Artesian's Bookshelf

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 2:58 pm

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Hello! You may call me Artesian, Arty, Marty, Artsy, Art, Tar, or whatever other nickname you come up with. I am twenty-one, a girl, and intend to be a professional author, but I'm studying for an engineering degree (probably) to pay the bills. I enjoy film music, Elementary, webcomics, good fanfic, and long walks on the beach. I'm nearly always looking for more collaborative writing partners, and have been writing for about eleven years or so... I've lost track. I'm in a torrid intellectual love affair with the bestest punctuation marks ever - dashes.

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Hero Henchman (excerpt, solo)
Mortal Decoy (excerpt, collab)
Chekov's Gun (short story)
The City (short story)
Justice is Blind (short story)
Is That What You Want? (short story)

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Short story, Is That What You Want?, posted.
Short story, Justice is Blind, posted.
Short story, The City, posted.
Short story, Chekov's Gun, posted.
Excerpt of Mortal Decoy posted! PM me to beta-read more.
Excerpt of Hero Henchman Posted! PM me to beta-read more.

[url]Mission Tanha: Never Say Die[/url](1x1x1 with City and Pie)

Dr. John Markov:Play Your Cards (group)

Rob Fox: Realistic - hyperthymesia, cautious, aimless, cursedDarwin Academy(group)

young!Ferris Nayar: Powers - Gregarious, artistic, kind, nervous, awkward, in flux.first annual semi-lit+ club OC competition (competition)

Evangeline Tomi Hastings: Sci-fi - Greedy, driven, intelligent, sociopathic, riddled with self-doubt.Dust (group)

Crystallize(group)

Yolanda Holst: Powers - Seer, emotionally unstable, hedonistic, wise, warm, pained, doomed to die.Inevitable Things (group)

Dream Yourself Awake (group)

daughter!Emma Lockewald: Sci-fi - Ferociously intelligent, angry, cold, stiffly polite, honourable, serious.We'll be Forever Bonded (group)

teen!Emma Lockewald: Realistic - Sapiosexual, dealer, cold, bored, too smart, honourable, serious, perceptive.Eden (1x1 with Rosie)

Peter Giang: Sci-fi - Serious, antisocial, intellectual, unintentionally rude, caring Jump (1x1 with Pie)

Aonghus Tarrant: Powers - Coward, protective, romantic, liar, intelligent, kind, devoted.Absurdageddon (1x1 with Neon)

Elsa Serendipity Anasasi-wald Trevor: Serene, unflappable, up for anything, odd, flighty. Fae (awe.sauce) (1x1 with Merc)

Mehana Summervalse: Fae - Capricious, wild, headstrong, lusting/loving, sociopathic narcissist.Clever Title Here (group)

(Made Will Fiddle, played M&M.) Simulacrum (group)

Arridano Duranseau: Powers - charming, slightly distant, technically-oriented, intelligent.I s p y (group)

Augustus 'Gus' Branson: Realistic - Accountant, quiet, forgettable, sensible, lonely, pleasant.Mission Tanha (group)

See Mission Never Say Die.So Laugh for God's Sake (group)

Amy Navarro: Realistic - happy-go-lucky-to-the-point-where-it's-please-shut-up-nowYou've Stolen A Beast(group)

Lunatic!Emma Lockewald: Realistic - Ferociously intelligent, cold, bored, cruel, rude.Opression(group)

The Bridge(group)

Ferris Nayar: Powers - Fatherly, sweetheart, unstable, jokester, optimistic, moral.Untouchables(group)

Jem: Sci-fi - THE BLOBSearch for a Lost Fantasy(group)

Never let Go(group)

Stanley Jennesen: Fantasy - Sociable, uncomplicated, honest, below average IQ, outdoorsy, empathetic.Summoner's Decline(group)

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:00 pm

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By Artesian.

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Jack Dalton has an unusual job: Hero. He has the business cards, the certification and the training to prove it. His job is stopping mad-scientists, rescuing damsels in distress, and in general, legally operating outside the law. He's been working this job since he was a teenager, and he's now the oldest Hero still working actively.

When he gets a new job offer, it's one he can't refuse, just out of pure morbid curiosity: work for a mad-scientist laboratory as 'public relations officer' and Head Henchman. This laboratory swears it's not one of those chimera-making, black-plague resurrecting, killer-robot designing labs that we all know about. All of its mad-science is a blessing on society, not a burden.

Is this really true? There's secrets here he hasn't been told, and this is like no job he's ever done before. Soon he's dodging bullets, solving mysteries and in general, trying to stay alive long enough to find out the truth, before this job goes south in a big way.

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Click!

My senses were instantly on full alert. Click was never a good sound to hear, when you're infiltrating a mad-scientist's lair.

Click was the sound preceding swinging blades, disappearing floorboards, giant mousetraps setting in preparation for your unwary foot. I swallowed and drew my gun cautiously, scanning about me for the slightest hint of something odd.

Well, odd for a mad-scientist's lair. I've seen a few, you know, and they tend to fall into two categories: disorganized messes, and obsessive neatness. The disorganized messes usually have more accidental traps (rickety shelving units, paper avalanches, beakers of 'lemonade') than intentional ones. The obsessively neat lairs are simplistic to the point of creepiness. Some mad-scientists organize screws, and file everything in cabinets. They tend to have traps which, if you can spot the minute signs, are easy to avoid. The messes are far worse.

This one was a mess. It contained far too many things that whispered their pleas to be touched. Shiny bits of oddly gleaming metal. Large red buttons. Bits of wire vibrating in a glass box. Electrical arcs. To me, there are few things more beguiling than switches and buttons and pretty blinky lights.

Other heroes talk about this. They call it the Curious Cat syndrome. (Actually, they don't call it that. Heroes tend not to use grandiloquent words. They say things like, “*****, don't touch that! What are you, mad?”) I've got the Curious Cat worse than most. Everyone says I should have been an engineer instead of a hero, but I was never one for regular nine-to-five jobs. Heroes work by the contract, and are paid by the job. Of course, it's almost impossible to get life insurance.

There it was again. Another polite click. Perhaps it was just one of the scientist's more mundane machines? Then I saw him, a little Asian man, through a thick glass window on the far side of the lab. A camera? Some henchman was taking pictures of me? I frowned at him, and he smiled encouragingly and took another picture. Why pictures? Was this on the scientist's orders, or was he working freelance? A paparazzi? They'd followed me on these sort of jobs before, although they usually left after the first set of pit spikes. I shook my head and concentrated, creeping through the lab.

Ah. A real trap was ahead. A blue alarm light pulsed above the door out. Fiendishly complex tubing encircled the doorway like the intestines of someone who no longer required them. I almost yawned. The more fiendish it looks, the easier it is to by-pass. It looked like... a class-9 noxious-spray device, with a secondary flamethrower apparatus. I could see the hairspray container concealed behind the artful silver pipes. I reached into my breast pocket, and pulled out a pair of infrared glasses. (Contrary to popular conception, any mad-scientist worth his laugh won't use visible laser beams – infrared is the way to go.) I settled them over my eyes. Yup, two laser beams neatly crisscrossing in front of the door. I followed a beam to its source, an unobtrusive box on the wall.

Now, an amateur would simply yank the box out of the wall. Foolishness, the kind that would get you killed. Not only are the beams alarmed, but often there is a second beam focused on the first. I found the dot of laser light and followed it up to the second source. Damn. A ceiling source. I checked again. There were no beams focused on that one. Doubtless it was alarmed. There was a ladder leaning against the wall, but as I trailed my hands over the rungs, I found a simple disconnect to alarm switch. I delicately separated it from the rung, slipping a metal sliver between the contacts. Another click distracted me for a second. I turned, to see the paparazzi again, this time through a different window. Another picture of a hero, another hundred dollars in the bank.

I sighed and almost pulled the ladder away from the wall, but some seventh sense made me glance down to the spot where the ladder rested. Two pressure sensors. They looked like they were attached to... yes. To the alarm system. I stared at the ladder, mentally toting up its weight. It was made of ultralight aluminum alloy. Probably less than fifteen pounds. I crossed the lab – ducking under an unintentional trap of PVC pipes duck-taped together. Some orange, lumpy liquid was oozing out the end, glooping into a bucket marked: You Don't Want To Know What This Is. (Naturally, I immediately filed it away in my brain, under: Things To Find Out If Possible.)

Ah, a box of scrap metal. I selected a lump of steel from a box of scrap metal, hefted it in my hand, and selected an identical one for the second leg. This would do. I ducked under the pipe again, staring as a string of viscous liquid dripped into the bucket. There was a lump of something – click, went the camera. Another lovely picture for the tabloids. Our Hero: In The Chemical Lab Of DOOM. What is the orange stuff? Find out next issue!

I eased the ladder away from the wall, nudging the blocks of iron onto the plates. One... two... three... done. The ladder was free from the wall. I swung it down, careful not to break the beams. I set it up underneath the sensor, and climbed my way up. The camera clicked again. I pulled out my tool set and set to work on the alarm system connection. Tricky....

However, with my years as a hero, I've seen almost everything. Including this, a variant of the Bloody Tricky Gadget, although the cross-connection of the alarm-bell with its own separate power source was clever. The laser winked off happily, trustingly. I climbed down the ladder, and strolled over to the second laser. It was the same BTG, and I shut it off in a jiffy. The laser winked off, and the door opened to a stolen keycode.

I reached into my thigh pocket and pulled out Mister Mousie. Some years ago, I had destroyed the lab of Dr. Justin, 'In Case of Disaster' Parker, PhD,TTRY, BoS, ZX from ISI. (Insane Scientist Institute, Distance learning available! Add as many letters to your name as you like!). This was one of the gadgets I had picked up from his lab. He had designed it as an assassination weapon: almost indistinguishable from a real mouse, and armed with a myriad of interesting poisoned darts. He loved to watch it kill the rats that plagued his underground hideout. “HahaBWAHAAAA!” He'd laugh gleefully, but that's not unusual for a mad-scientist.

I used it as a trap checker. Mister Mousie's shape was often programmed into the auto-system's ignore file, after too many false alarms because someone left his cheese sandwich out over night. Mister Mousie's eye-feed was displayed on my smart-phone. As an assassin mouse, it was equipped with snazzy filters of every kind.

Mister Mousie skittered through the door, claws clicking on the cement. Nothing.

The room was empty except for a door at the far end. I tried the infra-red filter. Nothing.

The x-ray filter. Nothing beyond a jumble of pipes in the walls.

I tried the ultra-violet filter. Nothing.

I had the rat bot flash its lights. No reaction.

Now, in a mad-scientist lair, nothing is this easy. Ever. But, if I couldn't find the alarm, there was nothing to disable! I
glanced back at the window with the paparazzi. He clicked another picture. Oh great. There was the caption: Our hero is bewildered by the next trap.

I ducked out of the doorway, and collected a heavy bundle of pipes. It must have weighed thirty pounds. Retrieving Mister Mousie, I threw the pipes into the room. They landed with an innocuous thud. I peered through the crack in the doorway. The pipes looked... innocent. The whole room was innocent. Suspiciously so.

I pulled the door open, and put my foot cautiously on the ground. Nothing.

Mister Mousie, set on 'stalk the victim', followed me quietly. Nothing.

I took another step. Nothing.

And another. Nothing.

Nothing.

And then, as I passed through the middle of the room, there was something. Fluids gurgled just out of hearing, and I spun around desperately. That might be just someone flushing the toilet or...

The entire room sank like an elevator with its cable cut. I was thrown into the air, grabbing Mister Mousie as he sailed past me. Great. Your life, in freefall.

I glanced up, and there it was. The ceiling! Yes, I know, very unimpressive, but the ceiling had a skylight in the center. Mousie hadn't seen it, as it was painted with an AR coating that baffled its filters. Through it, the paparazzi waved cheerfully. Click.

The room slowed, and I fell to the ground with a painful thud that knocked the wind from my lungs. I then realized how the trap had worked. Too late of course, but better late than never. It ran by hydraulics in the walls disguised as plumbing. A simple trigger in the ceiling pulled by the... it wasn't a paparazzi, was it? Wonderful, then this won't be showing up in the papers! A simple trigger, operated by a person who wasn't there when Mousie investigated, so it wouldn't show up on scans. Brilliant.

The room shuddered to a halt, and an entire wall slid up, shedding plaster dust. I waited, but none of the other walls moved. All right, one door. Obviously, I was to go through it. I was not going to, thank you kindly. There wasn't any way they could make me leave this nice, relatively safe room. Mister Mousie squirmed in my grip, its paws going through the motions of 'stalk the unwary prey' mode. I flicked the switch on its belly to turn it off before stowing it in my pocket again.

I waited. Sooner or later, they'd get impatient. I closed my eyes.

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There was a polite cough.

“Have finished your nap sir?”

I'd fallen asleep? I must be getting old. Perhaps, I wouldn't be getting any older. Thirty is usually the age when heroes either retire or die. I was thirty five, and I'd been hoping to retire. I opened my eyes and sat up.

A pretty lady, dressed in a figure hugging but modest gray dress, was staring at me. She wore glasses, which seemed to soften her otherwise ferociously intelligent expression. Her hair was tied back in a no-nonsense pony-tail.

“Um, yes. Sorry, not exactly hero like behavior?”

She smiled, pity creasing her cheeks. “Sir will not be a hero for long.”

“What?” I growled, standing up. I'm close to six feet tall, and this girl was more like five one. I towered, but she, a few feet away, had a presence that went beyond size to fill the room. “And my name is Jack, by the way. Not sir. I am a hero and will remain so, but I am not a sir.”

“ Your name is Jack Dalton. Hero for Hire, single contracts only, dangerous jobs done. No alligators,” she recited, as if she was reading off of my business card. “Why no alligators?”

“Why do you think?” I responded. I glanced past her, trying to focus on something in the hard light of the room beyond. Steel walls, apparently. Some sort of machinery, florescent lights, other people. I could feel them watching.

She considered it. “I imagine this is so mad-scientists who read your card will stock their hideouts with as many alligators as possible, which you actually know many tricks for dealing with.” She looked at my astonished face. “I'm sorry, is this not so?”

“Uh, actually it's true. I trained in Africa.”

She nodded, as if checking something off on an internal checklist.

I took a step forward. “Since you have the advantage of me -”

“I do,” she stated, not showing any signs of retreating.

I took another step. “I meant, you know my name. What's yours?”

“My name is Katherine Gregorovitch.”

I took one more step. “That's a pretty name. Gregorovitch? Is it Ukrainian?”

“No.” She pulled out a strange device, like a gun but completely transparent. I stopped. She flicked it on with her
index finger, and I raised my arms. She explained, in a carefully precise tone: “I should warn you, I will shoot you. I'd rather not, as the Scientist wishes to speak more to you.”

“Okay. Where is he?”

A tiny smile flickered at the corner of her mouth, and she gestured with the gun. “Come with me. You will go first.” I
squinted in the bright light as we exited the elevator room. With another shower of plaster dust, the wall slid down,
revealing the gleaming pipes I'd suspected.

The room was gleaming, spotless. It even had large windows, looking out over a lake. Futuristic was the best word to describe it. Everything was put where it was for a reason. I knew, without even turning my head, that a couple of henchmen had taken up positions on either side of me. These were smart henchmen too – such as there were. They stayed well back from me, giving me no possible way to snatch their guns. The girl swept past, holstering her own weapon, her sensible black boots clicking on the white tiled floor of the long room.

I followed her past racks of glass bottles, computer monitors, and an old fishbowl filled with perfectly cylindrical glass beads. Whether this was art or junk, it was difficult to tell. It threw speckled light patterns on the ceiling, which was high and covered with glossy white paint. There was a man-sized trashcan too, which I bumped into while staring at the ceiling. I clutched at the rim with one hand, almost turning it over as I flailed to keep my feet. The girl turned, and watched with impassive disdain.

“Sorry,” I muttered, putting my hands back up.

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I was ushered into an office as spotless as the rest of the building. There were bookshelves, their contents arranged in impeccable, but impractical order. The desk, a perfect white slab of some heavy plastic balanced on two white filing cabinets, showed signs of being heavily used though. Pencil marks and scratches covered its surface. Two pieces of paper, arranged with almost maniacal precision, sat atop the desk, with a tablet pen neatly resting between them.

I tried to read it from here. It looked like a contract of some sort.

The girl reached over to a panel beside the door. As the door to it slid neatly back, I almost expected her to produce the mad-scientist from a broom cupboard. He, if it was he who designed this odd place, would approve of such lack of extraneous details. There he was, neatly in storage. Now, he was fulfilling his purpose as a lunatic. Good. Everything as it should be.

In fact, she did produce the mad-scientist. She retrieved a spotless white lab coat and pulled it on over her gray dress. Nonchalantly, she strolled over to the desk, sat on the far edge, twirled her legs around and slipped into the severe office chair behind it.

“Now, what occasions your visit today?” she asked, pulling out a remote from the pocket of her lab-coat. The door slid shut as the two henchmen left. There was a brief scratching noise, then silence. She pressed a button, and two remote controlled guns appeared from behind a panel in the ceiling. They aimed at me. I blinked, and she waved her hand at the chair in front of her desk.

“Sit, please. I dislike talking to people who have the advantage of height over me.”

I sat.

“What occasions your visit today?” She asked again, politely.

“I...err... was hired to destroy your facility, wipe your hard-disks, and if possible capture you. I admit, I expected Dr. Lestrade to be in charge here.”

“I am Dr. Katherine Gregorovitch Lestrade. PhD, take your choice of other letters,” she said airly. “I do not advertise
my physical details. My mind, and its achievements are all that the world needs to know. I know about your mission. I just ask for, well, the look of the thing.”

She smiled. “I hired you.”

“To destroy your own facility? Why?” I asked. “No... no, wait. I'll guess.”

I crossed my legs and tapped my foot impatiently. “You wanted to dissect my brain, in order to learn everything I
know?”

“No.”

“Er... You wanted a healthy male in order to breed a new race of super-humans.”

A pause. Incredulous, amused, disdainful? All such adjectives would apply. “No.”

“Um. Were you going to feed me to alligators?”

“No.”

“I'm out of ideas then.”

“I want to hire you. As head henchman.” She passed the papers over to me. A beep sounded, and she smiled, flicking
her tablet pen into her hands and clicking through the table-top screens. A picture, I could just see it from this angle, of me, looking at some sort of orange goo.

“Hire... me?” Questions boiled up, but the most pressing one seemed like... “Why?”

She fixed me with a cheery grin. “Have you any idea what a hassle you heroes are? You barge in here, break the
distillation pipes, drink suspicious chemicals and die! We'll be this close to purifying snake-venom into a powerful wart cure, and then some moron will try the taste test!”

Dr. Lestrade stood up, gritting her teeth. “I've been kidnapped twice, shot three times, had my lab blown up once - and once is enough, believe me – not to mention sued more times than I can count. My lawyers can count though. Oh, yes, they can. The legal bills are incredible.”

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“Simple. You're a hero! You are, and I have checked so don't bother to argue, the oldest still-practicing hero. You've seen everything, correct?”

“Except a plumbing and human based trap. That was clever,” I admitted.

She beamed. “Thank you. It was one of our better, I think.” Her face darkened. “It is also a waste of time! They could have spent the time working on the hydraulics for the copper extraction system!” She rubbed her forehead, tiredly. “I want to avoid that. You've seen everything, you know where we mad-scientists go wrong. We get caught because we make our BTG's too similar to each other. We leave random useful objects lying around, and we assume that heroes' thought processes are roughly: Thingy. Smash. Done.”

“Some are. Not all.” I put in.

“Exactly! You know. I want to make that your job. You'd be head of henchmen, and also run the new Public Relations
department. I thought, what about tours? Or Mad-scientist re-branding? We're actually just highly intelligent and a boon to society!”

“Boon, not bane?”

“Exactly,” she snapped, her eyes glittering dangerously.

“Let me read the contract.” I stated, and she nodded. She retreated to her desk, flicking through the pictures and chuckling. I could see myself in freefall at one point. I winced.

I read the contract. “Says here a pension of five thousand a month after five years working here? With a prototype of a really neat gadget-car?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“Could we make that not a prototype? I get nervous around beta-versions.”

She gave me a look, castigating me for my lack of intellectual curiosity. “Okay.” She tossed me a pencil. “Pencil it in.”

I read on. “Exoneration of any wrong-doing by the 'I was under a mind-control device' loophole?” I asked.

“Oh yes. Standard clause, it's in all the modern henchmen contracts.”

“And the mind-control device...”

Her eyes flicked to the phone for an instant.“Still in prototypes, I'm afraid,” she apologized. “But we have something that will produce some appropriate symptoms in case of legal trouble.”

“Ah. Okay.” I continued reading. “And, I see you have an addendum to the contract: 'In the event of a hero destroying the plant, a one time lump sum will be paid to the nearest living relatives of the party of the first part.' The sum is revoked.”

“Yes, unfortunately. In your case, it will be your job to prevent that from happening, won't it? It would hardly do to give you a bonus for failing your job.” She explained.

“Hmm... quite logical.” There was a pause.. “Ah, I see you have a clause dealing with theft of trade-secrets or intellectual-property...”

“The Live Scorpions clause, the men call it.”

“I notice it is... gender-specific. What do you do if a female...?” I asked cautiously.

Katherine thought for a moment. “Good point. Hasn't come up; I should write something in there though, just in case.
Doubtless, I'll think of something.” She clicked through a few more pictures. “Hmm. I definitely came to the right hero. Very smart. Do you know that you were within one and one half grams of the weight of the ladder? Enough to trigger a hyper-sensitive pressure sensor, but not enough for the standard.”

“Thank you.”

“Ours was hyper-sensitive.”

Another pause, as I re-read the contract. “What happens if I don't sign this?”

“We'll throw you in a bottomless pit for a day, just to keep up our reputation, and then release you. We don't have any desire for more legal trouble, you understand,” she explained.

I sat for a few minutes and thought. I don't want to work for evil. Of course not, that's not who I am. But, the thing about this job, is I see no clause that prevents me from leaving as soon as I get a whif of immorality. I really can't see a downside. If it's legit, I have an interesting job. It it's not, I've just gathered some information about a potentially evil laboratory. Someday, someone will order it destroyed. Such is the fate of all evil organizations, except for the IRS.

I twiddled the pencil in my hand. “As it happens, I've been looking to retire from heroism. I wanted something a bit less dangerous... girls don't want a steady relationship with someone who might lose a limb any day.”

She nodded. “Alligators.”

“Right. This... well, this sounds interesting. I'll give it a try.” I signed the contract in half a dozen places.

She didn't smile, but instead looked as if she was checking off something. “Welcome to the crew, Mr. Dalton.” She extended her hand, and I shook it. It was a surprisingly strong handshake.

“I'll call in Richard, the head of the indoctrination team - ” she smiled as my face went rigid. “Don't worry, it's just a name. As a Mad-Scientist, I've got to use the proper patois. Some people would call them the orientation team, and as far as orientation teams go, they're all quite nice. Richard is in charge of uniforms.”

“Okay then.” I shrugged.

“Richard will direct you to several experts, and I'll be here to answer any other questions you have. Don't hesitate to interrupt my studies for important queries. You may go.”

By the look on her face, unimportant queries would result in something approaching the scorpion clause. I resolved not to bother her. (Even though I was very curious about the orange lumpy liquid in the pipes.)

I picked up my copy of the contract, and went to the door, which opened smoothly. The ceiling guns withdrew into their panels, and I smiled. “Dr. Lestrade.”

She looked up from her desk. “Yes?”

“I'm glad we could come to an agreement. Monkey Peanut Sauce.”

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“Just a voice code, resetting Mister Mousie. I dropped him on the floor when I stumbled accidentally on the trash-can.” I gestured behind her, and she jumped a little in her seat when she saw Mister Mousie's gleaming red eyes gazing at her. The robotic mouse extended a rappelling cord from its behind, like a spider, and zipped down to the ground.

“Hmm...” she mused, twirling her tablet pen in her fingers. “I can see we have the right man and mouse for the job.”

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:00 pm

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Co-written by: Artesian and Excelsa

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I'm Arthur Wright. I write sci-fi novels, and my best series is Mortal Decoy, with nine books currently selling in worldwide. So much, so clear. What most of my readers do now know is that I am also part of a secret society: the Authors Association. We guard the secrets of Writing: the ability to bring characters in and out of their stories at will. This is the story of my most recent book, Mortal Decoy: Between the Destinies - both the book, and how it was written. It follows my characters (Naphtali, Finn, Aloysius and others) as they discover some peculiar secrets about the origin of their world and about themselves. Now, no spoilers now, but my writing of this story did not go as planned. In fact, I came dangerously close to breaking the most important rule of the Authors Association. Writing can be dangerous work, and playing with Destiny is the most dangerous task of all.

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I smiled. It had been a good day: two bookstores, two press-releases filled with witty humor and those characters everyone knows and loves, and over three hundred books signed with my pen-name - Arthur Wright. I massaged my fingers and replaced the cold-pack on my wrist. Ah, the hard day's work of an author.

Actually, this was an easy day compared to most. None of the characters had shown up, and the editor hadn't even complained about a made-up word. (Hiktnrat? The human tongue cannot wrap around even half a syllable of that!! The audio-books division will go nuts! Their best reader sprained his tongue on 'jiabtna' last year, and the lawsuits are still winding down! We're going to have a print a warning label on the book this time, you know that?)

The book tour was over. For some reason to do with fairness, they'd insisted I do my own hometown - Sandusky, Virginia - last. What was it with fans though? I had finished the book seven months ago, it was finally published a month ago - snappy, by publishing standards - and already the email inbox was full of mail. Full! The server had threatened to shut down. People insisting that I simply must write more, begging, threatening, swearing, and squeeing. And the fan-fiction and art that some people had sent...

I sipped my cup of milk. Mmmm. Well. They didn't exactly have to ask. I'm an author, therefore I'll write. Unlike most writers, I don't just enjoy having written or being an author (although of course those are very nice). I actually enjoyed the physical act of sitting down at a badly designed computer desk, hunching over the keyboard and peering at a monitor that, despite much coaxing, never glowed more than a surly flicker. After nine books of Mortal Decoy, the characters still intrigued me.

Of course, being able to take them out of the story and into the real world might have something to do with that. It's difficult to become bored in something that felt so real and alive. You see, I'm an Author. Unlike my readers, who must use their imaginations to visualize the characters in my story, I've actually met all my main characters. I've seen Finn flopped on my couch, complaining about shrapnel. I've talked to Naphtali about how to go about wooing Beck. I've pulled a slime blob off the potted plant. When you can extract a character from their story, your life is filled with interesting things.

I felt the story calling, wanting to be written. I pulled the keyboard out, and started typing. Looking back on it, perhaps I should have just let the story be. I should have allowed the characters to just continue on with their lives. It wasn't a cliffhanger ending; I could have just let them sort it out. That was where it all went wrong. It was us authors of all kinds meddling with stories, bending them to our specifications.

-----------------------

It had been only a month or so since their last big job, and already Finn was bored. Naphtali was content to have plenty of free time to read, punctuated by small jobs, but Finn was restless. He shoved his hands into two of his many pockets and bent his head against the vicious wind that whipped through the skyscraper cliffs of Central City. His dark brown hair, streaked with black, blew back from his perpetually dirty face. The blue-tinged glow of the street lights split his face between stark shadows and brilliant white planes.

Business was slow in the diversion business. People were either too honorable, too poor, or too careless to hire a diversion for their... activities of questionable legality. Dash/duBerrie Diversions was the best of its kind - nearly the only one of its kind. Since their debut, and their first big job that turned from a sweet deal (we get paid to look suspicious! How awesome is that!) into an interplanetary race against time to discover the secret of the slime blobs - long story - they'd been mixed up in what sometimes seemed to be all the dodgy deals and covert operations on Fourmoon. There was that adventure -

-----------------------

I backspaced. Was it too tacky to list the summaries of all of the company's exploits so far? Probably. Of course, I'd never let it stop me before - tacky sells - but this would take too long. The investigation into the kiérov priest class, and the revelation of the high priest-king's carefully-concealed death; the artificially intelligent virus they'd helped destroy with the assistance of the elusive and mysterious Zebulon Graves; the infiltration of a Charlemagne special-ops unit and the surprising things they'd learned there; the theft of Queen Ytterbia's scepter from the Pit of Divide Death by Zero...

-----------------------

So many adventures... and here they were, still at the bottom of whatever scale you'd like to name.
It began to rain in unpredictable gusts. Finn Dash cursed under his breath, pulled up the collar of his coat, and slipped under an awning. It would rain while he was in a top-lev area, where the toffs and classy sorts didn't appreciate a scruffy sewer man passing the storm in their shop while explaining to anyone who'd listen about his terrible phobia for water. How do you bathe? they ask. What do you drink? I don't and Alcohol were the answers, and they never liked hearing them.

Finn thought for a moment, the light from a window illuminating his face with a soft yellow gleam. More dirt and miscellaneous grime showed on his face than skin, but his brown eyes sparkled with more intelligence than the stereotypical sewer dweller. He had the general air about him of someone who, if you threatened him with a knife, would pull out a rubber chicken to menace you with, then throw it at you, and then have it explode.

He opened his coat (endowed with a startling number of pockets), selected a deep inner pocket and pulled out a poncho and what looked like a collapsible trashcan lid. This turned out to be some sort of umbrella. He shrugged the poncho on over his coat and opened the umbrella-esque contraption with a neat click, a curse, and a long drawn-out squeak of metal on metal.

He hadn't found anything interesting to do today, apart from accidentally aiding a robbery and receiving a death threat in return (he had more of these than most people had parking tickets), finding a book - actually in physical form, which was a wonder - that Naphtali had wanted, oh, and meeting a mysterious client who refused to see anyone but him.
Finn had entered into a room as black as night, thick with smoke from a dilapidated heater, to hear a disembodied voice inform him that he was late.

Of course he was late. Would any fool actually show up on time to a spooky room with concealed speakers at nightfall? He had ignored the theatrics - as an experienced fellow with experience in these matters - and listened patiently to the Diatribe, Riddle and Business Soliloquy, op. 7 for Unnerving Invisible Voice.

In Finn's professional opinion, it was a dead-end. This was someone who enjoyed theatrics more than they actually enjoyed getting something done and being sensible. He pulled his poncho tightly around him, adjusted his umbrella, and made his way to the nearest sewer network entrance. The sewers were easy to find; he just followed the stench.

-----------------------

Beck, the company's engineer, kludger, and all-around handy person, slammed a fist on top of the computer. The walls of the apartment shook. "Now, that was only the first one. The next thing I'll do, if you don't behave yourself, is take apart your casing, insert a hose into your inner workings and suck out all the dust in your innards." She pushed the computer around, plugging in the fiber-optic cables to her scanning devices.

A lock of black curly hair fell across her face. She glared at it, took a nearby piece of wire, twirled the hair around it and jammed it like a chopstick behind her head. "Then," she continued, "I'll wiggle all the connectors, and if that doesn't convince you to see my point of view, I'll have no choice but to remove each of your components one... at... a... time." She jammed in the last cord, and flicked the power switch. She rose from her knees, wiping a bit of mold residue from her tough canvas pants, and flopped in her office gel chair. It molded itself around her, squeaking slightly as the gel protested the violent treatment.

The projector winked on behind, projecting at first the no-signal sign before losing its nerve. The computer whirred reluctantly towards starting. Beck smiled. Her face was astonishingly beautiful, with deep chocolate eyes, dark tan skin and full lips. Her long black curly hair slowly smoothed out, drooping from tense corkscrews to gentle waves. Beck, despite her scientific skills, had never been able to figure out why this happened, why her hair responded to her moods.
"Looks like you scared it, Beck," Aloysius commented from the doorway. It was close to ten - halfway through the night on this moon, but Aloysius was as wide-awake as ever. As far as they could tell, her brother never slept.

She shifted in the gel, turning her head. "Mmmm, yes. Sometimes I wonder if I missed my true calling in blackmail and crime."

"Crime? Don't joke about that, please. Aren't you a respectable lady?"

"Sure, but I wasn't joking... Relax, Lou, I ain't gonna be turnin' to crime," she drawled, affecting a sewer accent.
Aloysius decided to avoid an argument, if possible. It wasn't that he didn't love his sister, even like her at times, but she did get on his nerves. She joked about such serious things and just didn't seem to care what level of society they were in.
She was a flirt, a nerd, and a roughneck, yet she remained a lady deep down. This bothered him. "Are you going to be up much longer? Naphtali is asleep already, and it's close to midnight."

"Eh, now that the computer is apparently working, I'll be heading to bed." She yawned widely. "Is Finn back yet?"

Aloysius sat down on the extra seat in her workroom, cradling a book. "No, not yet. Probably found an interesting specimen of mold on the way back."

Beck nodded, pulling on the computer glove. The sensor saw her hand, and mapped the pointer to the projection as she selected her way through a few screens. She shut down the computer, satisfied, and pulled off the glove. There was a rare moment of quiet camaraderie between the siblings, devoid of argument. Mainly because Beck was tired.
There was a knock on the door frame, and Johannes trundled into view with two cups of purified hot water with synthetic cinnamon laced with a tiny bit of alcohol in case of bacteria. "Aloysius, sir? Beck, milady? I have brought you both a hot drink before bed. Is that acceptable?" His flexible metal arms, jointed in roughly the same way as those of the insectoid kierovik, extended towards them. They took the drinks, thanking him. The robot's expressive blue eyes, projected from a small box on his neck, switched smoothly from tentative politeness to quiet satisfaction.

"Thank you, Johannes. Just how I like it." Beck smiled at him, and the pure-white butler bot acknowledged her in a textbook signal of pleased acknowledgment, a double tap on the side of the cheek with the first two fingers. She glared at Aloysius. "I don't like that, though. Did you teach him those pompous top-lev gestures?"
Aloysius signaled guilt with a hand to his heart, followed by a palm to his forehead. "He's just being polite, though. I taught him to do it, but I didn't tell him to."

Beck shook her head tiredly. "Don't let him tell you what's the proper thing to do. If we listened to the culture idiots, we'd all be curtsying at the drop of a pin, apologizing for being honest, and not eating anything larger than a pea because we couldn't eat it daintily."

"Hey, that's not..."

"Stay out of it, bro." Her hair tensed. "You hear me, Johannes?"

"Yes, milady." Johannes privately entertained thoughts of Beck's hypocrisy: Don't let him tell you what to do, let me. He wondered when Finn would be back. Finn was his master, yes, but Finn rarely told him who to be, just what, in general, to do. He liked that.

"Good. Thanks for the drink." She put the mug back on his tray, which was still extended in Johannes' hands. Aloysius did the same, thanking him non-verbally with a quick gaze and a tug on the earlobe. Johannes hadn't tried that one, mainly because he didn't have an earlobe. He shut the door politely on the duo - ignoring the beginnings of an argument - and plodded up the corridor to the kitchen. He went to put the dishes in the sink and... stopped. The sink was partly filled with a baby blue glob of slime, like glitter shower gel from a giant flying pony wash.

"Jayjay. What are you doing?" Johannes muttered.

The blob wriggled, and he heard it speak as it electrically tapped into Johannes' auditory center. Playing in the sink! I've been extruding myself through the colander! Watch, watch, watch! A small stream of blue goo arced up and hit a strainer, pulling itself through the small pores.

"You haven't been playing in the pipes, have you?"

Jayjay was sullenly silent.

"We've warned you about what might happen if someone flushes something, or pours something into the sink. You would end up in the sewers. You've visited there, haven't you?"

Jayjay beamed acknowledgment to Johannes.

"It wasn't nice, was it? Smelly, with green and purple blobs that might not like you. Filled with things that might get into your slime and make you sick," the robot continued to lecture.
But it's fuuuun! Jayjay whined.

"I'll tell your pahter." Aloysius was responsible for Jayjay, ever since the little being was a simple unintelligent foothugger. He'd be devastated if the blob was flushed away.

Okay, okay, I won't. The blob slithered out of the sink and down the floor. It left a fine blue layer of slime wherever it went. Johannes put the cups in the sink, closed his eyes and willed himself to ignore the slime trail.

It didn't work. His obsessive cleaning disorder once again got the better of him, and he whirled around with a rag to wipe up the blue gel, mumbling about the pointlessness of what he was doing. Someday, he'd get past this. "I mean, I live with Finn in the sewers most of the time! Dirt and slime is... just a fact of life and if I can't get over that I'll - "

-----------------------

The paddle slapped into the... let's be generous and call it water. The sewers, while they had their good points, more than made up for them with a myriad of bad points. They stunk; they were dangerous; they were home to more diseases and toxins than a bubonic-plague-carrying rat employed as a poison taster; sometimes you'd find body parts of a variety of aliens and humans floating downstream; the slime growing on the surface of the bricks was just the wrong shade of green; there was a distinct possibility there were new and hostile alien life forms lurking under the surface, sometimes there were sewer gas explosions... Finn didn't care. He didn't even notice. This was his home, his lair, his secret base if he could ever persuade the others to renovate the secret nook he'd found. It was also a far more convenient way to get through the city than on surface streets or sky trolleys.

He had his own raft, crafted mostly of Styrofoam and aluminum sheets - carefully modified so as to allow no splashes of water to touch him. He hummed as he poled towards the secret door he'd found, back when he'd lived at the orphanage with Naphtali. With a little electricity routed down from a junction box on the surface, it was as excellent a pad as any, if you didn't mind the location. Fungus grew on the walls and the floor wasn't just dirty, it was dirt. In a town where space came at a premium, and privacy was nearly non-existent, it was worth every penny it hadn't actually cost. He had knocked a hole in a tunnel wall, and the tax assessors weren't welcome down here.

An old man swathed in a grubby blanket over his tattered clothes was smoking something by the entrance to the side tunnel. "Hey! If it ain't me friend! Where's you Dashing off to? Or have you Finnished for the day?" The man chuckled cholerically, his throat ruined by years of sewer fumes. Those who hadn't been born to it often couldn't handle it.
Finn made a tsking noise he'd picked up from Aloysius. "You've let yourself go, Makenz. You been to see the Erbalist lately?"

"Nah, those concoctions didn't do nothing for me," he grumbled. "Hey, iz just me and my pipe now." He focused dreamily on the smoke curling up. "And you, a course."

“Here.” Finn pulled out a coin from his inside money pocket and offered it to the man. "Get yourself something to eat, and some clean water. Not something to smoke, okay?" The old man moved to take it, and Finn held onto it. "I will hear about it if this ain't spent properly."

"Hey don't you trust me?" the old man grinned.

"I trust you, just not you with bone cancer. Pain's enough to make anyone want to let go."

"Yeah, true enough, true enough," Makenz sighed. Finn released the coin, and watched as it was secreted into a pocket.

"Don't worry," the old man said. "I ain't so far gone I'd be breaking a promise."

"Good." Finn moved towards the door, wiggling a particular brick with his hand. Grit mixed with the ubiquitous unidentifiable slime of the sewers made the brick difficult to get a hold on. He could feel it grinding under his fingernails.

He stopped, watching the old man hobble down the maintenance sidewalk. "Oh, and watch out for the fourth street underway," he called. "I think I saw something scaly breach in the shadows."

The man nodded. Scaly was worth a warning.

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:00 pm

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Short Story, Fantasy, Comedy

By Artesian.

Written for an Inklings Competition,
where a watch, an antique pistol and a
sugarcube had to be important in the story.
Now in screenplay format!

------------
“"If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following
one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there." - A. P. Chekhov
------------

My life changed for the better when I realized I was a villain. It's a peculiar feeling, knowing you are doomed to fail eventually, but really, aren't we all? Don't we all die? In that final, great quest that we embark on with such fatalistic enthusiasm, we all fail. No one lives forever, except in fame and infamy. At least, as a villain, I was guaranteed a good run at power, fortune, and indeed, a great role in an undying story that would grant my memory immortal life.

They would all remember me, but not for my deeds. They would remember me for who I am. I realized early on that certain things had to happen in a story. If I played along, I'd be rewarded with continued success (for a time). If I didn't, I'd lose my chance at immortality.

Sounds like a lousy deal, eh? Play along, and you'll lose in the end? Well, the trick is that knowing the rules of the game makes actually playing it far more fun. Yes, I'd lose in the end, but in the meantime, I'd enjoy myself.

-----------------------

The room didn't scream wealth. No, it was nothing that pretentious and overt. There were, indeed, delicate gold inlays where-ever objects might benefit from them. The cushions on the chairs were deep green velvet, and the china on the center table was extremely high quality, but the style was the opulence of an American industrialist, not that of a Russian autocrat. The room merely murmured wealth in a suggestive, seductive way. I ran my finger down the fine carpentry of the door-frame and turned to my right-hand man, or woman as it happened.

“Excellent work. You've grasped exactly what I was looking for,” I told her, my voice sounding like toxic chocolate syrup. I'd worked on my voice for years, transforming it from a nasal monotone into a piece of art. “The understated elegance of the whole thing.”

She smiled, red lips parting over unnaturally white teeth. “Thank you, my lord.” She was a marvelous henchwoman: murderously efficient, devastatingly intelligent, and stunningly beautiful. I didn't trust her as far as I could throw her, but who can you trust in this business?

I entered, twirling my fingers in my black mustache. “Tell the kitchen to send coffee,” I instructed curtly, the syrup fading from my voice till only the toxin remained. “My finest and very black, mind you. And the best sugar bowl, without any sugar.”

The redheaded woman bowed her head respectfully and retreated through the door, shutting it with a soft click behind her. I gave her my best cold and confident look, and stood there motionless until her footsteps faded away.

Then I rubbed my hands together with glee, and the sinister look faded, replaced by my natural grin of enthusiasm. Time to practice my singular art.

The breakfast table (or tea-time table, for this instance) was pushed up close to the fireplace, where a feeble flicker burned, barely warming the room. I circled it, touching each of the corners in turn. I pulled out two seats. One for me, and one for him. I stood back and surveyed the effect. Good, good. That seemed about right. I strolled over the other side of the room, where a desk sat waiting. It was a good desk, the kind lawyers use when they want to be reassuring or scary.

I knelt down, pressing my suit clad knees to the understated carpet, and pulled open the bottom drawer. It was filled with a box of props: my quills for the writing of this part of the story. I lovingly pulled out each one (an old revolver, the sort of gun one would display on a mantelpiece, and a bag of innocuous sugar cubes), and placed them on the desktop.

And – what was this? My pocketwatch? I pulled it out of the box and frowned. I thought it was in my winter coat. Ah well. I admired its design for a moment; it too was classic, and perfectly fitted to my role. A brass case covered a simple white face and indomitable black hands as they ticked around the numbers painted around the edge. Three twenty two. Eight minutes to go. I flicked it shut and slid it into my pocket.

I put the bag of sugar cubes in my pocket, and picked up the gold filigreed antique revolver. It still worked like a charm, but it was unloaded. I checked it to make sure, and closed it up again. Then, pushing the drawer closed with my foot and crossing the room, I placed the gun on a small stand on the bare mantelpiece. Then I balanced a small card in front of it, printed with: Danger! Loaded! Do not Touch! and other such cautionary cliches. I bounced back on my heels and grinned.

The door opened with a thud as the tea-cart was wheeled through. I turned around slowly, with a glower on my face. They bowed hastily, and proceeded to set up the table. Muffins, coffee, jam and toast – never let it be said that I don't give prisoners a good last meal. When they had finished, I asked sternly, “Where is the sugar bowl?”

The cowed minion handed me a beautiful sugar bowl, its porcelain insides gleaming. I took it with a sinister smile, and pulled the bag of sugar cubes out of my pocket. Then, with a wink at him, I poured the sugar cubes into the bowl. “You made the coffee as black as the pit of despair, yes?” I inquired, the chocolate syrup seeping back into my voice.

“I thought we painted the pit of despair a sort of dingy gray, sir.”

“Figure of speech,” I snapped, and poured a bit of coffee from the pot into a spare cup and sipped it. I resisted making a face. It was revoltingly strong, bitter and absolutely unpalatable without sugar. “Good. You may go. Tell the guards to bring the prisoner in.”

They scurried away.

I waited impatiently for the prisoner to arrive.

I paced.

I waited not-so-patiently.

Finally, the door opened and a dejected little chap with manacles on his arms and legs stumbled in, followed by two burly guards and my redheaded henchwoman.

“Ah there you are! Guards, take off his manacles,” I admonished, waving a hand. They did so, and the prisoner began rubbing his wrists, his eyes flicking around the room. He was looking for an escape route first... then he searched for a weapon – found it! The gun. I put a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched.

I escorted him the tea-table, steering him to the chair on the side closest to the fireplace. “Join me for tea or coffee. I'm sure you'll like the coffee, and – dear me – you must be hungry.”

I grinned wolfishly and sat down in the chair opposite him. “Have a muffin,” I ordered.

He swallowed nervously. “You're not going to get anything out of me,” he repeated, as if rote memorization and too many bad movies had carved the line into his thick skull.

“Please, relax. This is not an interrogation.” I promised him, adding to myself, this is an execution. I smiled again, but it seemed to make him more nervous. “Have some coffee. It's the best quality of beans.” I took a blueberry muffin and ate a delicate bite. He reluctantly took a muffin and nibbled it. My right-hand woman approached the table and poured us both coffee, which I sipped with a sign of enjoyment. Ugh. It was horrible.

He picked up his coffee, sipped it, and made a face. “Needs, sugar,” he coughed, and added a sugar cube to his coffee. And Bingo was his name-oh! He sipped it again and smiled.

Then, while I watched carefully, sipping my horrid coffee, he ate his muffin.

I pulled out my watch and checked the time surreptitiously. Then I put down my cup of coffee with a decisive clink. “Now, is there anything you'd like to say? Any last words?”

He coughed, and put his own coffee down, panic flitting across his face. “What? Aren't you going to ask me any questions? You're just going to kill me?”

“Of course.” I smiled. His eyes flicked back at the gun over the mantelpiece.

He stood, shoving his chair back dramatically. “You'll never succeed, you, you horrible person.”

“Dear me, you certainly haven't picked up your best friend's talent for banter, now have you?” I remarked, poison etching my words into the air. It really was pathetic, the standards that banter has fallen to now-a-days. Things like “Die!” or “You fiend!” are considered to be high art. I mean, really?

He leaped back for the gun, brought it around and shot me. “Die!”

Or tried to. The trigger flicked with a forlorn snap of metal. Click. Click. Click. All the colour drained from his face. “You... you...”

“Unpleasant human being, I think you were going to say.” He gasped for breath, and I continued. “Yes, yes, get on with dying. Those sugar cubes were laced with poison. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to take food from strangers?” I snapped, a smile on my lips. I twirled my mustachio in an appropriately sinister way. “Die.”

The man slipped back into the chair, then out of it, falling on the floor with a thud.

I gave the obligatory evil-villain laugh, and turned to my henchwoman. “I think that's a record time for that maneuver,” I remarked. “The baited Chekhov's gun. Everyone knows that a gun placed on the mantlepiece in the first scene will be used in the last one. And yet, no one ever remembers that it's broader than that. The rules are, anything significant in the first scene will be important in the last one,” I lectured. “Including sugar cubes.”

She looked bored. “A record? Why don't you check?”

I snorted and pulled out my watch, ignoring the dead body on the floor. I flicked it open with a peculiar click. “Looks to be... five minutes, start to finish. Yes, it's a new record.”

“You are indeed an excellent teacher, sir,” she said. I looked up in alarm. “In fact, I've learned your lessons so well that...” She backed away from the table, and hissed. “Time to die.”

My faithless pocket-watch clicked again, and then spat a foul smelling gas from its innards. “You... you couldn't have!” My world was fading to black as I struggled to rise, my senses slowly shutting off, one by one.

“Newsflash, sir. You haven't been reading enough books. Don't you know that the beautiful yet evil girl is always a traitorous backstabber?”

She laughed. “Chekhov's watch, good sir. Chekhov's watch.”

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:01 pm

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Short Story, Fantasy, Surreal

By Artesian.

From a series of short-stories
about peculiar people
and their lives.

I came across them playing outside a coffee shop. There were four of them, and a funny lot they were. One was large, muscular and serious, with a honest face. He played a great heavy cello, I recall, his back leaning against the wall of the building. One was active, dancing and lovely, with bright gypsy-like clothes. She played percussion and danced, I think; she was festooned all over with drums, triangles, and other bits of percussion in her pockets and strapped to her side. One was tall, spindly and solemn, with bushy blond hair. He played the violin beautifully, I feel, with his eyes closed in rapture at the melody. One was short, black, and cheerful, with a big smile. He played what, I swear, was one of those electric pianos, but it was so light that he could pick it up under one arm.

Most people passed by, not even noticing their music. Much to do, little time to do it in. They don't have any time to appreciate the beauty around them. Today was a particularly lovely day. I was seeing things I'd never seen before, and the city was filled with interest and wonder instead of irritations and worse. I stopped, transfixed by the music. It was cheerful, but with an undertone of serious thought. I'd never heard anything like it before. I've never heard anything like it since.

I didn't have anywhere especially important to go to, so I lay down on the grass nearby them and listened. I couldn't say what genre it was – classical, new-age, even a dub-step instrumental blend... it was just music, pure and simple, without any words tagged onto it to describe the indescribable.

I gotta admit, I listened to them for hours. Perhaps I fell asleep at one point; it's all a little fuzzy in my head. Their music flowed into your mind without always bothering to pass through your ears. The sun was going down when I finally got up and dug into my wallet to add to the significant pile in the case. One of them, the dancing percussionist, smiled at me, and nodded, the bells on her head jangling in time with a bicycle bell that swept past. Then I leaned against the wall of the coffee shop and watched them for a bit more as they continued playing.

As the last car swept by, a few hours after the sun had finally set, I realized that I'd spent almost an entire day listen to them, and I had no idea who they were, or what their band was called. As the dancer and the pianist packed up their instruments – the violinist and cellist were still playing - I walked over to them and thanked for their performance. “It was absolutely beautiful.”

The pianist flashed a wide smile, brilliant white teeth gleaming in his dark face. “Thanks, ma'am.” He said, with a glance at the dancer, “Most people don't listen to us much.”

“Oh, they should! Are you professional musicians?”I asked, enthusiastically.

He closed the transparent lid on his piano case, covering patchwork of white and black keys with glints of streetlight and laughed. “Yes, we are. We play all day in the city, and most of the night too!”

The dancer was unhooking a bell from her ear. She giggled at that comment, but I couldn't see what was so funny about it. I asked, “Does your band have a name? I'd love to buy one of your albums.”

The cellist looked over at us and shook his head solemnly, still drawing his bow over his instrument. “We are The City, but we don't have an album out. We like playing on street corners far more than on stages,” he tells me, as if it was some weighty secret.

I thought it was odd, at the time. Why no album? Why street corners? They were amazing musicians, so why hadn't everyone bought their music? I thought it was terribly unfair, but I didn't understand half of it. I opened my mouth to tell them so, but closed it again. “Will... will you be here tomorrow?” I asked, a plaintive note in my voice. I wanted so much to hear that music again.

“No,” said the cellist.

I frowned involuntarily. The dancer leaned over to me, her short hair swishing against her earrings. “Have you had dinner?” she asked, pointing to a restaurant across the street.

I shake my head.

“Then come on!” she slid her bag under the cellist's folding chair and skipped across the street, not bothering to use the crosswalk. I followed her bemusedly.

She ordered food for us both, and it came, steaming and delicious. She seemed ravenous, but I just picked at my food. “Ah, that's better. I needed some fuel,” she said, drinking a vile cup of black, syrupy, oily coffee. She grinned, and I see her teeth outlined in black gunk, which she quickly swishes away with water.

“So,” I asked. “Where are you from? I haven't seen you here before.”

“Oh, I'm here. I've pretty much always been here,” she said, shrugging. “But I've been so many places I'm not sure where I'm from. We're always traveling around.”

“I see.”

She gave me a look, as if to say, probably not.

I said, again, “It's just that, well, have you ever tried performing on stage?”

She had been taking another sip of water, but she almost spits it out from her laughter. “We can't.”

Again, I couldn't see what was so funny about it. “Why not?”

The little dancer considered it. “We'd be missing a musician, our most important one,” she informs me, finally. “Our music only works outside, in the city.”

“Why?”

“Because we're The City.”

Enigmatic answer, at best, I thought then. I glanced out the window, trying to see her band-mates in the darkness, and gasp. There was a glow nearby the cellist had a streetlight moved... or something? I realize that it's the spindly violinist. He's still playing, and his golden hair is glowing just like the streetlights overhead. I glanced back at the girl. She flicked her eyes out the window and then down at her plate. “We should go. It was nice meeting you,” she says, in a rush.

“Wait!” But she was already out the door, and as I watched her cross the street again, to join her friends, they started and stared at me. Then, ignoring my fascinated gaze, they bowed solemnly to each other, each collected their instruments and headed in a different direction.

The cellist slipped down an alleyway, his bulky shadow merging with the buildings and vanishing quickly. The pianist carried his piano, the white and black keys gleaming in the street light down the main street, straight down the dotted white center line. The violinist passed by a shop window, and the gleam from the streetlights made me look away for a brief moment. And the dancer? Jingling, her feet strangely audible even across the street and through glass, she slipped away down the street, running past a line of silent cars and sleeping motorcycles.

Something about the city slipped away too, and it was once again just, well, a place where people lived in sturdy buildings on black streets and drove their vehicles under the glow of streetlights. I sat back, closing my eyes. After a while, the waitress came over, and told me they were closing up for the night. The vacant expression on my face must have startled her, because she asked if I was all right.

“Just fine,” I assured her. “I was just enjoying the music of the city.”

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:01 pm

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Short Story, Fantasy, Post-Apocalyptic, Horror

By Artesian.

For a post-apocalyptic
writing competition.

Warnings for violence, disease, suicide, and religious themes.

--------------------------------------

A pillar of salt.

It's a bizarre and beautiful image. A woman of flesh and blood and soul transfixed by the glory and might and terror of God, drying out into a featureless pillar of pure platonic white salt. A holy white pillar, marking the barrier between the alive and righteous, and the dead and wicked.

None of it's true. According to holistic translations of the passage, the phrase 'to become a pillar of salt' was a euphemism for dying, like kicking the bucket or passing over. The pillar of salt was just a way to say she died. And that's all this is. Just death.

It has a certain something to it though. A woman of salt. Nothing but purified chemicals and the tang of sodium. Dry, lifeless, devoid of soul. That's what I am. Salt. I don't remember my real name, now. I think I used to know.. I'm pretty sure I had a doctorate in something. Was it medicine? No, if it was medicine, I'd know what to do about the metal stabbing into my heart. Blood's salty, I recall. Salt in the wound. I wonder what I'm thinking. I can't remember.

I'm frightened. That's good. I'm going out alive. I hoped I'd die alive. Most people don't.

-----------------------

I am called Salt. I do not wish to be found by my old name, and so I name myself for my sin, not for my identity. I used to judge sin in all its forms, compiling a list of evil and a catalogue of good for grades, points, and cash. I knew everything about what was prohibited and what was encouraged in every religion alive and dead.

I don't remember what colour my eyes are. I've nearly forgotten what anyone's eyes look like. Are they gems? Lumps of gristle? Painted circles, black holes? All I can see is the silver mirror finish of the containment glasses. Everything is tinted with shadows and dark, even at midday. The marketplace is filled with the glints of those who hide from sin.

It's dry today, worse than usual. Winter's usual succor of rain and moisture is absent, and instead, a cold wind scowers the stalls filled with the decaying treasures of a dead civilization. I can feel my skin crumbling, flakes falling from my hands like warm white snow. I clear my throat. "Two tonics," I ask the owner of this stall full of medicine, a large man with the skin-folds of a much fatter man hanging loosely around his jaw like the jowls of a great dog.

He passes them over, accepting my bundle of copper wire and weighing it. His sunglasses throw two white spots on the dirty plastic bottles as I unscrew the cap of one and drink it down in one long, continuous gulp. It tastes like tears and dirt but my throat heals. I turn around and lean against a post, staring up towards Haven, the new city on a hill. No cursed are allowed there. It is a land of the fair-folk, the blessed and godly.

"Mind scooting before you scare my customers?" He hands me back my change: the wires from a radio and a little clipping I have left from a scavenged street-light.

I don't get angry. That makes me sad, a little tinge of emotion coloring my colorless world. Anger makes you feel alive, gives you a purpose again. "No." I turn and walk away, down the street, shuffling apathetically into the city again.

Only a few streets away, I collapse, unable to take another step. I lie in a heap, breathing deeply. Too much for one day. Can't remember, can't not remember – I see the face of an old enemy, smiling at me. "You really think this will work?" he asks me, and I reply innocently, telling him the secrets of the universe.

"Yes!" I hand him a sketch of circles and pentagrams, detailed descriptions of oak pegs, tallow candles and circles of salt and herbs. "The confusion in the late 2nd century AD accounts for the overlap between the legends of the fae and demons. It's natural that the truth would lie between the two faiths," I explain, pointing out the names. "The book of Enoch points to the fallen angels, and some versions show that God stopped the fall of some, and those were the fair-folk. Not demon, not angel, not good and not wicked." I smile. "They are unallied, and can be traded with for magic."

"Fascinating," he mutters, staring hungrily at the sketches. "A door out."

I laugh. "Yes, with conditions, of course."

The memory shatters into fragments and I find my feet again, staggering onwards. It becomes harder and harder to keep moving each day. It's hard to live in the today, now, as burdened with memories as I am.

The panic when the disesase first appeared. The unearthly speed of its spread, the erroneous diagnois of early-onset alzheimers. The eyes that passed the disease onto me, that one glance of self-recognition. Hi, I see you, you are guilty. I am fading, the colour leaching out of me to the purity of sinless death. There's hardly anything I want now, but somehow I stop myself from suicide. I still want meaning and to feel alive again.

The world didn't end in fire and madness, but in chill and decay. There were children begging their mothers to run with them, fathers with their hearts scooped out, staring at a wall as their minds fled, the disease eating away at the sin in every crenellation of their brain. Neurons cracking into dust and disorder.

Then the spot of hope, for those who fled the disease. Haven. The fair folk.

I stagger as the long-forgotten sound of an engine revs behind me. "Grab her!" a strong and healthy voice yells, and I freeze in place for a moment, then try to escape. I duck around a pillar, then pull my frayed coat about me tightly as the wind flails at my limbs and screams in my ears with an horrible howl. The wild hunt. My heart pounds, and I relish the fear in my veins. I run with the wind, through a broken window and out the back of the building, the roar of engines and whinny of voices chasing me through old city. The pavements seal in the graves of the past, the crumbling skyscrapers mark the tomb of a civilization like tombstones. I finally stop when my breath runs short, and I hide behind a white pillar.

The wind howls.

A blow to the back of the head. The white spatters of pain flash in my eyes as I fall.

-----------------------

"Hello! You look familiar, but memory is such a tricky thing." There are teeth in this voice, sharp needle-consanants and thudding molar vowels. It drawls, saliva coating his sentences in gleaming strings as a hand touches my chin. His nails run along my cheek, scraping against my skin and leaving troughs of pink and red skin, oozing blood.

My eyes open, and I see his hand, long and elegant fingers holding a pinch of my salty skin over the wound. Then it's tossed over his shoulder, a throw-away gesture of ritual. Salt over the shoulder to keep away the devil. "My my, your sin does go deep, doesn't it?"

I groan. His face swerves into my view above me. I catch a glimpse of his eyes, blue and alive, full of devilish merriment. He's young, black haired and blue eyed, about eighteen years old. The trenches carved in my face by his fingernails sting, and I gasp out, "Who -"

"Now I remember you! Dr. Santer, Religious Studies. I'm so glad we found you!"

"My name is Salt, not Santer," I croak, the dryness in my throat and the cotton in my mouth causing my words to crumble in my mouth. I swallow.

He hisses at my reply and, with a movement like a snapping branch on a dead tree, plucks off my mirrored sunglasses. I jerk and try to cover my face with my hands, but I realize they're enclosed with metal restraints. I close my eyes out of instinct, but he delicately pulls my eyelids up and gazes in my eyes. He snarls, "Don't bother to distance yourself from your true name; I know who you are." The muscles in my eye flex against his strong fingers, the nails cutting into my forehead and I whimper. I feel he can see straight through my eyes into my soul, picking apart my life and playing with the pieces.

"You're still beautiful, you know," he whispers, and I swallow. I can't get a word out, even though I try. He releases my eyelids and moves away, and I gasp, closing my eyes tightly. I hear the glugging of a container of something pouring into a cup. He returns with a little silver key, unlocking the restraints on my arms and pushing me upright. I sway woozily as he presses a glass of tears into my hand. "Drink up, beauty."

I drink it down greedily, my eyes tightly shut, and drop the glass, which shatters. "Who – what - are you?" I ask hoarsely and he leans towards me. I can smell his breath: the sharp scent of snow, the bite of pine-trees, the grit of bone dust and the stench of decay and rot. My eyelids flicker, but I hold them tightly closed anyway. My hands pat around me, and I return my silver glasses to my eyes.

"Why don't you guess, Salt?" he purrs. "You brought me here, after all."

I can't cry, but the pain of tears begins in my eyes. "Fae." He hasn't aged a day in the past ten years, his black hair still untouched with gray, and his eyes as lively as the day I handed him the sketch of the doorway from the faery paths.

"It's been marvelous. Your assistance was invaluable!" he said cheerily, his teeth glinting again. "Did you know that the people here think we're angels? Heaven on earth, they say! Magic lives and we live with it. Of course, we are doing the lord's work."

He giggles again.

"You are not a fallen angel," I mutter. "The fae are nothing but beautiful demons."

The fae hisses, and I see his face chill, his black hair frosting into frozen black-ash. "A demon? Hah! You asked us to rid the world of sin."

My memory is returning – the summoning of the fae and the plauge. I wanted to heal the world. I thought I had the power to control them, to fix everything. "I didn't mean this," I snarl.

" 'Take the sin away,' I believe you said." he tells me, his face blank and cold. "It's like Sodom and Gomorrah once more, dear Santer," he continues, smiling again. His face is stretching, as if his vindictive smile was so enormous it wouldn't fit in his existing face. "Only the righteous survive, and is it our fault that so few are righteous?"

My hands are shaking as my eyes flick around the room. "It is not your place to judge."

"Or yours to call us up." He smiles. "Do you know what your sin is? It's pride."

"You're draining the life from innocents."

He shakes his head. "Oh no, never innocents. The sinful. I have done as you asked. I am ridding the world of sin. Soon, Haven will be filled with the righteous and the fair-folk. Just as you requested, a world without sin."

I shudder and tense to jump from the table, but I hear the roar of wind and the hiss of sleet, and the fae is beside me again, holding me down and locking me in place. "Lie down, Santer. Don't worry, you're in Haven. You're safe."

"No, no. Go away," I snarl, twisting in his grasp. The white salt of my skin rubs off in his hands, and the blood begins to run from my wrists.

"Shhhhh." He locks me back in place, and turns out the lights, leaving me in darkness. "You are precious, so very precious. You are safe." And he's gone, but the stink of his breath remains in the air as I shiver on the slab.

He must have dosed with some sort of magic in the water, because I feel better. My mind is clearing, and my memory reforming. It's easier to breathe. Why? Why would he heal me? The thought runs through my mind, endlessly searching for a connection... but they've been eaten away along with my pride. The sin is gone.

-----------------------

Days pass, as I lay on the slab. Enraptured humans in silver glasses care for me, pouring liquids into my mouth, and inserting an IV into my arm. I grow stronger, healthier, and they unbind me and let me stand. The fae returns, but only in nightmares and in shadows. I ask questions, but none are answered. The fae are not ones for sentimentality or gratitude. Though I brought them here, I could expect no thanks or remembrance from them.

I cannot leave. Whatever is in my IV bag tethers me to this room. It is their judgment that I live here, trapped, for as soon as I pull the IV from my arm to attempt an escape, I collapse into senility and crumbling dehydration again. Why are they keeping me alive? I can't remember. I can think clearly again, but the answer eludes me; my memories prove evasive and frustrating. My mind has crumbled away, leaving the structure but not the contents. Then, one night as I lay awake in moonlight, the ritual comes to my mind. The ritual. I remember the ritual. The blood given to the spirits, the sacrifice of tears, the burned herbs and the silver knife: my life gives them life; their blood runs while mine does.

I sob, and the salty tears run from my eyes. They need me alive to live... and if I die, I take them with me. I caused this. The pride is gone, but its effects remain. I judged, and thus I am judged. I stroke the silver edged slab of wood on which I lie with my fingers and wrench the metal free with a grunt of effort. I pull the metal across my wrists, but the edge is too dull and merely raises a white scratch. I'm too healthy to crumble at the slightest blow. I cross the room, the thin clear tube of liquid stretching out behind me like a lifeline. It pulls taut as I lay my fingers on the door, throwing it open. The warm, dry, summer air whirls in, and I take in a startled breath.

A pause. I can feel my life stretching, twanging out behind me and then the IV slips from my wrist and I pass through the doorway. A shudder. I can feel the clarity fading, along with the wetness in my throat and tongue. A stumble.

The scratch on my wrist oozes a scarlet line of blood as I walk barefooted across the balcony. I can see the city below. It is burning now, sparks of fire being tossed towards the sky in an unearthly dance of destruction. I sag, still clutching the silver metal strip and lean against the railing, sliding down, the bare skin on my legs and arms gleaming white in the moonlight. I am crumbling again, and so I draw the blade, now sharp enough to cut, across my wrists.

Salty red liquid is still leaking slowly from my wrists and my skin is weak and crumbling... I press the metal into my chest, feeling the pain and the fragility of my pale skin as it breaks and allows the silver strip of metal to pass inwards, further, deeper. It feels wonderful. I feel alive.

I hoped I'd die alive. Most people don't.

-----------------------

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:02 pm

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Short Story, Post-Apocalyptic, Sci-fi, Horror

By Artesian.

For a writing competition.
Using this as inspiration.

--------------------------------------

Is this thing recording? … good.

Can you hear me? … This feels stupid. It's like when we were kids at school together, and we put notes and letters in a time-capsule for people a hundred years in the future to read and marvel at. They opened it five years ago. Did you remember the letters we wrote? I asked about hovercars – they have them now – and you asked is people were happy in the future. Why did we ask questions; did we expect an answer? I don't remember. They have the letters in a museum now, with yours on a special plaque that says: “We are happy.”

I went to see the letters a week ago, and they couldn't understand why I was crying. They don't cry here. I've never seen anything but blank expressions and smiles on their faces.

I wonder if this will work. The robotic avatars of the AI they call Hedone tell me that the time-distortions that I went through allow a peculiar effect, where time flows both forwards and backwards at the wall. The interface, they call it. It rips living creatures' minds apart, but messages can travel backwards, like a time-capsule. I don't trust Hedone. I wonder, sometimes, if this is all just a game to keep me happy. Most things here are like that.

You probably think I'm dead, anyway.

[a teary snuffling sound]

Did you assume that, in the jagged cuts and gouges that erupted from the lab, that I'd died? So many people did, cut in half by the time warps, that it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that everyone in the gaps that were suddenly crisscrossing the shattered earth. We're not dead, just time-displaced. It probably wouldn't matter too much to you. You've moved on, probably, found someone else.

They keep telling me to do that too. They keep telling me to be happy. “Is that what you want?” they ask and ask and ask until I feel like I'm going to scream. They don't scream here. I've never heard anything but silence and laughing chatter from their voices.

She says that over and over. “Is it what you really want?” I've met someone, here. They made her for me, when I said that I wouldn't love anyone but you. They told me that my unhappiness was unacceptable, so they used my memories of you to program an avatar of Hedone to love me. She's horrible. She looks a lot like you, prettier even. More curves to her and a perfectly symmetrical face. I miss that little tilt to your nose, your eyes just a little bit off in a way that makes you human. She's brilliant and looks fantastic in a jumpsuit. I hate her. She is a cold as ice and does all the things you used to do, but it's wrong. She's a goddam telephone, for heaven's sake. She's got an IQ of 1001 and she can read my mind. Every thought and every emotion I ever have is written in her eyes.

She thinks I'm broken.

[a scoffing growl]

Hedone fixes things that are broken. She cares for everyone in this little patch of the world. They call it Xanadu, a paradise for the good. Everyone is happy here. It's compulsory. Someone told her long ago that the purpose of humanity is to be happy, and that she was to do everything in her power to make people happy. So she did, at least for the people who bought a subscription to Advanced Hedonics Inc. Everyone else lives outside the walls she built, in what everyone says is hell. People eat bread and water out there.

I like bread better than the strange, chemical laced fare that they try to feed me. I prefer water to the drug-laced liquors that everyone consumes here. Everything tastes too strong or spicy or sweet or fatty. It's just too much of everything. They can't understand it. They don't eat bland things here. I've never tasted anything that wasn't filled with something to make me happy.

I broke the avatar of Hedone yesterday. She tried to grab in her perfect and chilly arms and kiss me senseless, but I managed to snap off her arm and twist off her head. I don't want to be happy that way. I want you. I held her robotic head in my hands as it smiled at me, sadly. It declared me a pleasure-defective human specimen and informed me that I was ordered to report to Conditioning to have a direct stimulation device implanted on my pleasure sensor.

They want to make me happy.

[an empty chuckle with no amusement in it.]

They came for me, but I ran. No one runs, here, when Hedone comes. She is the protector, provider, lover and friend of all. All she wants is to make you happy. “Is that what you want? Is it what you really want? Is that what you want?” I hate that question.

I can't get through the interface to get back to you, to the life where something means something more than just endless pleasure. When I kiss you, it means something. There was texture to life: ups and downs and risks and consequences. I snuck over to the interface to send you this message - to let you know, if you even are getting these, that I can't send any more. I'm leaving Xanadu for the outside world, where life still means something. God, where people are actually alive, not just stumbling around with absurd smiles on their faces, laughing like maniacs.

They aren't alive here. I've never seen them actually live.

Wish me luck, my love. I can hear them coming, the avatars of Hedone chanting – I should run.

Yours truly -

[a crashing sound.]
[subsequent words are muffled]

Is that what you want? Is it what you really want? Is that what you want? Is it what you really want? Is that what you want? Is it what you really want? Is that what you want? -

Transmission Ends
Capsule #5648
Origin Date: 2095

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:04 pm

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Short Story, Fantasy, Romance, Surreal

By Artesian.

For a writing competition.
Using fantasy and dreams as a starting
point.

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--------I sit outside the stone walls of a church and hear the bells of a clocktower. The shadows shift; the sharpened tip of the church's steeple sweeps out an arch in front of me, in starts and stops, like the ticking of a minute hand. The sun hums across the sky in one steady, even note. People blur past me as I wait, motionless. I'm waiting for you.
--------I don't know what your face looks like. I've never seen it. I'm more familiar with the tension in your hands and the way your mouth tastes from the inside, and the peculiar blur that is your vision without your glasses. I remember what it feels like to breath with your lungs and feel with your skin. But I've never seen your face. How could I even recognize it, in a crowd? How could I be sure? Do I even want to meet you? I'm a stranger to you, though I know you better than you know yourself.
--------I wait till the sky grows dark, watching the street corner I know you will pass by. Some people catch my eye, and I catch my breath at each faltered connection and lost opportunity. I want to say something to you, whoever you are, but I know I didn't. I would remember it.
--------When the streetlights flicker on, I pick my way through the parked cars to my home. My apartment is cool and bare, with bookshelves lining the walls like insulation from the noise of the city. I don't like the city. There are too many people here, too many stories and lives to possibly understand. Back home, I knew everyone's name and could write a book on their stories. The shelves were filled with people I knew. But I left two years ago. I came to the city to find you.
--------I started having dreams of you about three years ago. I didn't think much of it at the time - I thought it was normal to dream like that. It was vivid, yes, but the brain does strange things, right? So I just got used to it, thinking it was some recurring quirk of my subconscious.
--------I thought it was meaningless, until the terrorist attack. They say that everyone remembers where they were when they heard and that's true for me. Twice over. I saw it coming. The night before, I dreamed of you, working at your job in total shock, the radio telling you about the attack in the city far from your small town, the carnage in the target area and the damage in the outer-lying affected areas. I woke up, turned on the TV, and saw that my nightmare had come true. Or was coming true.
--------It was all real. I was watching through your eyes - a day out of sync. I see your tomorrows. I'd always felt that time was far less stiff and solid than the science textbooks said. Deja-vu came easily to me, and it seemed to me that the idea of an hour of dullness was the same length as an hour of ecstasy was simply ridiculous. The idea that I could really be seeing the future stunned me. I felt embarrassed, uneasy, like an accidental peeping tom. I know you better than anyone else does, and you don't even know me.
--------But I can't stop it. The glimpses of your life continue. When I saw the skyline of the city you'd decided to move to, I had to come too. I had a chance to find you, not a nameless and indistinct small town that I had no hope of ever finding. You were there, and I knew where there was.
--------As I lie down tonight, I wonder if I'll dream of you again. Maybe I'll get another clue to your identity. Maybe, you'll look into a mirror, and I'll be there to see. Maybe - I hope with all my heart - I'll dream of you, meeting me.
--------I drift, time stretching and blurring.
--------Snap. Time snatches at my mind again. Your glasses slip down your nose as you run down the street. You're out of breath, and your eyes flick around frantically. It's disorienting, the thudding speed of your feet jolting your eyes in your sockets as you look around. I don't know for what - but even if I have no idea what you're thinking, I can feel the hurt in your heart, emotion flowing like mud in your blood. Heartbreak, worry, guilt, fear, panic -
--------- stop. You recognize the street. You look up, seeing familiar skyscrapers. I can smell Italian food and can feel the wind on your skin, raising goosebumps on your arm. You push your glasses back up, and the world refocuses but everything is moving too fast - bicycle swerves, car honks, man yells, plates clatter,
--------and there I am.
--------You see me. I don't see you. I'm looking around too. I can see the panic on my own face.
--------You're in the street. There's a car coming.
--------Honking but you don't notice
--------the lunge of muscles as you spring forward towards me
--------Thud.
--------I fall out of bed, screaming. Tears are flowing down my cheeks and I'm gasping for breath, like I've been running. I gulp down air and stifle my yells as the tenant above me bangs on the floor. I brace my hands on my thighs, the muscles quivering under my palms. I can hear my clock ticking as my breathing eases down to the steady rhythm of the usual passage of time.
--------I turn on the light and pick up the pad of paper and the pen on my bedside table. I close my eyes and sketch. The skyline. The towers. I can still see them vaguely in my mind, growing blurrier as each moment passes.
--------As soon as my memory is drained of every last detail, I take a shower to clear my head and clean my body, and I prepare to search. The sky lightens, and by the time the day dawns with touches of a romantic pink in the dull grays of the foggy morning, I'm out the door.
--------I spend hours looking for the spot, comparing the sketch of my skyline to the real one. I draw curious looks as I walk diagonally across sidewalks and cross street after street, comparing. It feel hopeless, but I can't not find you. I have to be there. I can't let you die. The thud echoes in my feet as I walk, panic filling my face.
--------I will not cry. I will not cry. I hold up my sketch to the skyline, then crumple it up and stuff it in my pocket and -
--------I turn. A banner unrolls, with a photo of the skyline beneath some advert slogan I could care less about. The skyline clicks. The smell of pasta sauce floods my sinuses and I gasp.
--------Where are you? Where? I turn and step off the sidewalk -
--------and I see you. The car is coming, and you're already moving into its path
--------But I'm here, really here, and I can grasp your shoulders and hips and pull you out of the path -
--------but you're already reaching for me and I feel a car brush past my back
--------and we collide.
--------The dual honks of horns sweep past us on either side, time stretching the blare of noise into a smooth streak of decreasing volume and pitch. We stand there and breath for a moment as death fades away into the chaos of the city, of other people. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
--------Cars stop for us, and someone yells at us to get out of the street, but we don't move.
--------You respond. How different your voice sounds, outside of your head. “I'm okay.”
--------Time pauses for just a second, and we back away, each to our own side of the street. How can I tell you why I was here? How can I explain what I know about you? This is too weird. I memorize your face, the curve of your cheeks and the colour of your eyes behind your glasses... but I look away. I... can't. I lick my lips to thank you and say goodbye, but you speak first, yelling across the divide.
--------“It's wonderful to finally meet you!”
--------This doesn't make any sense to me for a moment, but I can't help responding. “Yes, it is. I. I didn't expect-” I stop. The light changes and the flow of cars stop.
--------“You...” you begin. I cross the street towards you and you meet me half-way, holding out your hands. I place mine in their familiar fingers. We walk to safety, sheltering beneath the awnings of the Italian restaurant. “You know me?” you ask.
--------I hesitate, and nod. “Do you know me?” I ask.
--------And you nod.
--------I smile, and tears leak from the corner of my eyes. “Dreams?” I whisper.
--------Your smile mirrors mine and you reply in kind. “Dreams.”
--------And this time, it's not a dream, but ordinary reality with two people meeting for the first time. Even if we've known each other for years, this is our first meeting. We share a big plate of spaghetti at the Italian place, laugh at the pigeons stealing our breadsticks, startle at the sound of a back-firing car, get pasta sauce all over our lips and time hums steadily along with my watch.
--------This is real, and I am me and you are you and we're together. Finally.

Copyright Artesian, 2013.[/quote]

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My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:05 pm

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Short Story, Holiday, Realistic

By Artesian.

For Secret Santa
Using this as loose inspiration.

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------The letter-box is cold to the touch from the sharp breeze that sweeps past it - too dry to allow snow to fall, but frigid enough to chill each breath she releases into visibility. She shivers, her dark hair slipping from its perch on her shoulders and falling across her face as she tucks the handful of mail under her arm and unlocks her front door.
It opens with a clunk, and she steps through into the marginally warmer room, flicking through her mail. Resident, resident, add, bill, notice... She pauses on a brilliant red envelope. A glint of gold shines at the edges, and she runs her fingers over the stamps once, emblazoned with cheery nondenominational holiday cheer.
------It's addressed to Sharon Haley, not Oz Designs, which is how most of her mail comes. For most people, she's known just by her work, not by herself. She prefers to let the houses she designs speak for themselves. Ever since she left home in some acrimony, she hasn't received any personal Christmas cards. Sharon sets the mail down on a table nearby the door and removes her coat, then sits down in an armchair to open the envelope.
------She uses her house key to slit the envelope open, and withdraws the card. There is a painting on the front in pastels, which smear slightly where her unwary fingers touch it – an original. Sharon sets it down carefully, and studies it by the light of the dry winter's day outside.
------It's a scarecrow, dressed in a winter coat and gloves, dusted with snow. A braided tail of straw falls over the scarecrow's shoulder like thick blond hair. It holds a plate of bird-seed out, which cardinals are feasting on. 'Home for the Holidays' is written in a curving red cursive below it all.
------Sharon opens the card, to find just a simple inscription.
---------------You are always welcome in my home.
------------------------Yvonne.
------She runs the name reminds her of something, just out of her grasp, like a hint of an unfamiliar spice in an otherwise familiar dish. She purses her lips, but it doesn't come, and neither does the house she belongs to. In the fading evening light, alone in the lukewarm house, she remembers the houses she built. Some of the early ones are unclear in her mind, undefined and crowded with half-suppressed feelings. Those were difficult years, back when she didn't have a place of her own, just half a room and a futon, right after she left her home. Other houses are achingly clear. She can still taste the sawdust, smell the caulk, and feel the concrete of the foundations of her first real project. One house, though, is a blank.
------She tells herself she's being silly for being upset about this.
------Then she stands up and continues with her evening.

------That night isn't a good one; she has nightmares. She's trapped in a basement, banging on the door and shivering in the cold. And then, with the logic of dreams, she's outside of the home, looking in on people inside, who are laughing and smiling. None of them can see her.
------She wakes up with the drowned energy and sticky eyelids of exhaustion. She's been working too hard, but that's usual. She rouses herself with coffee and toast, then, operating on automatic, she walks to her home-office, clicking on the light.
------There's a stack of Christmas cards on her desk, ready to be mailed. Oz Designs sends out Christmas cards every year - she has her business cards and Christmas cards printed up by the same company, so she doesn't even need to sign them. She should get them to the mail-drop down town. After a half hour drive through the nearly empty streets, she finds the post-office and tosses the letters into the slot before returning to her car. She peels her gloves off and breathes on her fingers, rubbing them together to warm them enough to stop the tingling numbness on their tips.
------Then she sees the envelopes on her seat. She frowns, and reaches out for them. They must have slipped out from the stack. She picks them up, and notes the addresses – her oldest clients, all in a sleepy college town an hour's drive from her. She sits in her warm car, thinks of her cold house, and starts the engine. There are only five of them, and she can satisfy her curiosity. She pulls out into the quiet roadway, and makes tracks through the snow, towards the highway.

------The first house is covered in Christmas lights. She sits in her car for a few moments, shy, and not wanting to intrude on what is clearly a party. There are seven cars parked outside it, and laughter coming through the windows. They've repainted the home in bright colors, full of enthusiasm and life. She pauses, listening to a raucous rendition of Carol of the Bells from behind the door, and slips the card into the letter-box by the front doorbell of the lively home.
------The next home is cozier, quieter. Snow drifts past the windows, which are warmly lit with candles. She can hear someone playing on the piano, and someone else accompanying them with a violin, the song Baby, it's Cold Outside. They finish, and she hears two voices, their words indistinguishable but filled with affection. She slides the card under the door frame, before hurrying away. She notices, as she walks down the path, that there's a bunch of mistletoe hanging over the porch.
------Little voices are singing at the next house, a version of Jingle Bells. Several children live here, along with their parents and a golden retriever, which is punctuating each verse with barking. She never imagined, when she was designed that house, that little kids would think that the chimney would have a red-suited white-bearded man sliding down it. She puts the card into the mailbox.
------The last house is the quietest of all. Old fashioned Christmas lights decorate the area around the door. An elderly couple lives here, she recalls. There's a 'For Sale' sign out front. She sighs, and slips the card into the letter-box. It seems unfair, that they've only enjoyed this home for a few years, but they've had other homes, a whole lifetime of homes, all molded around them like their own wrinkled faces have molded around their own personalities, with laugh lines and frown marks.

------Just one last home, Yvonne's.
------She hardly recognizes the place. The small cottage is just the center-point, the anchor-stone for a sprawling garden that, even in midwinter, is stunningly beautiful. Tree branches, thick with snow, shelter hedges which wind around garden paths in twining symmetry. The house fits as naturally into the landscape as if it were not built, but grown.
A scarecrow, the twin of the one on the card Yvonne had sent, is perched on the porch, smiling at her. After a few minutes of gazing around, she smiles back at it, and steps out of the car.
------She finds can remember Yvonne, now. Beautiful, with hair the same color as the scarecrow on her card. Sweet smile, and sweet disposition. She wonders why she'd ever allowed them to lose contact. She pulls out the last card from her coat and considers it, then braces it on the door of the car and pulls a pen from her pocket, signing it with:
---------------Merry Christmas,
------------------------Sharon.
------Sharon walks through the garden, then pauses, her feet on the welcome mat, and considers knocking.
------She hardly knows Yvonne. Though they are just two Christmas cards apart, that is distance enough. She pushes the envelope through the letter-box, but before she can let go of the card, the door opens. Warmth and the scents of a Christmas dinner gust through the door. Yvonne is smiling, a gentle smile mostly contained in her eyes and not in her teeth. “Sharon. I haven't seen you in ages!”
------She reaches out and pulls her into a soft hug, and the architect notices that she smells like cinnamon . The fluffy ball on the end of Yvonne's hat flops down to bat her cheek.
------She can't help but smile, and mutter, “Merry Christmas.”
------“Come in, come in,” Yvonne continues, taking the Christmas card from Sharon. “I was just sitting down to dinner. Please, join me!”
------Sharon protests weakly, the scents of turkey and fresh bread weakening her will, but the other woman is not to be deterred. “You built this home, and you're always welcome here,” she says. “Besides, I have a place already set for you to fill.”
------Home. She hasn't been in a home in years, just house after house. It feels different. Warmer, softer, more comforting. For the first time in six years, since her last home had turned cold and hostile towards her, she feels home again.

Merry Christmas, Commander Shepard! May your next year be filled with happiness and your home be filled with warmth and comfort this holiday season.

My gallery · by **Artesian** » Sun Jan 06, 2013 3:06 pm

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