowing Draven to throw the door open where he found… nothing.
It was clear that this was Eva’s room; her clothes lay scattered across the floor, spilling from an open armoire and her scent still hung in the air, as familiar to him as his own, but the room was empty. It was when he noticed the toppled furniture that his heart rate doubled, she’d been taken by force, but to where? Spinning on his heel he marched to the woman cowering in the hall, clutching her dress in an iron grip and she raised her hands in a feeble attempt to ward him off.
“Where is she?!” His voice was like thunder, loud and demanding her attention but she seemed incapable of speaking instead of wailing and Draven pushed her away in frustration, storming out of the house and making his way home on foot.
That evening he told his family over dinner that he was leaving, he told them of his love for Eva and his need to find her and their child and the support he’d hoped for, that he’d counted on, was there in abundance.
Dawn found him on the road, The Diplomat strapped to his back and a small satchel of food and clothes slung over one shoulder. In spite of his worry and his fears about Eva there was a spring in his step, and memories of her touch and her easy laughter kept his spirit light and hopeful, after all as she always said: It’s an adventure.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Karic Asani
The moon was full, hanging heavy and pregnant against the star speckled sky of the October night, its eerie silver light glancing across the landscape like a skipped stone. The winter air was crisp, freezing any water it could find and turning fields of grass into glittering carpets of blue white crystals by dawn. Evergreen needles donned thin robes of ice and the banks of the river had started to fan outward with thin icy fingers, one side reaching for the other like long separated lovers.
Karic huddled inside his heavy woolen cloak, the deep hood pulled up to shield his face from the biting wind and his azure eyes stared intently from the dark recess at the two shadowed figures in the distance. A milky fog was struggling its way into existence, wafting upward in thin tendrils that wrapped around his legs and Karic didn’t know whether to blame the fog or what he was seeing for keeping him rooted to the spot.
He and Winter had been recruited into the Althinians at the same time but hadn’t actually met until eight years into their training, finding themselves assigned the same target, and the assignment instantly became a contest. Their methods were both similar and different, having received the same training; however they each had their own preferences. Karic liked his bullets to only stun his targets, enabling him to move in for a close up kill while Winter preferred the quick and clean from a distance approach.
Another two years passed in friendship and camaraderie, yet with each passing day Karic noticed more and more that he was looking at his friend with different eyes, was seeing him in a new light. Fear gripped him at the thought of being rejected, of being brushed off or completely losing Winter and that fear lodged in his throat like a fist. Karic could recall in perfect detail the moment that fear was proven to be unnecessary, the moment when in his rash, impulsive way Winter had pulled him under the sheltering arms of a willow and pressed a kiss to his lips.
Karic let two years’ worth of memories play through his mind while he watched Winter now, two years of passion and laughter and quiet intimate moments. And now Winter held a woman in his arms, his cloak encasing their bodies as they kissed passionately, the sounds of their desire and hunger for each other being carried on the wind to Karic’s ears and he flinched as though wounded. The wind brought him her name, whispered in Winter’s velvety voice, and with that name was born in Karic a burning sense of betrayal. Lyna. Another Althinian.
He didn’t want to see any more. Didn’t want to hear any more. Turning on his heel Karic made his way into the night, his heart hammering in his chest, the broken pieces beating against his sternum like trapped birds with each step he took toward the Althinian compound.
Their confrontation was ugly; aren’t they always? Blame and guilt, pain and sadness, anger and loss. Winter tried to explain, to make Karic understand, but he wouldn’t hear it. Karic couldn’t bear the thought of Winter loving someone else, and with each word from his lover’s lips he felt his pain and hurt turn to anger and hate.
Days later Karic was promoted in the wake of their leader’s death, taking up the mantel of ruling the Althinians and under the façade of a finely woven lie his first official order was to kill Winter and Lyna.
They ran.
For two years Karic’s agents tracked them, trailed them and hounded them across continents; always a step behind until at last they were found hiding in a small unassuming village a month’s travel from home. The report was finally delivered in person by those who had killed Winter; they shared every detail of the final chase, of the beating they had meted out on him and of the killing blow. They described the sound of breaking bones and the smell of his blood. They explained that the woman had escaped but they would continue to hunt her.
Karic waved them away.
Standing at his window he stared out across the icy landscape beyond the glass, his mind trying to process all that he’d been told and presenting him with an image of Winter’s gruesomely beaten, broken and bloodied body lying abandoned in some far away foreign land. With a sudden wave of nausea he pushed the window open and retched onto the lower roof, his eyes watering and his knees going weak as he lay doubled over the windowsill.
Never again would he allow anyone get that close; in that moment, with the knowledge that Winter was dead, he refused to feel this kind of pain ever again. The betrayal he’d harbored for two years, that he’d nurtured and fed with the memory of his lover’s lips on someone else’s flesh, hardened into a protective skin that no one would ever get under.
Karic huddled inside his heavy woolen cloak, the deep hood pulled up to shield his face from the biting wind and his azure eyes stared intently from the dark recess at the two shadowed figures in the distance. A milky fog was struggling its way into existence, wafting upward in thin tendrils that wrapped around his legs and Karic didn’t know whether to blame the fog or what he was seeing for keeping him rooted to the spot.
He and Winter had been recruited into the Althinians at the same time but hadn’t actually met until eight years into their training, finding themselves assigned the same target, and the assignment instantly became a contest. Their methods were both similar and different, having received the same training; however they each had their own preferences. Karic liked his bullets to only stun his targets, enabling him to move in for a close up kill while Winter preferred the quick and clean from a distance approach.
Another two years passed in friendship and camaraderie, yet with each passing day Karic noticed more and more that he was looking at his friend with different eyes, was seeing him in a new light. Fear gripped him at the thought of being rejected, of being brushed off or completely losing Winter and that fear lodged in his throat like a fist. Karic could recall in perfect detail the moment that fear was proven to be unnecessary, the moment when in his rash, impulsive way Winter had pulled him under the sheltering arms of a willow and pressed a kiss to his lips.
Karic let two years’ worth of memories play through his mind while he watched Winter now, two years of passion and laughter and quiet intimate moments. And now Winter held a woman in his arms, his cloak encasing their bodies as they kissed passionately, the sounds of their desire and hunger for each other being carried on the wind to Karic’s ears and he flinched as though wounded. The wind brought him her name, whispered in Winter’s velvety voice, and with that name was born in Karic a burning sense of betrayal. Lyna. Another Althinian.
He didn’t want to see any more. Didn’t want to hear any more. Turning on his heel Karic made his way into the night, his heart hammering in his chest, the broken pieces beating against his sternum like trapped birds with each step he took toward the Althinian compound.
Their confrontation was ugly; aren’t they always? Blame and guilt, pain and sadness, anger and loss. Winter tried to explain, to make Karic understand, but he wouldn’t hear it. Karic couldn’t bear the thought of Winter loving someone else, and with each word from his lover’s lips he felt his pain and hurt turn to anger and hate.
Days later Karic was promoted in the wake of their leader’s death, taking up the mantel of ruling the Althinians and under the façade of a finely woven lie his first official order was to kill Winter and Lyna.
They ran.
For two years Karic’s agents tracked them, trailed them and hounded them across continents; always a step behind until at last they were found hiding in a small unassuming village a month’s travel from home. The report was finally delivered in person by those who had killed Winter; they shared every detail of the final chase, of the beating they had meted out on him and of the killing blow. They described the sound of breaking bones and the smell of his blood. They explained that the woman had escaped but they would continue to hunt her.
Karic waved them away.
Standing at his window he stared out across the icy landscape beyond the glass, his mind trying to process all that he’d been told and presenting him with an image of Winter’s gruesomely beaten, broken and bloodied body lying abandoned in some far away foreign land. With a sudden wave of nausea he pushed the window open and retched onto the lower roof, his eyes watering and his knees going weak as he lay doubled over the windowsill.
Never again would he allow anyone get that close; in that moment, with the knowledge that Winter was dead, he refused to feel this kind of pain ever again. The betrayal he’d harbored for two years, that he’d nurtured and fed with the memory of his lover’s lips on someone else’s flesh, hardened into a protective skin that no one would ever get under.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Bubbles
“Please?”
“Questions!? No questions!”
“Really, bro?”
“Seriously, sis. I said no!”
“Tell me why!”
“Usually mom deals with this crap!”
“Very funny, you know mom is dead.”
“Why are you asking me for this now? We’re adults!?”
“Xanthippe! That’s who you always said I was.”
“Yes, you can be.”
“Zero risk here, bro.”
“Again with your persistence! You know I hate them.”
“Baffling!”
“Come on, you know the potential risk!”
“Damn you, bro! Get over it!”
“Enough! This is ridiculous.”
“Finally, you see reason.”
“Go away then, I don’t want to see them!”
“How can you let this be a big deal!?”
“I hate them even if you don’t, always have!”
“Just watch; be careful with them and all will be well.”
“Keep them over there then.”
“Least you can do is trust me to handle them with care.”
“Mom showed you how to do it?”
“Not going to abandon you no matter how messy it may get.”
“Open the bubble bottle.”
Diamonds on her wrist and whiskey on her tongue
It was a perfectly extravagant moment, she was aware of this on every level. The view. The music. Her surroundings. Her dress. All of it, excessive and extravagant.
The gunmetal silk of her simply designed dress clung to her in all the right places and felt like an angel’s whisper against her skin; the span between the narrow straps suspending a cascade of black and silver beads that draped down her bare back, moving and sparking in the warm moonlight. An almost touchable breeze blew across her arms and legs, inconstant and tantalizing as a lover’s teasing fingertips and the sensation brought a secret smile to her burgundy lips.
Her long ebony hair was swept up into a loose pile of curls and waves, creamy gardenias and diamond pins scattered through the heavy mass, the scent intoxicating and she was happy to be taking this moment in the center of such a heady cloud. Strains of Spanish influenced guitar accompanied by a violin wafted through the crowd, weaving through and wrapping around bodies and minds, lulling and seducing with the pull of a bow and the pluck of a sting.
She leaned against the low wall that edged the balcony, smoked glass and bright chrome, a heavy cut crystal glass dangling from her polished fingertips as her smoke gray eyes drank in the view of the valley at her feet.
This was one of those moments. Everything was perfect. The music, the location, the feel of the air; this time and place could never be duplicated and she was acutely aware of its perfection and yet she didn’t feel the need to try to hold onto it. She was content to let it hold her, and hold it briefly in return.
Turning around she leaned back against the low wall, closing her eyes and letting herself completely soak in this perfect bite of life with diamonds on her wrist and whiskey on her tongue.
The gunmetal silk of her simply designed dress clung to her in all the right places and felt like an angel’s whisper against her skin; the span between the narrow straps suspending a cascade of black and silver beads that draped down her bare back, moving and sparking in the warm moonlight. An almost touchable breeze blew across her arms and legs, inconstant and tantalizing as a lover’s teasing fingertips and the sensation brought a secret smile to her burgundy lips.
Her long ebony hair was swept up into a loose pile of curls and waves, creamy gardenias and diamond pins scattered through the heavy mass, the scent intoxicating and she was happy to be taking this moment in the center of such a heady cloud. Strains of Spanish influenced guitar accompanied by a violin wafted through the crowd, weaving through and wrapping around bodies and minds, lulling and seducing with the pull of a bow and the pluck of a sting.
She leaned against the low wall that edged the balcony, smoked glass and bright chrome, a heavy cut crystal glass dangling from her polished fingertips as her smoke gray eyes drank in the view of the valley at her feet.
This was one of those moments. Everything was perfect. The music, the location, the feel of the air; this time and place could never be duplicated and she was acutely aware of its perfection and yet she didn’t feel the need to try to hold onto it. She was content to let it hold her, and hold it briefly in return.
Turning around she leaned back against the low wall, closing her eyes and letting herself completely soak in this perfect bite of life with diamonds on her wrist and whiskey on her tongue.
Monday, April 29, 2013
No Good Story Start With a Salad
My bare feet struck the pavement and sent jolts of pain from my heels straight up my shinbones, the sensation rattling around the underside of my kneecaps like a copper bell clapper. The oxygen I gulped into my lungs burned like napalm, feeling thick and sticky in my throat, coating my mouth and sinuses. I didn’t know where my would-be assailant was, I couldn’t hear their feet pounding the asphalt behind me or any heavy breathing in my wake, but I wasn’t fool enough to think they had given up their pursuit, not after what I’d already seen them do.
It had been a normal day, nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all, and if someone had told me when I woke up that by lunchtime I’d be running for my life I’d have thought them insane. Now I had to question my own sanity; had I really seen that woman sprout wings and fly? Surely not. But I thought… could she have… it’s not possible… was it?
I’d just finished paying for my Caesar salad and was making my way through the cafeteria toward the table where my coworkers Beth and Carrie were waiting for me, and the sudden appearance of a tall raven-haired woman in my path brought me up short. I’d stared up into the depths of her mink brown eyes, marveling at the gold and copper flecks that almost seemed to sparkle in the pale fluorescent lighting and I found I was stunned into silence for a moment at the remarkable beauty of her.
Five foot eight with legs for days that sprouted from the hem of a cherry red dress drew the attention of almost everyone in the room and all conversation faded into silence, all eyes watching her. She had honeyed golden skin and full breasts that the seemed to be contained by the plunging neckline of her dress as if by magic, the enticing expanse of skin drawing my gaze for a span of heartbeats before I met her eyes again.
She stepped closer to me, taking my lunch tray and handing it off without looking, just knowing someone would take it from her and when I moved to take a step back out of natural ‘personal space’ instinct her hands shot out and gripped my shoulders, pulling me against the length of her curvaceous body. Her voice was low when she spoke, a whisper like dark promises of ecstasy, the sound making my mind slip sideways and completely forget about the large audience we had accumulated.
“You’re the one,” she said softly, “You’re the one I’ve been looking for.”
It was when I realized that her body didn’t feel hot against mine that a warning bell started going off in my head, a woman like this should have been generating enough heat to bake bread but instead she was cold, her skin radiating a chill that penetrated my knit shirt and broke my arms out in goose bumps. I again tried to move away but her long fingers were like steel, her nails digging into the flesh of my arms almost painfully as she spoke again, lowering her head so I felt her lips moving against mine as she spoke.
“It’s painless, Julie, a small price for endless payoff.”
I had no idea what she was talking about but each word felt like it was pulling at my core, a thin silken thread tugging at something rooted inside me and the sensation brought my fight or flight instinct to life. With every ounce of will power I could muster I managed to remain calm, trying to lull her info a sense of victory; I brought my hands up slowly, sliding them across her stomach, over her ribs, brushing the sides of her breasts before coming to rest on her chest and with a small inhale I shoved for all I was worth.
She teetered on feet I was surprised to see were bare, her toenails polished a bright red, and when she stumbled backwards I turned and ran. I heard her come after me almost immediately, her feet slapping the tiled cafeteria floor, and in an effort to slow her down I grabbed the large bowl of lettuce from the salad bar as I ran past it, turning and hurling it at her. She batted it aside but the fact that I’d thrown something at her seemed to genuinely shock her; and then she was angry about it.
I could feel the air thicken, coalescing around her and she became buoyant in the heavy mass, her feet rising slowly off the floor. When the pearlescent wings of semi-transparent light erupted from her back I didn’t wait around to see any more, I turned and ran, letting my sandals fall away almost unnoticed as I bolted out the front door of my office and down the crowded streets of mid-town.
And now here I was, being chased by Gods knew what, and the massive stitch in my side finally forced me to stop. I ducked into a narrow alley and fought to catch my breath as quietly as I could, pressing the heel of one hand into my ribs in an effort to relieve the pain in my side. My feet ached and my clothes were wet with sweat, my hair disheveled and my mind still racing.
When she materialized in front of me I realized my mistake, the narrow alley I’d hoped would have been small enough to go unnoticed by her was also too small for me to maneuver within; I’d effectively trapped myself.
With the speed of a whip strike she grabbed my wrists and bent them behind the small of my back, leaning her body into mine and using our weight to pin them there. Extracting one of her hands she reached up and cradled my face against her palm, threading her fingers into my hair and tilting my head back. Was she a vampire I wondered, even while realizing how absurd that sounded, but what other explanation was there?
“I’m not here to hurt you, Julie,” she said in that silken purring voice. “I’m here to help you. To heal you.”
Without any warning she pressed her mouth to mine, her lips soft yet demanding and the pressure of her tongue parted my own lips and let her slip inside. She tasted of wine and roses, honeyed pears and nectar, and the sensation of her exploration sapped the fight from me. I again felt that tugging deep at my core, something pulling and yanking and the feeling instantly changed from odd to painful as whatever she was pulling on was ripped free.
She stepped back suddenly, doubling over while deep coughs wracked her frame. After a few moments she grew silent, her breathing gone soft, and as she straightened up I looked down at the black, gnarled mass resting in the palm of her hand. It smelled of death and decay and I wrinkled my nose at it.
“This is the cancer that was growing in your heart.”
Her words felt like a blow to my chest! What had just happened? I was trembling and with a strange gesture the black mass disappeared and she gently took my hands, her touch strangely warm and soothing now. She shushed me when I opened my mouth to speak, a smile curving her lips, “Don’t squander this chance. Live loud and passionately and regret nothing.” And with those parting words she was gone.
I glanced around the empty alleyway, my now healthy heart hammering in my chest, my world view forever altered and I started laughing almost hysterically, speaking out loud to myself as I made my way slowly back to work, “Whoever said no good story starts with salad was wrong.”
It had been a normal day, nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all, and if someone had told me when I woke up that by lunchtime I’d be running for my life I’d have thought them insane. Now I had to question my own sanity; had I really seen that woman sprout wings and fly? Surely not. But I thought… could she have… it’s not possible… was it?
I’d just finished paying for my Caesar salad and was making my way through the cafeteria toward the table where my coworkers Beth and Carrie were waiting for me, and the sudden appearance of a tall raven-haired woman in my path brought me up short. I’d stared up into the depths of her mink brown eyes, marveling at the gold and copper flecks that almost seemed to sparkle in the pale fluorescent lighting and I found I was stunned into silence for a moment at the remarkable beauty of her.
Five foot eight with legs for days that sprouted from the hem of a cherry red dress drew the attention of almost everyone in the room and all conversation faded into silence, all eyes watching her. She had honeyed golden skin and full breasts that the seemed to be contained by the plunging neckline of her dress as if by magic, the enticing expanse of skin drawing my gaze for a span of heartbeats before I met her eyes again.
She stepped closer to me, taking my lunch tray and handing it off without looking, just knowing someone would take it from her and when I moved to take a step back out of natural ‘personal space’ instinct her hands shot out and gripped my shoulders, pulling me against the length of her curvaceous body. Her voice was low when she spoke, a whisper like dark promises of ecstasy, the sound making my mind slip sideways and completely forget about the large audience we had accumulated.
“You’re the one,” she said softly, “You’re the one I’ve been looking for.”
It was when I realized that her body didn’t feel hot against mine that a warning bell started going off in my head, a woman like this should have been generating enough heat to bake bread but instead she was cold, her skin radiating a chill that penetrated my knit shirt and broke my arms out in goose bumps. I again tried to move away but her long fingers were like steel, her nails digging into the flesh of my arms almost painfully as she spoke again, lowering her head so I felt her lips moving against mine as she spoke.
“It’s painless, Julie, a small price for endless payoff.”
I had no idea what she was talking about but each word felt like it was pulling at my core, a thin silken thread tugging at something rooted inside me and the sensation brought my fight or flight instinct to life. With every ounce of will power I could muster I managed to remain calm, trying to lull her info a sense of victory; I brought my hands up slowly, sliding them across her stomach, over her ribs, brushing the sides of her breasts before coming to rest on her chest and with a small inhale I shoved for all I was worth.
She teetered on feet I was surprised to see were bare, her toenails polished a bright red, and when she stumbled backwards I turned and ran. I heard her come after me almost immediately, her feet slapping the tiled cafeteria floor, and in an effort to slow her down I grabbed the large bowl of lettuce from the salad bar as I ran past it, turning and hurling it at her. She batted it aside but the fact that I’d thrown something at her seemed to genuinely shock her; and then she was angry about it.
I could feel the air thicken, coalescing around her and she became buoyant in the heavy mass, her feet rising slowly off the floor. When the pearlescent wings of semi-transparent light erupted from her back I didn’t wait around to see any more, I turned and ran, letting my sandals fall away almost unnoticed as I bolted out the front door of my office and down the crowded streets of mid-town.
And now here I was, being chased by Gods knew what, and the massive stitch in my side finally forced me to stop. I ducked into a narrow alley and fought to catch my breath as quietly as I could, pressing the heel of one hand into my ribs in an effort to relieve the pain in my side. My feet ached and my clothes were wet with sweat, my hair disheveled and my mind still racing.
When she materialized in front of me I realized my mistake, the narrow alley I’d hoped would have been small enough to go unnoticed by her was also too small for me to maneuver within; I’d effectively trapped myself.
With the speed of a whip strike she grabbed my wrists and bent them behind the small of my back, leaning her body into mine and using our weight to pin them there. Extracting one of her hands she reached up and cradled my face against her palm, threading her fingers into my hair and tilting my head back. Was she a vampire I wondered, even while realizing how absurd that sounded, but what other explanation was there?
“I’m not here to hurt you, Julie,” she said in that silken purring voice. “I’m here to help you. To heal you.”
Without any warning she pressed her mouth to mine, her lips soft yet demanding and the pressure of her tongue parted my own lips and let her slip inside. She tasted of wine and roses, honeyed pears and nectar, and the sensation of her exploration sapped the fight from me. I again felt that tugging deep at my core, something pulling and yanking and the feeling instantly changed from odd to painful as whatever she was pulling on was ripped free.
She stepped back suddenly, doubling over while deep coughs wracked her frame. After a few moments she grew silent, her breathing gone soft, and as she straightened up I looked down at the black, gnarled mass resting in the palm of her hand. It smelled of death and decay and I wrinkled my nose at it.
“This is the cancer that was growing in your heart.”
Her words felt like a blow to my chest! What had just happened? I was trembling and with a strange gesture the black mass disappeared and she gently took my hands, her touch strangely warm and soothing now. She shushed me when I opened my mouth to speak, a smile curving her lips, “Don’t squander this chance. Live loud and passionately and regret nothing.” And with those parting words she was gone.
I glanced around the empty alleyway, my now healthy heart hammering in my chest, my world view forever altered and I started laughing almost hysterically, speaking out loud to myself as I made my way slowly back to work, “Whoever said no good story starts with salad was wrong.”
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Exhausted
His sword was heavy, feeling twice its normal weight as gravity fought to pull it from his tired hands. The muscles in his shoulders and legs ached and burned, his back screaming in pain while his head continued to ring like a bell from the last three strikes to his helmet.
A sea of bodies stretched as far as he could see, lying quiet in some places while in others still swelling slightly with the final breaths of the dying. The air felt thick and the metallic scent of blood coated his mouth, overpowering the fragrance of damp earth, which was typically found across the countryside.
His brown eyes scanned the vast battlefield, verifying that all his opponents had been defeated while at the same time taking in the number of his own men he lost in the process. The number was staggering.
Since he was old enough to hold a sword he’d been trained to be a warrior; sword and shield and staff and bow, these were the tools of his craft and he had become a master, an artist of death. His body bore the scars where his enemy had exploited a weakness or pressed an advantage, and yet he still always emerged the victor, his bloody face the last thing the dying men saw before shrugging off their mortal coil.
And here he stood again, the triumphant battle master, and yet now he had no desire to hold his bloodied sword aloft and cry out in victory. He took no pride in the fact that he had survived and won, that the Duke he served would again shower him with money and gifts; he just didn't see the value of it anymore.
Raising his eyes he looked past the expanse of bodies, up to the horizon and the fringe of trees that seemed to beckon him like a siren beckoned sailors, but in their silhouette he didn't see his demise but rather his rebirth. A thought of a life of violence and endless warmongering felt like iron armor, heavy and oppressive and smothering and suddenly he couldn't breathe.
Reaching up with one blood caked hand he frantically pulled his helmet off, dropping the elaborately crafted metal into the mud and gasping for air, filling his lungs to capacity in spite of the metallic taste. Taking one shaky step forward he let his sword fall to the ground, fumbled with the leather straps that held his chest and back plates in place until they too fell. Piece by piece he stripped his armor away as he staggered, half ran, half stumbled and occasionally crawled over the dead and dying toward the distant tree line.
As his last greave clattered to the ground he collapsed to his knees at the base of a huge pine tree, his bloodied hands clinging to it as he might to a long lost lover, his cheek pressed to the rough bark and he expelled a shaky breath. Pushing himself to his feet he moved deeper into the forest’s embrace, exhausted but finally truly alive.
A sea of bodies stretched as far as he could see, lying quiet in some places while in others still swelling slightly with the final breaths of the dying. The air felt thick and the metallic scent of blood coated his mouth, overpowering the fragrance of damp earth, which was typically found across the countryside.
His brown eyes scanned the vast battlefield, verifying that all his opponents had been defeated while at the same time taking in the number of his own men he lost in the process. The number was staggering.
Since he was old enough to hold a sword he’d been trained to be a warrior; sword and shield and staff and bow, these were the tools of his craft and he had become a master, an artist of death. His body bore the scars where his enemy had exploited a weakness or pressed an advantage, and yet he still always emerged the victor, his bloody face the last thing the dying men saw before shrugging off their mortal coil.
And here he stood again, the triumphant battle master, and yet now he had no desire to hold his bloodied sword aloft and cry out in victory. He took no pride in the fact that he had survived and won, that the Duke he served would again shower him with money and gifts; he just didn't see the value of it anymore.
Raising his eyes he looked past the expanse of bodies, up to the horizon and the fringe of trees that seemed to beckon him like a siren beckoned sailors, but in their silhouette he didn't see his demise but rather his rebirth. A thought of a life of violence and endless warmongering felt like iron armor, heavy and oppressive and smothering and suddenly he couldn't breathe.
Reaching up with one blood caked hand he frantically pulled his helmet off, dropping the elaborately crafted metal into the mud and gasping for air, filling his lungs to capacity in spite of the metallic taste. Taking one shaky step forward he let his sword fall to the ground, fumbled with the leather straps that held his chest and back plates in place until they too fell. Piece by piece he stripped his armor away as he staggered, half ran, half stumbled and occasionally crawled over the dead and dying toward the distant tree line.
As his last greave clattered to the ground he collapsed to his knees at the base of a huge pine tree, his bloodied hands clinging to it as he might to a long lost lover, his cheek pressed to the rough bark and he expelled a shaky breath. Pushing himself to his feet he moved deeper into the forest’s embrace, exhausted but finally truly alive.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Gypsy
Standing among the press of gawkers who always seem to gather at crime scenes, all of them thinking better them than me; one pair of emerald eyes watched the activity of the police as they walked around, appearing to have no purpose other than to distract the on-lookers from the victim’s sheet draped body. A light drizzle of rain fell from the night sky, shimmering in the light of the nearly full moon and coating everything in fine dew.
She watched him crouch down by the body, lifting the sheet that clung damply to the cold flesh he looked up at the others standing nearby, motioning angrily at the body he dropped and sheet and stood. Stepping toward a plain clothes officer, he jabbed his finger into the man’s chest to punctuate each bitten off word, forcing the officer backward. With a final word he turned and stormed away, the wet leather of his jacket giving off steam from the heat of the body within.
She watched the exchange and her gaze followed his progress across the parking lot and into the black Camero, its tires slipping for a moment on the slick pavement before the rubber got traction and launched the car into the night. She made her way through the crowd, having to push people aside with her elbows; and she walked up the street in the direction the car had gone.
At midnight on a Thursday the streets were relatively deserted, making it easier to follow the tracks left by the Camero. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she kept her eyes on the tire tracks and walked into the wind, squinting again the swirling drizzle. After several blocks she spotted the car parked at an angle in front of a small bar, the red and blue neon signs reflecting on the black paint; and she couldn’t help but smile. That didn’t take long she thought, crossing the street and pushing the thin door open. Pausing a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, she scanned the occupant’s faces until her gaze locked on the hunched, leather clad shoulders in the far corner.
Pausing on her way by, she spoke softly to the tall, thin man behind the bar and waited while he poured two drinks and set them in front of her. Dropping a twenty on the sticky wooden bar, she took the glasses and walked casually across the room, her hips swaying to the rhythm of Michael Buble’s version of Moondance on the jukebox.
Setting the glass of whiskey down in front of him brought his head up suddenly and he spun around, angry brown eyes meeting the calm green of hers as she sank into the chair opposite him. He stared at her, the dew drops on her lashes and in her dark red hair catching the neon light like tiny prisms, giving the effect of jewels. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and a thin sheen of dampness clung to her skin like she’d just emerged from a sauna. His gaze roamed down her long neck to the deep V of her white button down shirt, the thin cotton material clinging to her and the sight of it brought his mind back to the sheet draped victim he’d seen only half an hour ago and his eye brows came together in a scowl.
“Go away. I’m in no mood for a quickie in the bathroom.” He snapped. Becoming even more irritated when she smiled at him, stirring the ice cubes around in her own glass with the tip of one finger. He watched as she raised that finger to her mouth and wrapped her lips around if, sucking the whiskey off her skin.
“I said, go away. I don’t have the extra cash anyway.” His voice was a deep growl and the sound of his frustration made her smile even wider. Rising from her seat, she placed her hands flat on the table and leaned toward him, forcing him to lean back to meet her eyes.
“Dance with me.” Her husky voice was like warm honey and several heads turned. The song on the jukebox ended and she walked over to it, dropping a quarter into the slot and making her selection. Turning back, her eyes made it clear that she was not going to leave him alone until she got her way. Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned out The Way You Look Tonight as she moved back toward him, stopping right in front of him and reaching down to push the heavy leather coat off of his broad shoulders.
His breath was coming too fast and he tried to slow it down, taking a deep lungful of air and letting it out slowly as she stood in front of him. Rising to his feet he expected her to step back but she stayed firmly planted and his body bumped hers. Placing one arm around her waist he took her hand as she wrapped her arm across his shoulders and they began moving together. He could feel all the eyes in the bar on them and normally he would have hated that feeling, but at the moment he couldn’t find it in him to care. Her eyes never left his and neither of them spoke; only the music and the feel of their bodies pressed together existed and the three minute song seemed to go on and on. The silence that fell when the song ended was like being doused in cold water and he tried to step away but she refused to release him, her arm holding him against her while she reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a business card. Holding it up for him to see, she slid it into his back pocket as she leaned into him, pressing her lips to his in a chaste kiss.
Leaning back she looked into his eyes and saw the confusion there and whispered against his ear, “I know who killed her.” He jerked away as though she had burned him. Without a single look back she made her way across the bar and out the door before he could think again and grabbing his coat he ran after her. Erupting through the front door into the steady rain that had started to fall, he scanned the area and found no trace of her.
Raking his fingers through his hair he sighed and unlocked his car, dropping in behind the wheel. Digging in his back pocket he pulled out the card that she had given him, staring at the dark red lettering which read Gypsy. Starting the car, he put it in gear and drove toward home; unaware of the green eyes that watched from the shadows.
She watched him crouch down by the body, lifting the sheet that clung damply to the cold flesh he looked up at the others standing nearby, motioning angrily at the body he dropped and sheet and stood. Stepping toward a plain clothes officer, he jabbed his finger into the man’s chest to punctuate each bitten off word, forcing the officer backward. With a final word he turned and stormed away, the wet leather of his jacket giving off steam from the heat of the body within.
She watched the exchange and her gaze followed his progress across the parking lot and into the black Camero, its tires slipping for a moment on the slick pavement before the rubber got traction and launched the car into the night. She made her way through the crowd, having to push people aside with her elbows; and she walked up the street in the direction the car had gone.
At midnight on a Thursday the streets were relatively deserted, making it easier to follow the tracks left by the Camero. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she kept her eyes on the tire tracks and walked into the wind, squinting again the swirling drizzle. After several blocks she spotted the car parked at an angle in front of a small bar, the red and blue neon signs reflecting on the black paint; and she couldn’t help but smile. That didn’t take long she thought, crossing the street and pushing the thin door open. Pausing a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, she scanned the occupant’s faces until her gaze locked on the hunched, leather clad shoulders in the far corner.
Pausing on her way by, she spoke softly to the tall, thin man behind the bar and waited while he poured two drinks and set them in front of her. Dropping a twenty on the sticky wooden bar, she took the glasses and walked casually across the room, her hips swaying to the rhythm of Michael Buble’s version of Moondance on the jukebox.
Setting the glass of whiskey down in front of him brought his head up suddenly and he spun around, angry brown eyes meeting the calm green of hers as she sank into the chair opposite him. He stared at her, the dew drops on her lashes and in her dark red hair catching the neon light like tiny prisms, giving the effect of jewels. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and a thin sheen of dampness clung to her skin like she’d just emerged from a sauna. His gaze roamed down her long neck to the deep V of her white button down shirt, the thin cotton material clinging to her and the sight of it brought his mind back to the sheet draped victim he’d seen only half an hour ago and his eye brows came together in a scowl.
“Go away. I’m in no mood for a quickie in the bathroom.” He snapped. Becoming even more irritated when she smiled at him, stirring the ice cubes around in her own glass with the tip of one finger. He watched as she raised that finger to her mouth and wrapped her lips around if, sucking the whiskey off her skin.
“I said, go away. I don’t have the extra cash anyway.” His voice was a deep growl and the sound of his frustration made her smile even wider. Rising from her seat, she placed her hands flat on the table and leaned toward him, forcing him to lean back to meet her eyes.
“Dance with me.” Her husky voice was like warm honey and several heads turned. The song on the jukebox ended and she walked over to it, dropping a quarter into the slot and making her selection. Turning back, her eyes made it clear that she was not going to leave him alone until she got her way. Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned out The Way You Look Tonight as she moved back toward him, stopping right in front of him and reaching down to push the heavy leather coat off of his broad shoulders.
His breath was coming too fast and he tried to slow it down, taking a deep lungful of air and letting it out slowly as she stood in front of him. Rising to his feet he expected her to step back but she stayed firmly planted and his body bumped hers. Placing one arm around her waist he took her hand as she wrapped her arm across his shoulders and they began moving together. He could feel all the eyes in the bar on them and normally he would have hated that feeling, but at the moment he couldn’t find it in him to care. Her eyes never left his and neither of them spoke; only the music and the feel of their bodies pressed together existed and the three minute song seemed to go on and on. The silence that fell when the song ended was like being doused in cold water and he tried to step away but she refused to release him, her arm holding him against her while she reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a business card. Holding it up for him to see, she slid it into his back pocket as she leaned into him, pressing her lips to his in a chaste kiss.
Leaning back she looked into his eyes and saw the confusion there and whispered against his ear, “I know who killed her.” He jerked away as though she had burned him. Without a single look back she made her way across the bar and out the door before he could think again and grabbing his coat he ran after her. Erupting through the front door into the steady rain that had started to fall, he scanned the area and found no trace of her.
Raking his fingers through his hair he sighed and unlocked his car, dropping in behind the wheel. Digging in his back pocket he pulled out the card that she had given him, staring at the dark red lettering which read Gypsy. Starting the car, he put it in gear and drove toward home; unaware of the green eyes that watched from the shadows.
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