Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 24

I love the way Brooke uses names in this piece especially the way she gives the softest, almost feminine name to the dirt bag and the unsettling way it interplays with what the MC is doing to the mannequin.

           Griffin tapped the paintbrush against the side of the bowl before bringing it up to the mannequin’s neck. She contemplated, then made two dots, one more oblong than the other. She fanned the red paint with her hand, lightly blowing on it ‘til it gained the desired effect.

            An arm reached over her head and plucked a fluffy, pink hat on the figurine’s molded hair. It slipped down over the eyes, the nose catching its fall.

            Griffin pulled it off and threw it in one of the drama department’s shady corners. Her head tilted back to look Win in the face, “It clashed with the morbid feel I was going for.”

            The boy shrugged, “I for one thought it added a touch of irony.”

            She turned back to the doll, “It did, I’ll give you that, but it would have made no logical sense.”

            He slid down next to her, “Ah, how’s that?”

            She used the heel of her hand to brush away a stray hair, “Well, if you were running from a vampire, the last thing you’d be worried about was your hat.”

            Win’s upper lip twitched, settled back down.

            “What?”

            He kissed her forehead, narrowly avoiding blue lips, “It’s just amuses me that you can talk of logic and vampires and not bat an eye.”

            Her eyelids came down in a deliberate motion, “There, my eye has been batted. Happy now?”

            “It would appear so.”

            Griffin grunted and turned back to the mannequin, “Hand me the seam ripper?”

            He retrieved it from a pile of used brushes and placed it in her hand. She positioned it against the fabric.

            “So what happened?” Win asked casually, leaning back on his hands.

            The seam ripper slashed through the model’s shirt, “What do you mean?”

            Win tilted his head to the side, maintaining his offhand tone, “What I mean is you don’t spend after school hours on one of your dummies unless you’re upset.”

            Another rip through the figure’s skirt, “It’s nothing.”

            “The mannequin would beg to differ.”

            She set the seam ripper down, “I had a fight with Cory. That’s all.”

            The muscles in Winn’s face locked up, one by one, “Griffin.”

            “It wasn’t anything big, a little argument,” her hands knit together in her lap.

            “Griffin,” the growl in his throat intensified.

            “Nothing happened. He didn’t—”

            Win grabbed the back of her shirt, cutting her off. He rolled the fabric back and a hiss escaped his teeth. Her back resembled an abstract that, half way to completion, the artist decided was grotesque and tore to pieces.

            “Oh, Griff,” his words were soft but she jerked away and stood, pulling her shirt down.

            He stood, too, facing her across the dummy, “Why do you keep letting him do this to you?”

            “It’s none of your business,” she looked down at the wooden floorboards, tugging at her hem line.

            “None of my business? Have you even looked at your back?” His voice verged on shouting.

            She stooped down and starting piling up her paint bowls, ignoring him.

            “That’s just great. You’re going to keep on pretending that none of this is happening while that excuse for a douche bag is using you for boxing practice. Well, if that’s the way you want it then—”

            A bowl smashed against the mannequin’s plastic chest, spraying red paint across the doll’s face and clothes.

Griffin stood on her feet again, screaming, “You think I like being smacked every time I say the littlest thing wrong? You think I like being hit over and over because I can’t make it to some concert? I don’t. I hate it. And that’s why,” a trapped breath rattled in her throat, “That’s why I told him to fuck off when he called this afternoon.”

Win licked his lips, “Good for you, Griff.”

A tear spilled over the ledge of her eye. It became a waterfall as more cascaded down her cheeks. Win pulled her into his arms and she sobbed against his shoulder, soaking the cotton.

“Griffin,” he whispered when she stopped shaking.

“What?” She hiccuped.

“Can I have the mannequin?”

She looked over her shoulder and sighed, “Might as well. It won’t do me any good now.”

Cory Stevens woke that night with chills. His feet thumped to the floor and he dragged himself to the window. His arms were raised to shut it when the face on the other side registered. He nearly shit himself.

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 21

Hahaha.  The last line of Madeline's piece is worthy of a prompt.

As We Know It

"Run!" she shrieked into my ear.  "Run!  Don't look back either!"

I didn't need to be told to run.  I was faster than her, and much farther ahead.

The sounds of gunshots ricocheted around me, and I'm sure the bullets were bouncing somewhere, too.

My mind was foggy.  I didn't know what was happening.  I knew there was water up ahead.  It probably wasn't fresh water - that was nearly all gone - but it was water nonetheless.  Water that could clean the blood off my body, water that could remove all the dirt that clung to my skin.

I dove in and hoped Clara was right behind me.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

I opened my eyes.  Chlorine seared and floods of blood swirled around in my eyes.  I knew they were looking for me.  I had to pretend to I was just another dead body floating in the shallow end of the kiddy pool, and they would never suspect a thing.

The water sloshed into my ears and burned my nose.  I gulped, trying to ignore the pain and the need for breath.  

Around me, footsteps echoed.  My brain spun, my sense of direction was lost, the footsteps could be coming from anywhere.  Or maybe they weren’t even footsteps.  My interest was slightly awakened, but I did my best to ignore the itching to find out what the noise really was.  I wasn’t going to let my curiosity kill me.

Slow voices began to fill the atmosphere.  There was something drowsy about them, they seemed to be speaking to a lullaby, but I didn’t hear any music.  Everything was slow, and sweet, and gentle.

My head started to bob above the water, and it felt like someone had just shattered a piece of glass in my brain.  The hazy lethargic noises stopped and everything burst into deafening blasts and loud shouts.

Something touched me.

I flailed and writhed.  I felt all eyes move directly towards me.  I closed my eyes hard, squeezing them with all my might, hoping they wouldn’t find me.  Something touched me again.

This time I didn’t react.  I opened my eyes and looked around as much as I could without making too large of movements.

Beside me, Clara’s body floated.

Her eyes were open, but they refused to meet mine.  I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I knew the people above would see us.

Their voices were fast, but I couldn’t understand a word they said.  I knew exactly who they were without even looking.  No doubt they were army men, trying to stop the inevitable, and finding people to help them.  I wasn’t going to be one of those people.  That was unless I made a fatal move to draw attention to myself.

I heard footsteps on concrete, and the voices evaporated, leaving me with silence.  The only other thing to hear were the airplanes overhead, and the chaos and explosions that scattered the only one third of the earth still populated.

My lungs were about to burst, and I couldn’t stand the tension anymore.  After waiting just a few more seconds to make sure there wasn’t anyone else around, I stood up.

I threw my head out of the water, and the rest of my body jerked upwards with it.  I shook my hair and regained my balance.  “Clara,” I hissed.  I poked her with my foot.  “Clara, they’re gone, love.”

Clara didn’t move.  Clara didn’t speak.  She didn’t even respond.  And she never would.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

I tried not to make eye contact with anyone when I got back, but it was extremely hard when your whole entire basement is jam packed with people.

“Hey, buddy!” someone called.  “You’re finally home, huh?”

His only answer was a chorus of, “sh’s!”.

“Where’s Clara?” another person asked quietly.

I shook my head, fighting back tears.  I didn’t want to answer, so I wasn’t going to.  They could all draw conclusions on their own.

“We lost Lucy when you were gone.  She passed out and hasn’t come back yet.”

I sighed and rubbed my temple.  Why would I care?  I didn’t even know who Lucy was.  I was supposed to be their leader, but I didn’t care.  “Get some ice,” I replied aggravated, waving my hand toward the direction of the voice.

“All the ice melted.”

My mouth twitched.  She was right.  She was really right.  All the ice on the earth had melted.  They had just said so yesterday.

Blood bubbled to the surface of my mouth.  I thought that I was going to throw up everywhere.  I didn’t want anyone to see that though.

I got up and walked to the door I had just come through a few seconds ago.

“Where you going, man?”

“I’m leaving.”  I wasn’t leaving for good, I just wanted to get away from all of them.  I couldn’t take it anymore.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

It was cold when I stepped outside.  There was something seemingly unfamiliar about the place I had lived all my life.

Overhead aircrafts flew and radio transmissions crackled.  There weren’t any soldiers visibly patrolling anymore.  I knew they had to be hiding and that thought alone scared me.

I rubbed my sleepless eyes and wondered when the world was going to end.  It couldn’t hold itself back too much longer.  The layers of dirt were splitting, the governments were taking over and killing its own people, and I was hurting.

A shot rang through the air.  It was loud and undeniably bloodcurdling.  It pierced right through my back, a concept I couldn’t fully grasp until the ground came rushing at my face.

I heard screaming.

No.

It wasn’t screaming.

It was laughing.  It was little children laughing.  Someone was yelling, “It’s the end!”

Everything went black.

If the world was going to end as soon as I got shot, I would have shot myself ages ago.

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 18

This story comes from Michelle Wallace (Mish).  It reminds me a little of Alice in Wonderland.

Eloise Harvey was a troubled young woman . From a young age she had always been a problem child . She found it difficult to obey authority and always did exactly what she was told not to do . It seemed as if every display of authority was a challenge to her restless spirit and over-active imagination . From the third grade onwards , she had been the instigator of a number of pranks ,  including the disturbing incident , in which the gory remains of a bird mysteriously found its way into the second right-hand drawer of the principal’s desk . And there was the time in fifth grade when the physical education teacher ,  a temporary stand-in for their beloved Mr. Jenkins who had been laid off on sick-leave for a fortnight , was found tied and gagged at the back of the school gym – he had been stuck there for four hours ! And he couldn’t explain how it had occurred . But of course , when names of culprits were passed around , Eloise’s name was top of the list . She was an above-average student with great potential .  Her teachers always complained that if she channelled a fraction of that same mischievous energy , into her school work , then the sky was the limit .

Her love of mischief was equalled only by her love for puzzles . She collected puzzles and games in different sizes , shapes and forms and could spend hours alone , trying to solve one riddle or the other . She had an amazing collection of jigsaw puzzles from all corners of the globe . When her father was home from his monthly trips abroad , he always returned with a game or puzzle from a far-off land . These puzzles captured her imagination and she would spend hours on end , content and comfortable , immersed in a world of her own , a world which excluded everybody else around her .

On this particular day , she was in one of her bad moods . After her father scolded her , she stormed off into the library . A string of unintelligible mutterings followed , as she barged into the spacious room and slammed the door .She continued her tirade of complaints , to an empty room . Or so she thought … 

“Excuse me ! Excuse me ! I require your attention !” The voice was soft but authoritative , tinged with annoyance .

She looked around .

“Over here , on the table …” The volume had risen a notch .“If you could stop complaining for a minute and listen to what I have to say  …”

“I would really appreciate it if you could speak in gentle tones ,” the female voice piped in .
The strange voices seemed to come from the end of the long room .

Eloise clicked her tongue . She was still furious and didn’t appreciate the intrusion .

“Oh dear me ,” the female voice was appalled ,”not only does the young lady lack social manners , she is also lacking in style and grace .”

“Calm yourself , my queen , this young lady hails from a world that you and I will never understand .”

“Accurate observation your majesty and the young knight is also correct . It is not the young lady’s fault . She is merely a product of her generation , trapped in a strange and modernized culture .”

Eloise’s eyes darted around the room . She gazed from one object to the next . Finally , she spotted an antique oval-shaped table in one corner . On it stood a unique one-of-a-kind chess set . The themed set was hand crafted from red oak and depicted an English battle complete with superb , high quality detail .

“And which one of you characters said that ?” A mischievous smile creased her face , the sour mood more-or-less forgotten . This was more like it . She welcomed the mystery that accompanied this latest development .

“Not ‘which one ‘ of you characters …” the rook responded ,” please refrain from using that form of the English language , especially in front of Her Majesty ! It is utterly despicable … an outrage !”

She smothered a giggle . This was getting better and better .

“Please accept my humble apology ,” she bowed before the pieces . “How did you get here ? Where are you from ?”

The white king stepped forward . He inspected the young lady .

“We could certainly tell you that , young lady , and a whole lot more . But first , your name young lady .”

“Of course , your highness , how rude of me . I am Eloise Maysie Harvey .”

“Harvey ? That is not a name I know . Mmmm ….” he pondered a minute ,”… it is of no matter anyway , Mistress Harvey . We belonged , oh , a very long time ago , to Master James Stuart , Head of Fotheringhay Castle .”

“We have travelled far and wide , visited many corners of the globe from as far afield as India , and from the Arctic to the Antarctic . We have provided endless hours of pleasure for many different people over the decades ,” the black king stepped in , determined to be part of the new adventure .

“We have also had the pleasure of being in the company of rulers , presidents , celebrities – and nobility , real kings and queens !” A pawn near the front piped in.

“We hope this is the end of our travels ,” squealed another pawn .

“There are many exciting stories to tell of our adventures – stories of warfare , corruption and greed , curses and spells , a foiled royal assassination attempt and the usurping of a throne !" The first pawn edged closer .

 “Be quiet , you underlings ! How dare you speak out of turn ! You impertinent minions !” The pawns slipped back into their unobtrusive positions . The knight glared at them .

“Ah yes ,” the black king continued ,” Master Stuart , a distinguished and great man , extremely skilled in the art of warfare . He was our master . Before him , we belonged to Master Hang Li from the Songshan Qing Dynasty , he stole us , mind you , from a great and powerful ruler who happened to be the 5^th Earl of Bothwell , and before that … I am uncertain … Your father purchased us in Dubai , just before his return , and here we are !”

“But sit young mistress ,”coaxed the black king . “ Sit , play. The white side will play itself . We will be your army .”

“Let the games begin !” The white king announced .

A germ of an idea planted itself in  Eloise’s fertile imagination .

She had discovered her new favourite puzzle . It was only the beginning …

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 17

Welcome back, Virginia.  I thought your story was going to turn out to be some kind of Philip Zimbardo experiment.  The first part reminded me so much of the old social psychology experiments done in the 1960's (because you didn't need informed consent back then which made the whole field sort of like the television show Punk'd) that I was sure that a man would step out of a box and debrief them at the end.  Like this:

(Picture of Dr. Zimbardo courtesy of fabbs.org)

Here's Virginia's Story:

The sun broke through the clouds, beaming directly into James’ skull. He groaned, attempting to roll over, only to find that he was buried to the waist in sand on the edge of some body of water or another. He managed to throw a hand over his face to block out the evil light, and craned his head about with the infinitesimal slowness that comes with a hangover. His efforts were rewarded with spotting his friend Tommy facedown, his normally light brown hair hanging in dark, damp hanks around his shoulders.

Squeezing his eyes shut, James braced himself against the sand and tried to kick his legs free. The sand was nearly dry on the outside, but the middle of that piled around him was an altogether different story. After what felt like hours, he managed to wiggle free.

“Do you have to be quite so loud, Jim?” Tommy whined into the sand; he had apparently burrowed in deeper as if to avoid the noise and the light.

“Sorry. Next time I get buried, I’ll make sure to muzzle myself first.” He shot a dirty look at his friend, and then winced. “Moving hurts… what happened? And where are we?” He tried to raise his head, but decided against it for the moment.

Tommy mumbled something, before laboriously levering himself out of the sand. “There was… were… um.” His brow furrowed, and he blinked, “There wasn’t a beach. Pretty sure we weren’t anywhere near a beach.” He managed to get his legs under him enough to be sitting on himself, and bracing himself against the ground, Tommy lifted his head higher. “I definitely don’t remember any smoky mountain things…” He trailed off, as if trying to process what he had said.

“Smo… what?” James flopped from back to front, and then attempted to emulate his friend’s position. His eyes followed the line of Tommy’s finger. His light brown eyes bulged slightly as they moved upward to take in the aforementioned smoke. And the sudden but slight shaking of the earth threw him back onto his face as the entire world seemed to growl quietly.

They looked at each other, faces painted with pain and concern as they scrambled to their feet. A stray ray of light seemed to obliterate everything in their view for a moment before the world resolved itself back to ‘normal’. “Science party…” Tommy muttered, rubbing his head?
“Science party?” James eyed his friend quizzically before remembrance struck, “OH… um… yes. It was that mixer with the Science department at the university. We were…”

“We were talking to those girls,” Tommy supplied.

“Yes, those pretty girls from… um… somewhere in the Science department. They kept giving us drinks and calling us their little lab rats.” James bit his lip, “I wonder what they meant by that.” He shook his head, and suddenly was thrown against his friend as the earth shook a bit harder. “Where do you think…”

He cut off as the amount of smoke coming out of the mountain suddenly increased, followed by another tremor that sent him and Tommy dancing and staggering together. A gentle breeze drifted down from the direction of the mountain, carrying a whiff of sulphur and flakes of ash. Two pairs of saucer-sized eyes turned to each other, and they clinged on tighter to each other for a second before gathering themselves. After a moment, James spoke, “I… I’m pretty sure there aren’t any volcanoes near the uni.. or the state of Arizona. Sure, there’s sand and rocks, but not…”

A sudden rustling caused the men to cling onto each other even tighter, before pretending they had been doing no such thing as the source of the rustling became apparent. A short, shapely and very naked young woman stood up, yawning widely and stretching. “Morning boys!” she said cheerfully, peering around, “Any chance you’ve seen my clothing?”

“Who… wha… where…” James started, staring and blushing.

Tommy’s response was even less fitting – he leaned over and vomited, groaning loudly.
The woman rolled her eyes, pale arms flashing into the air as they fished something out of a tree above. She tugged a pair of pants free, falling over as another rumble in the earth sent more ash into the sky, obscuring the sun. A delighted cry rose up as a shirt was located and put on, and momentarily, the woman returned clothed. “You break a girl’s heart, not remembering her.” She made a moue, raking fingers through shoulder-length chestnut hair. “I guess if you two are so rude as to forget a girl’s name, then perhaps it’s a good thing you were too drunk to put out last night.” Her expression changed to one of pure wickedness, brown eyes twinkling above a leering smile.

“We’re terribly sorry, um… ah… what’s your name, anyways?” James ventured, scratching his head through short blonde thatch.

“It’s Dawn, my boys, it’s Dawn. Now, let’s get your poor babies something for your heads.” Dawn patted them both on the bottom, nudging them inland.

“But there’s a fucking volcano over there!” Tommy cried, legs not making with the forward motion, “I don’t want to get fried alive! If anything, shouldn’t we be going into the water where we’re less likely to die?!”

Dawn rolled her eyes as a loud explosive noise issued above them. What looked like small fragments of rock were blown off the peak, appearing to drift downwards. She smiled faintly as the first fingers of red started to creep down the summit, cutting a bright path through an otherwise gray and confusing environment. “This isn’t real,” she said, fiddling with the hemline of her shirt before sticking her hands in her pockets, “None of this really exists.”

“This might not be the best time for getting philosophical,” James muttered, taking a step back, never mind the mountain… volcano… was probably a few miles off.

Dawn rolled her eyes, and pulled something out of her pocket. It looked like a mobile phone, and tuning the boys out, she started to fiddle with it.

“Yes, call for help, call 911, get us the hell out of here!” Tommy yelled, mincing back and forth, “We’re gonna die, we’re gonna die, we’re gonna… huh?” His feet slowed as he peered around what appeared to be a large metal box.

“I told you boys – it wasn’t real.” Dawn snorted, finding and opening a door in the metal frame. She held it open in a mockery of chivalry, waiting for the young men to pass through. “We camped out in the VR simulator… you two were so drunk you forgot that? Eesh, you English department folk sure are dull.” She took both of them by the arm as they sputtered and tried to speak over each other, and dragged them out into the hallway. “Come back when you can hold your liquor kids, and maybe we’ll have some real fun. Until then, stick to your side of the campus.” She rolled her eyes again, and slammed the door shut behind her.

James eyed the door before eying his friend. Tommy shrugged, trying to not look as shaken as he had been acting only a moment before. “Waffle House?” he queried, starting up the stairs to find the way out.

Tommy followed, “Sure, why not.” He shuffled along, patting himself down to see if his sunglasses had chosen to materialize on his person; they had not. “Remind me not to drink that much again, okay?”

“Sure thing, friend.”

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 15

This week's Sunday Feature comes to us from Michael:

She was cold. She’d almost gotten used to the lingering chill over the past ten years, almost but not entirely. Every time she managed to put it out of her mind, it would rain, and water would seep down the basement wall, and the dampness and the winter cold would seep through every fiber of herself, and she would be utterly miserable. Of course, the summer could be just as bad, as ants and spiders crawled over her, happily ignorant of her trembling fear of them. It rained in summer too, and sometimes the sump pump backed up and flooded the basement, and water spilled across the floor soaked her clean through, and she was completely miserable again.

She wanted to get away. But she couldn’t move. She had tried. Oh, she had tried. Again and again she had tried, straining to lift herself just one inch forward. Nothing worked. Once, three years ago, a stray moth had wandered into the basement and fluttered about the ceiling, and she had literally tried to hurl herself towards it. The pure freedom of its flight, the tiny flicker of wings, had so called to her heart that she had broken down in despair when she still couldn’t follow it, and then the moth had flown away and she was left alone once more.

The loneliness was the worst. The first year she had bravely tried to keep herself entertained. She had sung every song she knew, then sung them all over again, then tried to add her own verses. She’d talked to herself, created imaginary friends, relived old memories…one by one her ideas ran dry. Every night as she lay awake staring at the ceiling, she had to face anew the unpleasant fact that she was all by herself. No one was coming for her. Not Kristy. And especially not Roderick.

The thought of him sent a wave of mingled emotion through her, as it always did even now. She could well remember all the good times they’d had, going places together, seeing fantastic sights. Even when they didn’t go anywhere, even when they lay on the couch cushions watching TV, it was still fun. At least she had thought it was. Roderick hadn’t thought so, it seemed. She still didn’t know the whole of what had happened, as she hadn’t been in the room. She had heard him screaming, heard shouts, and then more shouts and screams later, and a great bustle and commotion, and then…silence. Somehow in the turmoil she had gotten left.

She sniffled to herself as she lay there on the cold concrete of the basement floor, staring at the unchanging pattern of cracks that she had committed to memory long ago. If only someone would come for her…if only someone would remember….she didn’t expect a full conversation. She knew her place, her duty. She knew what was expected of her and her kind, and she had always tried her best not to upset them. But still…all she wanted was to be thought about. Just once more.

It was the same line of thinking she always went through on Fridays. Fridays were the worst. Those had once been laundry days, and on rare occasions she had gone out with Kristy to the laundromat. Laundromats were always neat, with the spinning and the warmth of freshly dried clothes, and all the many interesting people one could meet there. She sometimes pretended that Kristy had taken her to the laundromat again, and showed her around, and…oh, it didn’t matter. She knew those days weren’t coming back. The laundromat had probably closed down years ago. Maybe the world didn’t have laundromats anymore. Who knew what had been going on outside all those years that she had been stuck there in the basement with no one to talk to, no one to cuddle with, no one to do anything at all with…

Then she heard a noise from upstairs. It was a distant, yet unmistakable click of a key in a door. Someone was coming! At last, at last! Desperately she tried to move, to push herself just a little into the light that peeked in through the basement window-well, and now she heard a clatter of footsteps coming down the basement stairs, and excitement raced through her. If only she could get their attention! She could be used again! She could be reunited with someone else, maybe not Roderick, but a new person, and everything would be like it was. Maybe there were still laundromats in the world, maybe-

The basement door opened, and a brisk young man with a spiky haircut popped through. He carried a strange plastic device in one hand, and kept poking at it with an oddly-shaped pen. Muttering faintly, the man glanced around the basement, his eyes darting over the washing machine, the dryer, the sump pump, the odds and ends of old furniture. Once he saw the basement’s single occupant, who was even at that moment trying frantically to cry out, to move, to fly. For one shining second she thought she had done it, felt the breeze racing across her, felt…but it was all in vain. A few final pokes, and the man was gone, the door banging shut behind him.

Hope died quietly. She had failed, as always. She couldn’t imagine the man’s purpose; maybe he was an insurance agent or a repairman, or perhaps he was a realtor and the house was about to be sold. Still, even if that were true, she didn’t think it would make a difference. She had tried so hard….but she was nothing. Worthless. Cold, damp, and moldy, her pure white color long since faded away. As the outside light faded and darkness claimed the basement once more, the lonely sock without a mate cried itself to sleep.

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 14

This week Michael introduces us to Death Angel.

Tabitha flicked a particle of dust off her white-robed shoulder, and checked to make sure her glow was not askew. Some of her comrades, she wouldn’t name names but *cough CONSTANCE cough*, never checked their glows; this could lead to an embarrassing situation in which it was not their head or their wings but their armpits that were softly illuminated as they began their message. Tabitha had never had that problem, thank heaven. Of course, she didn’t have to worry as much about her glow now that she was on Search and Rescue, but still, this was about standards. If one didn’t have standards, then where would one be? In the Bad Place, that’s where. Tabitha was ever so grateful that she hadn’t yet been assigned to Combat Ops; she’d heard all the horror stories about the battles with them, the trips to the Bad Place (she could never bring herself to use its proper name). She hadn’t even had a tour yet with what her friends laughingly called “shoulder-sitting”; the thought of even being close to one of them, even just talking with them or around them, sent chills right to her wingtips.

Happily, Search and Rescue rarely had to worry about them. Today didn’t look like it would be any different. Tabitha scanned the street, and there she was, right on time. A tiny girl, barely out of her twos was toddling blissfully across the sidewalk. Tabitha glanced down the road, and there it was, right on time too; a garishly red convertible jammed with teenagers, all rocking out to some song about “Friday”. Tabitha followed the line of the car to the child; just as she’d been told, a collision would be almost impossible to avoid. Ben had warned her that they had laid plans for this event; their shoulder-sitters would be eager to take full advantage of the teens’ horror and despair over the accidental death. Tabitha took a breath, checked her glow once more, adjusted her wings, and darted forward. With a shining hand she nudged the toddler back on to the sidewalk, just in time to protect her from the convertible screaming by. The sounds of “partyin’ partyin’ YEAH! faded in the distance.

The teenagers hadn’t noticed her, of course. The child, however, felt Tabitha’s protection and looked up; her brown eyes stared querously at the golden figure floating above her, and she mumbled something unintelligible. Tabitha smiled politely, and then flew away; she had other assignments, and it wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. Search and Rescue had a very tight schedule.

She rose above the gleaming glass towers of the city, the sun shining all about her. Then, suddenly, someone flew up in front of her, blocking the sun. Tabitha gasped in shock. It was one of them. She could smell the foul stench, see the warped expressions, the horrible curving horns. She backed up slowly in midair, her heart hammering in her chest, her wings fluttering nervously. She wasn’t in combat, she wasn’t even a shoulder-sitter, why would they…

Then suddenly a third figure broke in, all gold and light and power, and they fled, as they usually did. “Oh good,” she breathed in utter relief, “oh good, Bernard, you’re here. I thought-I mean, did you see…they almost…”

Her voice trailed away as she saw the look in Bernard’s eyes. It was all wrong. He should have been filled with quiet happiness that he’d once again driven back the enemy, or perhaps steady seriousness as he gave her her next mission. But this was different. He looked…not just sad. Despondent. Even, to use a very old word, grieved. Something had gone badly wrong, it was clear. “Bernard,” Tabitha asked hesitantly, “what…”

“You’ve been reassigned,” he said slowly, gently, as if trying to prepare her for a very great blow. “The DAs.”

Tabitha couldn’t help the shudder that ran through her. The DAs. She’d heard of them too. They walked among unimaginable tragedies with cool heads, always showing up just as life was leaving. Tabitha’s stomach clenched as she thought of it. A DA wouldn’t have been sent to save the toddler she’d just saved, no, they would have been there afterwards, to guide the child away, they would’ve seen the blood, heard the screams…”No…” she said tremulously, “My term on Search and Rescue doesn’t end for another year. Why would I be reassigned?”

“It’s not just you,” Bernard said, and that just made it even worse. “It’s everyone. Because of Carmen’s Comet.”

“But that’s supposed to miss the Earth, I thought-”

“It changed course. We’re still trying to work out why. Whether it was them or something else. But now it’s headed right for Earth. When it arrives, it’ll destroy nearly every living thing on this planet. So we’ve all been reassigned to the DAs, Emergency Apocalypse Protocol. I’m sorry.”

“No…” Tabitha said again. She glanced down, her keen vision zooming in until she could see  the child she had just snatched from death, saw the simple curiosity on the child’s face as she looked up into the open sky. “No, no, no!” With that, Tabitha leapt away, shooting up high into the air. She rose faster and faster, her wings tearing at the sky, her glow coming wildly askew until it only lit up the soles of her boots. She didn’t care. What did glows or standards matter now?

She rose still higher, streaking past satellites and space debris, and then she saw it; Carmen’s Comet, impossibly huge and implacably cold. Tabitha darted towards it, and then her worst fears came true as she saw them. Not just one this time, a whole mass of them, cackling and howling as they pushed the comet on towards the planet. She could just imagine the feast of sorrow and anguish they were looking forward to. Without even thinking she dove towards them. Light spilled from her and struck across their twisted faces. They lurched towards her, their foulness slamming into her like a wave breaking from a broken dam, but Tabitha didn’t even pause. She kept pushing on, throwing punches and kicking out as hard as she could, trying to stop them, trying-but she didn’t know how to fight, not really, and she was just one small angel against the hulking power of them. A curved horn tore into her shoulder, talons slashed across her wings, a powerful hand swatted her away. She pushed herself towards them again, desperate to do something, but the largest of them loomed up before her like a sullen thundercloud. “Fool,” he rumbled in a horrifically-appropriate deep voice, “fool, dost thou really imagine thou can stop us? The Earth is ours, its people are our prey. We shall dine on them in our domain tonight, and thou…thou little whelp…I think we shall dine on thee as well.” He reached for her, his massive hand piercing through her flickering glow.Tabitha closed her eyes. She would never see the golden halls again, she knew it, and-”

“Excuse me,” a voice said, “but your dinner reservation’s been canceled.” Wham. A shining fist slammed into the dark, sending him and all of them reeling. White swords flashed. Wings soared by her. Tabitha watched in amazement as Bernard and a whole battalion of angels swept in, scattering them like bowling pins. Then they gathered around Carmen’s Comet, and in a trice it had been nudged back onto its normal course. Bernard swooped over to her and made a formal bow. “Oh…” Tabitha said. “A test. Of course. I should have known.” Her torn wings slumped in failure. “I must apologize,” she began resolutely, though her voice quivered just a bit, “I didn’t stop it. I-”

Bernard smiled. “That wasn’t the point. The test wasn’t about winning; it was about losing. You faced up to them when you knew you couldn’t win. And you did it even with your glow being askew. So you don’t need to apologize, Tabitha. Oh no; you’ve just qualified for A.S.1; Angel, first class. You can decide your assignments, now.”

“Hm…” Tabitha considered, smiling now herself. “You know…I think I might want to try shoulder-sitting?”

“You are aware that’s not actually what it’s called, right?”

“Well, it should be.”

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 12

The apocalypse.  I think the idea conjures up some feeling in everyone.  It might be funny to you or scary, some sort of existentialist crisis or an extreme humanitarian tragedy.

However.

There was one place I didn't expect anyone to go.  And this week, Jes went there.

So Close

The last time I saw her I was sixteen; she was twenty-six.  I was a weird kid I think.  Spent more time studying philosophy with my one friend in the whole world than jacking off in dimly lit bathrooms. She was a brainy type I guess.  The type of woman I now realize no man can get.  Back then, her hair was very long and very dark, and she dressed like every day was spring.  She’d looked at me — it was early summer — and the things that flashed across her face in the green light of that one hurried moment as we all ran down the street, well, they were things I didn’t yet know how to name.  Her face in my memory, always beautiful and bright and keen, was full of everything terrible. Anger, disgust, fear, frustration … things I’d never seen her face hold. Not once in all my studies with her had anything we discussed made her have that look. 

“Why aren’t you helping, damnit?”  Her arms had been full of books. Other people in the street carried more practical things as they ran for the shelter; blankets, food, backpacks crammed full of spare socks and shoes.

“I’m sorry,” I had screamed over the wind.  It was all I could think of to say.  I’d ran along behind her as she tore through one house after another, trying to save their books, their photographs and art. I’d only looked for canned goods and sharp knives.  She’d been mad about that.  


The tornado, I remember, finally got so loud, so close, I could hardly hear what she was demanding I grab.  My ears had felt like they should be bleeding. When I could barely hear her screams,  I’d torn at her summer dress with my free hand — it was a cherry color, like her lips — and dragged her out of there, into the shallow ditch behind some stranger’s house at the edge of town. She’d flung herself on those remnants of people’s lives, desperate to save what she’d been trying to teach me.  And then I flung myself on her.

When the tornado had passed and we were still alive, she’d shoved me off. In the silence after the tornado, I remember seeing the ditch mud on her jaws and scratches on her cheeks, clods of dirt in her pretty hair. I think I’d reached to brush some of it out when she slapped my hand away, staring hard at my face the way she did when we began a new and difficult book. Then she’d stood, and gathered the things she’d saved, climbed the ditch, and walked away from me.

But that was a long time ago.

Every day I stop at the Maple Street Coffee Shop on my way to work. The proprietor's Magda, a dumpy and kind older woman who gives me free slices of pie every now and then.  It is fall; the dust from ground up leaves stir as I walk out the open side door of the coffee shop. I take a seat on one of the small patio tables and open the newspaper. I have about ten minutes for a quiet read and coffee before I'm off to serve martinis and scotch all afternoon and night.

*

“Coffee, black please.”

That’s all she said, but I knew just from those three words who she was.  I pressed my back flat to the iron of the chair and slowly looked over my left shoulder, trying to keep my head out of profile.  She stood at the register, unchanged, except if before she’d looked like spring, now she looked like summer. Her hair was still dark and maybe long, but it was up, showing the slender line of her neck which disappeared in a gold sun dress.  Over her shoulder a messenger bag was slung, no doubt filled with books.  She paid and turned towards the side door, carefully guiding her bag and skirt through the tables as she came closer. I turned slowly back to my paper before she lifted her face.

The headline on the newspaper, I finally saw, was something about either Libya or Japan. I read the article without really knowing what thoughts the words on the page matched. She took a seat across the patio facing me, her back to the shrubs. In the full sun her head gleamed darker than the wrought iron patio furniture. Bending, she began pulling things from her bag, sitting them on her table.  Without looking up once, she became immersed.

I watched her for maybe five minutes before she drew up her eyes, right at me. There were gentle lines around them from smiling and squinting in the sun as she read. Her lips — the cherry lips — parted slightly, and her eyes took on a darker expression. She did not smile. She did not not smile.

No.

I stood quickly, rolling up my paper. It was about time to leave anyway.

“Wait.”

I pushed in my chair.

“Wait, please.”

The silence that followed was as odd as the one following the tornado, all those years ago. There was the wind, and the sounds of city traffic, and mowers, but on the patio there was only silence.

“Will you join me?”

I walked towards her. She moved the books back from the edge of the table so that when I sat down, they were the only thing between us.

“Hello.”  It was all I could think of to say.

“Hello.”

I picked up my coffee and sipped.

“Please,” she began, “tell me how you’ve been. What are you doing now? What do you study? What are you working on? It … it has been a long time,” she added.

I tried to take my time sitting down my coffee so that I could think out what to say, but it didn’t really work.  Everything between us was so loaded now, so full of confusion and subtext.

“I’ve been … alive,” I said. It sounded harsh even to my ears. “I’ve been fine. I’m, uhm, I’m on my way to work, pretty soon.  I, uh,” and knew I looked angry, as if any of my life was her fault, but it wasn’t, “I tend bar at a hotel downtown.”

The pause showed blank on her face.

“But you — I mean, what are your studies abou—”

“It has been a long time.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at her papers and books. “Yes it has been. Yes,” she said again, “it has been a very long time, hasn’t it?”

“And you?”

“Me? Why…” she looked up again, at me. So beautiful, and bright. So smart. “I’ve, well, been working on a new dialectic.” Her voice began to sound stronger, determined, and she leaned, just a bit, closer to me. “And it’s odd, but it seems to be tying into cosmology now. I’m in town to give a lecture on it down at Pear Hall. I just … I’m just so close,” she said, stretching one arm across to a sheaf of papers near my own hand, grabbing the top page, then letting it slip out of her hand and onto the table again, “so close it’s maddening.  I’ve just got to go back and re-examine everything. My theses…” she said, and now lifting her hand slightly off the table, pointing to something imaginary, her eyes turned wholly from me now, “and then from there…”

I watched her stop speaking. Her hand dropped. She turned herself back to earth, back to me.

“Odd, isn’t it? That I’m studying cosmology now, when so many fear the world is about to end? 2012 and so forth. As if whatever divine being is up there hasn’t already tried to end the world a thousand times over.”

“We must read the same paper.”

She laughed. It was the sound a bright sun should make.  I wanted to bask in it. But no.  

“So then if you’re tying in cosmology, do you believe in god?”

“I believe in us ... in humanity”  she said. “We are all capable of incredible things.”

No.

I clenched my jaw. Looked at my watch.

“Well, it’s time I get going.”

“Yes, of course. Of course. Well," she said, standing at the same time as I did, “it was good to see you again.” And she extended her arm and hand, wrist pointed to the heavens, as if she knew I wanted to kiss any part of her, even the back of her hand.  I didn’t.  Instead I stared hard into her face and thought about what I really wanted to do, and let her see me think it.  But I did not take her hand. I did not take any of her. Because she wasn't the kind of woman for taking.

“Yeah.”

I park about two blocks from where I work, and on nights like this the walk back to the car from the bar is nice. I’d made shit for money this evening and the soured musk of hops and liquor rises from my clothes.  But the night itself is faultless. There's a good wind cold with the possibility of an early snow. I walk towards the car lot on Eleventh. Over head there are even a few stars visible — unusual for the downtown of any city.  Almost makes me want to whistle.

Then, a scream from an alley to the right.  I know that scream. But … and the next thing I know I'm running.

* 

More screaming, and some low laughter.  More than one voice. More than a few.

When I got to the alley I saw them, the six of them. I slowed to a nonchalant walk. She lay on the ground behind them, a heap in the shadows. God only knew what she was doing out by herself at night; probably hadn’t even noticed the time.  One of them straightened and turned towards me. The gun was cocked in my face before I even saw him move.

“Come on,” I heard myself say, “aren’t you even gonna let me have a go before you get rid of her?”

They all laughed. Laughed like I was funny. I am not funny. The one with the gun in my face, who was very sturdy looking and probably somebody’s muscle, glared at me down the barrel, appraising me with jumpy eyes. I saw they were all armed. She was not moving; I needed to get close enough to see she was okay. The man kept pulling his lips back from his teeth, coked out of his mind … which meant they all probably were.

“Look,” I said, trying to make myself sound sleazy and unconcerned, “we can all take turns. We oughta at least get that much out of her before you finish.”

“Yeah.” The gun clicked back from my face.  Arms reached for my shoulders and flung me towards her. “Yeah, yeah — good idea. You have the first go at her and then keep watch.”

“Fuck yeah,” I said. I stooped; she was beaten but alive. Helped her stand. For a moment our faces were inches from each other. Her eyes, so close to mine, were swelling closed with dark bruises, yet still bright and beautiful.

“They’ll never let me live,” she breathed as I pretended to throw her against the bricks of the building near us. “But you, they might. If you…”

I pressed against her so that her chest was against the bricks, the scratch of them cool against my palms as I leaned behind her. She let her head rest in the hollow of my throat, her dark hair warm below my chin. Behind us, the men laughed and gun shots clapped through the alley, up to the stars.

“Get on with it,” one of them — not the leader — yelled. Then some more shots into the sky.

I used the hand towards them to unbuckle my pants and draw up the hem of her dress, keeping pressed close to her. My other hand I placed gently on her shoulder. She almost nuzzled it, and shifted even closer to me.  So close.

“Please.”

She knew what that meant to me. I knew what it meant to her. We both believed in us and what humanity could do. She was right, they’d never let her live. They probably wouldn’t let me live either, but I could at least save her from the worst of it.

I tilted so that I could loop my arm from her shoulder to close my hand around her neck, then moved my other hand up to the other side of her neck, pushing the dark hair out of the way as I did.  The men yelled, delighted with what they thought was happening.


She nodded, turned her face up to me just barely, and smiled with those beautiful lips shaped and colored like cherries.  Smiled at me like she had so often and so long ago, when we'd discussed the nature of man and of thought. She smiled even when her hands flailed under our bodies, so close to one another, beating softly against the bricks, her body pulsing slightly as she tried not to fight me. So ... close. And finally, she went.

We are all capable of incredible things.

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 11

Oh boy.  Choosing one story was really hard this week.  I liked everything that I read.  Even better, all of them seemed to have the potential to feed into a series or a larger work.  As someone who tends to get attached to characters, ending with the words 'to be continued' is like promising me chocolate.

I'm going to post Michael's Secret Identity.  That's the name of his story, not that I actually know his secret identity.  I'm not sure that he even has a secret identity.  Somehow, I don't think that's something he'd be willing to share with the group.

Anyway.  Tell me if you can totally see the part of Susan being played by Allison Hannigan.

It was all physics to him. Wonderful, beautiful, so-cool-you-just-can’t-stand it-physics. He watched the thug’s wrench as it ticked upward in a sweep that was intended by said thug to smack into his head and render him unconscious. He could calculate the exact position of the wrench and its projected arc, and thus he knew precisely where his head should not be. More importantly, he knew exactly when and where to dodge underneath the thug’s arm and deliver a precisely controlled bunch to a certain spot on the goon’s jaw. The goon, already resting well and dreaming of goon women, began to crumple to the ground. The man who had so elegantly disabled him was already moving away to deal with the goon’s friend, whose hand was moving in a draw that wasn’t quite lightning-fast. A red-and-silver metal claw-like shape sang through the air, striking the weapon from the unlucky gunman’s hand. Then a boot heel slammed into his head in an equally precise location. He hit the ground only a second or so after his partner.

Some vigilantes liked to tie up their captured goons and leave them for the police to find. That wasn’t the Wild Weasel’s style. He bent down and riffled through their wallets, depriving them of their cash, credit cards, and other pertinent information, then he left them sprawled there in the alleyway. The Wild Weasel was more pragmatic than most superheroes, and less wealthier. He viewed any financial benefit he got from his escapades as spoils of war. Besides, who would the bad guys report the theft to? The police who showed up to arrest them? Honestly.

Having collected his bounty, he turned to face the gaping young woman whom the goons had been on the point of robbing. The Wild Weasel saluted. “Ma’am.” Then he pressed a button on his belt. A jetpack flared to life, and the Wild Weasel soared dramatically into the sky.

“WAHOOOOOOO!” he yelled. Some superheroes liked to disappear into the dark, perhaps when their rescuees weren’t looking. The Wild Weasel didn’t much see the point in that. It wasn’t fun. Why bother to do superhero work if you couldn’t have fun with it? Besides, that sort of thing took time, and he was running late. She was probably on her way to the restaurant now, which gave him maybe fifteen minutes to change into civvies and zip over there. He patted the little box in his pocket. The Wild Weasel already had a really good feeling about tonight.  He’d already rounded up seventeen goons, and garnered over a thousand bucks in immediate cash, not to mention the credit cards. And the best was yet to come. Oh boy, was it ever.

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 8

Oh boy. Two days of snow for me. Thankfully light, but it’s still coming down. I so just want to hibernate right now, but I’m off to Indiana for a secret mission. Hope everyone north of the equator is staying warm. And if you’re south of the equator, have a watermelon mojito smoothie for the rest of us.

And . . . it's . . . week . . . eight. Is it just me or is anyone else surprised that they are still alive?

My feature this week is about three friends starting a band. For that reason alone, it totally reminds me of Trisha, who had a band (or maybe a few bands?!). It also reminds me of a couple of friends who are skipping the rest of winter and heading out to Morocco to teach drumming for the next few weeks. Here's Virginia's story.

I never wanted to be a rock star – Zoe put me up to it. But then, she tended to lead us in nearly all of our antics. So when she decided we should make a band and get a house, we made it happen. On my dime, of course – it only made sense that I spend all that money that my parents gave to me upon reaching adulthood on something.
Of course, one could blame it all on the fact I already played the drums. For all my parent’s flaws, buying me a real drum kit and getting me a proper instructor was a wise choice. Even as a baby, I’d beat on everything that I could, and when I was denied, I’d try to destroy things in earnest. Not that anyone outside of my family probably knows or realizes, but I have some severe rage. Drumming has always been a way to channel that, and actually having a talent for it… Zoe always compared it to Keith Moon, her unjaded jade eyes glazed with dreams and ruminations.
Perhaps I gave her too much power in my life, but what choice did I have? I had no siblings; my parents thought the correct course of parenting was to buy me off at every possible juncture. This strange and cherished friend of mine who, miracle of miracles, liked me for me was too precious a commodity to squander. Zoe was like that with everyone – she treated people kindly, and managed to somehow seem almost oblivious to those who would wish her poorly. Not that she was invincible, far from it – if she was truly upset, she had no qualms with being true to herself and curling up to sob quietly. She never tried to make a scene – she just was.
But that was only the outer layer; beyond that, there was someone determined to take life by the balls and make life her bitch. Zoe always knew what she wanted in life, and it was about the same as what anyone wanted in high school – to grow up to be rich and famous, to be a big rock and roll star. I gave up on trying to make it clear to her that money couldn’t buy happiness; if it were, I wouldn’t’ve been cutting, getting high, and hiding from the world. No, I would’ve been doing the Charleston on a flagpole while singing glories of glories if money did buy happiness, but that’s just not a fact that ever sinks in to those who have wants, if not needs. That’s why I find it hard to say that she used me, per se – I guess it would’ve seemed that way to most, but really, she knew I’d give her everything I had to make her smile, to make her happy. That’s what sisters do, right?

Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 6.2

And because I'm growing a little addicted to the Caitlin stories . . . (Thanks a lot Michael)

It’s hard out there for an evil overlord. Oh, sure, being a supreme villain may seem like a cushy job with plenty of perks, where all you have to do is deliver a monologue once in a while and then show up at the right time to run the hero through with your sword, but in fact, it’s remarkably stressful. Vladimir the Marauder knew just how stressful it could be. The trouble was, when one has a violent idiom attached to their name, like “The Marauder”, it’s generally expected that one should actually do some marauding on occasion. Sadly, most of Vladimir’s soldiers couldn’t even spell “marauder”, let alone decide where to do it, how to get there, what tactics to use, when to fall back and regroup, how to keep themselves supplied…and all these tasks fell inevitably to their glorious leader. When he’d murdered his father, Stefan the Pudgy, and assumed command of Stefan’s massive horde of soldiers and minions, Vladimir had woefully underestimated the amount of work in store for him. He was beginning to wish he’d left his father alive.

The stress had gotten so bad, and he’d grown so irritated with the constant interruptions from his underlings, that Vladimir didn’t even pitch his tent with the main camp anymore. He had set up his palatial quarters on the top of a pine-covered hill that overlooked the camp, far enough away that the noise of the soldiers drilling or singing barely disturbed him. That explained why, on that inordinately eventful night, Princess Caitlin was able to march right up to Vladimir’s tent without any of his soldiers noticing. Of course, they probably wouldn’t have noticed even if she led a horseback parade with balloons and a marching band right through the center of the campground. Vladimir’s soldiers, as Caitlin had already noticed, were exceptionally stupid.

She dispatched the squad leader who had reluctantly led her to Vladimir’s tent, knocking him over the head with the hilt of her sword and sending him off to blissful dreams of minion women. Caitlin flicked a glance over her shoulder and saw Colin lurking in the shadows of the pines. Whatever his failings at miming, Colin could certainly lurk with the best of them. Caitlin smiled, that same slow half-smile that she had shown before defeating her would-be assassin not so long ago. Then she turned back to the tent, raised the flap, and ducked inside.

She saw him at once. Vladimir the Marauder, destroyer of a thousand towns, besieger of castles and slaughterer of villagers beyond count, sat there on a pile of blankets trying to make his way through a stack of horrifically misspelled reports from his captains. Caitlin had expected him to be an old man, powerful and a daunting warrior maybe but still old, which meant she would have a physical edge on him when they came to blows. It came as rather a shock to her when she saw that he was only a few years older than she was. That meant he must have been only about twelve or thirteen when he…but that thought only made Caitlin hate him all the more. For a second, she couldn’t speak, as all the fury she’d hidden behind her slow smile for the last five years came roiling up inside her. Then Vladimir glanced up and saw her as well. “Ah. You must be Princess Caitlin. Thank heaven; if I have to read another of these reports I’ll go mad. So, shall we get on with the swordplay or would you rather make your little speech first?”

Caitlin’s eyes blazed. “Two questions. Why did you send that idiot to kill me when you must have known I’d beat him easily, and what on earth do you want with my socks?”

Vladimir laughed unpleasantly. “Oh please, do you really expect me to tell you all the details of my evil plan? You don’t think I know what’ll happen? I’ll start in with the monologue, then when I’m distracted you’ll pounce and run me through, or maybe your miming friend will do it for you, or your army will charge over the ridge, or whatever. I intend to tell you nothing.”

“It’s just as well,” Caitlin said, “because I didn’t need to know your plan anyway. I don’t care what you’re going to do in future; I’m more concerned about your past.”

“My…” Vladimir laughed even louder, as if Caitlin had just cracked an insanely corny pun. “Oh, don’t tell me, let me guess, I killed your father and now you’ve come to avenge him in true heroic fashion. Excellent! Of course, you’ll have to remind me who your father was; I’ve killed so many fathers in my illustrious career that I’ve completely lost count.”

“No, my father’s alive and well,” Caitlin said, and her hands gripped the hilt of her sword so hard that they turned white. “You killed my mother, you spawn of a goose monster!” With that, she flew at him, her blade slashing in an explosion of fury, but then Vladimir’s own sword flashed in his hand, expertly blocking her every blow.

“Ah, I see you’ve begun with the Westley Opening, very good!” he said as they fought, their swords flickering and dancing like chain lightning, the clash of steel ringing through the tent. “You’ll realize of course that such an opening can be easily countered by the Falk Defense, yes?”

Caitlin fought as she had never fought before, using all the skills, all the stances, all the combinations of thrust and parry that she had been practicing every day since her mother had fallen five years ago on a distant field, so far away that Caitlin had not been able to reach her in time to say goodbye. And Vladimir maddeningly blocked every strike, and punctuated it with an ongoing commentary on her mistakes and how she might improve. He was no Charles, no clumsy giant, no dim-witted squad captain. Vladimir was, possibly, just as good as she was. “Crap,” she thought, not daring to risk even a second’s distraction by saying it out loud.

Desperately improvising, she snatched a nearby soft cushion and flung it at him, then darted away and tried to dash in on him from the side. But Vladimir deflected the cushion with a flick of his hand, not even bothering to look at it, spinning as he did and blocking her move with his sword. “Ah, the Spanish Inquisition Trick,” he said approvingly. “Good one. But of course you must have known that I’d expect that. Most people don’t expect the Spanish Inquisition Trick, but I’m better than most people. You may have noticed.”

Then he yawned. “Well, I’ve had my fun, and you’re looking a little peaked yourself. Time to wrap this up, yes?” His blade lashed forward and gave a funny sort of twist, and suddenly Caitlin lost her hold on her sword. She watched in horror as it flipped away beyond her reach. Vladimir saluted her with his blade. “That was fun. I’d offer to do it again sometime, but that’d be hard to do, seeing as I’m going to kill you now.”

He advanced towards her in a rush of speed, little knowing that the princess still had one trick left. As Vladimir’s sword slashed in, Caitlin’s hand flicked to her belt, where she had hidden a small, gleaming dagger for emergencies. Distantly she felt a cold, lancing pain, but she dismissed it to a back part of her mind, whipping out the dagger and stabbing it at just the right spot. Vladimir’s face was right before her, a look of absolute shock in his eyes. He didn’t even have time to say a last smart remark before the life ebbed out of him. Caitlin stepped over his fallen body, picked up her own sword, and returned his salute. Then she made her way on unsteady legs out of his tent.

Colin, standing guard in the shadows all this time, ran swiftly to meet her. “Did you get him, y’r majesty?” he asked.

“Yeah…” she said, her voice sounding oddly vague. “You know, Colin, I wish…I really wish Charles hadn’t been an assassin. He seemed nice. I would’ve liked…I would’ve liked someone to go home to, once I finished this. And a tiara. I lost my tiara years ago…never did find it…never…” she giggled woozily, her laughter ringing too loudly amidst the dark trees on the hill.

A worried look came into Colin’s stolid face. “Now, princess, don’t you go all happily ever after on me now. We’ve got to get out of here before-”

Then he stopped, his breath catching in sudden fear. A slow pool of dark red was welling out across Caitlin’s tunic. “I never…” she repeated, her eyes fluttering, her face going sickly white. “I thought…”

Her unstained sword dropped to the ground with a faint ring of steel. Down below in the camp, shouts of alarm rose and horns blew insistently. Far above in the night sky, the stars shone coldly on, unaware and uncaring what was happening beneath their silver light.