To Go Home

Abruptly, Lydia came awake as the orc grabbed her arm with the strength of a vice and pulled her roughly out of her bed, her blanket falling to the floor, leaving her naked and cold. His grip hurt, but she did not scream or struggle. This was her life now. He had taken everything from her, the orc. Her home, her clothes, her dignity. She was his possession, his toy. For two weeks she had suffered every degradation, being passed around between slavers like a plaything. For two weeks, fettered and naked, each day was an endless stream of abuse. She had no more fight in her. She let herself cry quietly while the orc Jaraz pulled her out of the room.

She tripped once on her fetters as Jaraz passed through the common room where slavers sat around a table playing cards. They did not even look at her or make jokes about her. She had been a pretty girl once, and would be if given a chance to wash up, with a slim figure and long brown, almost blond hair, with soft blue eyes that drew one in and revealed her gentler spirit. Now she was a wreck. Not even a human, just a toy to fuck a few times a night. Her hair was lank and dirty, her eyes dull, tired and vacant, her body sore and sagging. She was used up. She felt old though she had not yet reached her twentieth year.

Wordlessly, Jaraz tossed her to the floor. She landed on her hands and knees and stayed that way. Better to stay. Better to not fight it. It wouldn't end sooner, but it would hurt less. She stared at the wall and heard the sound of Jaraz's trousers drop. Cold tears dripped down her face and fell off her chin to splash on the floor. She wanted to die. She wanted nothing more than to die. She did not want the Hearafter with her god Seinac. No, Seinac abandoned her. She wanted nothingness. She'd be better off if she had never existed.

He entered her. She choked on a sob and looked at the dirty floor. It didn't hurt so much anymore. She had become numb. His thrusts came in a rhythm now. His heavy breath came in rhythm. He disgusted her, he shamed her. He stank of ale and sweat. She disgusted and shamed herself to permit herself to give in.

Then abruptly he stopped. Something warm and wet sprayed on her back and hit the floor. She looked at it and gasped, horrified. Red drops of blood. The pain between her legs was sore, but it no longer came. She looked behind herself and to her horror, a dark clad woman held Jaraz's head back, his throat slit from ear to ear, his red blood rushing from his ruined neck. The assassin's blade dripped slow thick drops as she tossed Jaraz to the ground, a look of pure hatred and vindication in her hard sapphire eyes.

Suddenly free of the orc, Lydia scrambled into a corner and shrank away from the terrifying woman. Lydia trembled, shaking violently.

“Please no . . . don't kill me!,” she stammered beneath a whisper, before she even realized she was saying anything.

The assassin wiped her blade on Jaraz and then sheathed the weapon with a force that spoke of restrained anger. The woman was young. Very young. A woman yes, but not long past girlhood. Her pale face was framed by straight dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Her sharp blue eyes studied Lydia a moment. There was something about this woman that gnawed at Lydia.

“I'm not going to kill you,” the assassin said as if the thought was absurd. Lydia sniffed, taking in emotions that almost overwhelmed her. Who was this woman? She was a Darincedonian, that was a shocking revelation, but it was something else gnawing at her. She glanced down at Jaraz, who lay belly down, his trousers at his ankles and his face in a pool of blood.

The assassin bent down to Lydia's feet and began picking the lock to her fetters. “Do you have any clothes?” she asked.

Jaraz had stripped her in a shack before he bought her, destroyed even the scrap she had been forced to wear on the ship that brought her here. She had been naked since that terrible day, and every terrible day after. “That monster took them away from me.” He had taken everything from her.

The assassin pulled a blanket off the bed in the room and wrapped it around Lydia's shoulders comfortingly. The blanket was musty and smelled but was warm. She welcomed its embrace and held it tight around her body. The assassin, her rescuer, gave her a calming look, her sapphire eyes sympathetic. She held Lydia by the shoulder as she trembled.

Hope. Lydia now knew hope. Her fear diminished and a feeling of peace and serenity filled her soul. It was over. The nightmare was over. She could wake up now. She was going home. She looked at her rescuer and smiled.

This is sort of an excerpt from a book I am working on, except that this scene is being told from Lydia's PoV whereas in the book the assassin, one Suzetta Kernohan, is the PoV. In the book, Suzetta had been sold as a slave, molested by Jaraz and then later escaped. Now she returns to kill Jaraz and happens to rescue Lydia at the same time.

It's a bit of a gruesome story, a woman gets raped and that's never a fun topic to write. I wanted to find a way to describe her pain without going too far into the disgusting details. She is hopeless, basically serving as a sex slave for whatever the rest of her life will be. But I think this was worth writing because when I get to the next draft of the story I'll be able to put more detail into this scene, even though it will be from Suzetta's view point.

A Report of the Failed Mission to Dead Paeriannis

A Report of the Failed Mission to Dead Paeriannis
April 7th, third year of the Fourth Age
by Sir Robern Joryt of the Royal Protectorate of Darincedonia

I write this report with a trembling hand. I know I shall never escape from the haunting nightmares nor the relentless visions. I can, even now as I write, hear their terrible screams, their shrieks of agony and fear. Ever since those evil days in the dark woodlands of Paeriannis, I have been haunted endlessly without hope of relief. I fear my end comes soon, for not even wine nor the silky smoke of the poppy leaf can relax my mind. If you seek me after reading this report it is too late, for I intend to fall upon my sword as soon as the messenger boy sends this to the Arcanite Council.

I beseech you, visit not the forsaken lands of the elves! Of twenty paladins who set off on this vile venture, only I survived, fleeing that cursed place, shrieking as I ran! We knew the land had been cursed, doomed by Raeldrek or his lieutenant, Sarastae the Lich, but we did not fully grasp the extent of his power, even after his passing. It was to be a noble mission, to seek and aid any elf who may have survived the slaughter but I can only reach the conclusion, after what we encountered in the forests, that none have survived. If the fate of the elves was only death, they were fortunate, for that forest and its curse contained a worse secret.

From the port city of Krevrin we set off, in the traitor kingdom of Elrund and northward we rode for a two week journey in the lowlands. It was a glorious march! The banners of the Royal Protectorate of Darincedonia fluttered in the wind and our armor shone brilliantly in the summer sun. Suspicious Elrundian farmers paused from their labors as they watched us pass, they scowled and looked upon us with wonder. Behind us, news reached us that Prince Tamoran himself had returned to Krevrin and had assassinated his own father, and thus the Elrundian army, itself was too busy with political infighting to worry about us and so we marched, in our vanity and pride, unchecked, towards the ruins of beautiful Paeriannis.

As we traveled north however, the weather grew steadily worse and worse. The winds were cold and carried a foul stench of rot and decay, however the war was still fresh and thus we ignored the warnings and pressed forward. It seemed that the sun would never again show itself from the skies, a great gray cloud settled in and a chill shook our bones. No birds flew and there were no cheerful thoughts among us as our journey north continued. We camped that night in a cold that our blankets could not guard us from and sleep evaded us. The next day we saw a village in the distance.

It seemed deserted when we arrived. The streets were empty, there were no cattle, no horses, no merchants or peasants as we passed through and though the outlying buildings had shown signs of fire and war, we assumed, erroneously, that such damage was caused by the war which had only ended months ago. If deserted, than it was recent, and in a hurry as we entered the tavern and found it in complete disarray. Beer had been spilt and tables over turned, chairs pushed aside as if there was a sudden mass exodus. The fire in the fireplace was out but the embers still had some warmth, although not uncomfortable against human skin. More disconcerting however, were the blood trails leading out the doors we had entered, as if some of them had been injured in some melee and had been manhandled out of the building. What caused such an exodus? From whence came the blood? These questions and more floated uselessly in our minds. Our mission in Paeriannis pressed us onward however and it was with reluctance that we left the tavern.

It was then that we found our first sign of life. A fat shopkeeper up the street was scurrying to and fro, packing his belongings on a cart hitched to a sleek horse. He muttered to himself, glancing northward every so often as he scrambled around securing his packs to his cart.

“Ho there!” our Captain cried, a stalwart and worthy paladin. “What news have you?”

“Flee damn you!” the Elrundian replied in a thick accent.

The captain gave pause. “What nameless entity gives you such fear? I fear him not! I am a paladin, a Knight Captain and I have been through war and hell and have never met fear.”

“Then you are ignorant and stupid,” the Elrundian replied, tightening the ropes on his cart. “They came from the north they did. Elves. Dead elves. And werewolves too. They killed many of us. And those who thought they were fearless, like you, you stupid bloke, died first.”

The captain snorted. “I do not fear the undead.”

The merchant shook his head. “They have attacked us relentlessly for the past week, though we've held them off. Each night they come again though, and in greater numbers. Last night was the worst. They brought . . . something new. It came to the tavern and no man or woman could stand to it. They all fled. I should have fled but I had locked myself in my home as those things flooded the streets. Some villagers may have survived perhaps, I don't know. But the creatures, the thing from Paeriannis, it dragged away the bodies when the sun came up and retreated. Perhaps they devoured the corpses, I don't know and I don't care. I'm leaving.”

And with that, the Elrundian merchant climbed upon his wagon and cracked a short whip. The horse, burdened as it was was stirred into a frenzy and galloped as hard as it could. A box of the man's treasures fell from his crate and broke open, spilling hundreds of gold pieces along the street. The Elrundian stopped the cart, stared at the gold for a moment, then looked to the north. With a distraught expression, he pressed on, and disappeared southward.

In our vanity, we pressed on northward, nonplussed by the abandoned village or the warnings of the shaken merchant. As we crested the foothills and entered the dark wood, the village, the last we saw of living civilization, disappeared into the twilight. Even the very wildlife had more sense than twenty senseless paladins, every deer we saw, every rodent that scurried, all seemed to go southward. The trees, green and broadleaved, were abandoned by its companions and then all of a sudden, they too were all dead. This marked the border, from living to dead, of Paeriannis the Lost Kingdom.

They were dead, all of them, twisted and it seemed as though the trees themselves were expressing their agony. The naked trees were leafless, the scattered brown leaves buried the ground. A yellow ooze dripped from holes in the trees where once owls and squirrels made their nests. It was sticky like pus and it hung grotesquely from branches. It seemed like some diseased fungus, some lecherous lichen or mold cast like mucous on branch and twig. And from the ground grew hideous green and purple mushrooms, some as high as men, releasing foul spores in the air and releasing a foul reek.

None of us spoke as we entered dead Paeriannis. There was no sound, only a loud silence that deafened our ears and saddened our hearts. Only the hooves of our horses disturbed the sacrilegious silence. Now the wind was no longer blowing, the air was still and stuffy. No song or jest could warm our hearts, and so silently we marched north.

We intersected a road not to far past the border. It was a widened dirt path, the effects of eons of wheeled wagons evident in the solid dirt. It was caked with black dried blood and ash. Broken wagons and carriages were strewn about like a giant's play things, some charred, some burnt beyond recognition. And then there was the dead. Elven travelers lying face first, as if fleeing the war were scattered about. There was no sign of decay however, their only deformity was whatever wound had killed them. Some were stuck full of arrows, like pin cushions, some were dismembered and disemboweled The trees were lined with merchants, both Elrundians and elves, impaled on trees, metal spikes through their guts, all with a look of horror etched on their dead faces.

We stopped here. There was one service alone that we could perform for these wretches. It was tiresome and gruesome work, but with heavy hearts, we gathered the corpses as best we could and burned them in a bonfire. It was then we knew we had entered hell. We made camp that night on the side of the road. We posted one sentry and woke up unmolested and continued our journey onward.

Very little happened for three days, we saw nothing except for the mangled dead and burnt villages. The unending silence ended on that third day, replaced by endless shrieking and howling always beyond our sight. The pus-like slime now covered everything and our horses were forced to walk in the stuff, sticking horridly to the putrescence on the ground. There were more and more of those foul mushrooms and the scent was making us sick. The sun was gone now, blotted by a black cloud, creating a gray and dull atmosphere. We marched, our spirits low for we were beginning to see how vain and foolish our notion was to seek out survivors in this land. Even know we knew no one and nothing lived except for the foul necromancy that worked its evil magic on the land. Our pride went before us and we refused to turn back and admit to failure.

Yet, even with the howling and shrieking of distant creatures, we were unmolested. They never came into our sight, except at night the sentry reported foul yellow eyes and vague shadows yonder in the trees, but never came close enough for us to see and never lingered long enough for anything but a fool's shot with a bow, and so we wasted no arrows on these wraiths.

It began on our fifth night in the woods. It was beyond midnight when a bloodcurdling scream woke us all up. Quickly we grabbed our weapons and rushed out of our tents. Our fire was still burning and in the firelight we saw the knight who had been up for sentry duty had been slain. He lay face up, his entire body below his abdomen gone, his intestines hanging out like bloody bits of coiled ropes and a wide pool of blood already turning black. His face appeared to have been clawed off. A quick examination of the camp found his legs against a tree as if they had been thrown. We were sturdy men, we could handle blood but such a violent death was new to us. All of us staunch men, but a few retched in the trees at the sight.
“What manner of beast did this?” the captain asked.

But before any could speculate an answer, the shrieking grew intense and it was around us. Then one jumped into the firelight, but only for a second. But a second was all that was needed to burn this creature into my memory and haunt me forever. It was about the size of a man, but a shadow covered in black fur with glowing eyes of gold. It stood on its hind-legs, arms ready to strike with claws as sharp and long as daggers. It was similar to that of a wolf and yet much like a man, like the remnant of the old werewolf race, the slaughtered children of Lupos, but this creature was naught but a beast of rage.

It pounced upon one of us who wrestled with it for a while as another knight drew his sword and swung at the creature who deftly avoided the blade and jumped away. Its victim unharmed, got up. The beast, frustrated, loped wolf-like into the dark where it howled. We stood a wary circle around the fire, sword and shield at the ready for the response and after what seemed a horrific eternity, it came. From every direction, they came, howling and snarling, jumping upon us from every direction. Of their number, I could not comprehend. Now that my head is as clear as it will ever be after this these events, there couldn't have been more than ten, but it seemed there were hundreds. Their speed and agility were beyond belief. Our swords often failed to connect with fur and muscle but met air. We fought like babes flailing about in the darkness. And when we did land a strike, the monsters felt no pain. I loped off the arm of one such creature and it looked at me, snarled and then tackled me to the ground. I held it by the neck in a choke as its jaws snapped inches from my face. No blood came from its wound, but that same yellow slime. Quickly I stuck my sword into its head. The beast gave an awful howl. Such a strike should have been a killing blow but rather, with its remaining arm, it swiped for my face. I rolled away in time, pulling out my sword as I did, pushing him back with my shield. I sliced the creature's head off and with a spurt of yellow slime, it landed in the dirt and glared at me before those golden eyes dimmed.

As the desperate melee continued, there was a loud moaning in the trees, like wind brushing past some dark cave. Then they came, the undead, elves mostly though few Elrundians were among them. Some were soldiers, slaughtered in the War of the Dragon God, but most were farmers, merchants, civilians brandishing whatever they could find as a weapon. A few simply came unarmed, mindless and cruel. Some brandished arrows and shots rang out in the night. A knight went down, arrow in his chest. A salivating werewolf ripped out the poor man's throat and then romped onward to tackle another.

The slain knight gave a start. Some hope entered me as I saw him rise, somehow survive such a mortal wounding but then, with madness in his eyes, he was upon me. Blood still poured from his neck as he attacked. His undeath however had cost the man his prowess in battle. I cut him down and then struck him again and again until he stopped moving. Even now I see him staring at me, lying on his back as I killed him, though I knew he was gone. He was a man I had known from childhood and it rent my heart to slay him in such a manner.

The undead and the werewolves fought with a vengeance unseen since the War. But in the dark of dead Paeriannis, ultimately the prowess of the paladins of Darincedonia prevailed and they retreated in the dark, leaving the twitching dead in the dirt and the slime. We lost few, seven of our own had to be cut down several times as the curse reanimated their remains. We threw the bodies in the fire and as we did so, for the seven we lost, they had lost about fifty, though numbers mean little to an undead horde. Why they retreated, I cannot say but it was clear to us that something was commanding them. Something was controlling them and this something had a strategy in mind.

“Which of these killed Sir Dravis?” one knight asked, musing, referring to our bisected sentry.

“None,” our captain replied. “Although these creatures were most fearsome, they could not rip a man in half like a girl's doll.”

“Whatever that thing is, it is still out there,” the other knight replied.

“Leading this rabble, I presume,” the captain replied.

“Our task is hopeless,” another knight cried out, “there are no survivors, anything and everyone in Paeriannis was slain in the war and if not, then slain by this curse after the war to become the undead. We should not have come!”
There was much muttering at this.

“Our task was appointed by the Council itself to seek and destroy the corruption of Paeriannis and bring back any survivors,” the captain replied. “This is what we shall do.”

“Are you mad?” the knight cried out. “There is an army of undead and werewolves out there, a creature of unknown power, leading them. There is no hope here, only death! They are regrouping, their force was too small, we should leave now while we still have a chance, before they surround us.”

“I do my duties, Sir Eldreth, even to the death.”

“I do my duty as well, and I am willing to die for them, but this is a lost cause. We need to escape, and come back later with an army. The Council did not expect the undead to still exist in this region, with Raeldrek the Necromancer defeated.”

“Sir!” another knight cried out. “Sir, the horses!”

The paladins turned. The horse were gone. From the trees to which they were hitch was naught but blood and horse hair. The knights followed the blood trail for a ways but dared not go beyond the light of the bonfire.

“Horse or no horse,” Eldreth continued, “Our only hope of survival is to flee.”

“The beast is the source of the corruption, his existence, I believe, is keeping Paeriannis dead and allowing the necromantic energy to bring undeath to these corpses. We must find him.” the captain replied.

“Damn you, if you find me again, lock me in the stocks if you must, a prison is a better place than this, I take my leave!” And with that Eldreth ran into the night.

The twelve remaining paladins were silent for a moment. Then there was a throaty snarl. A high pitched scream. And then silence once again.

There was no sleeping the remainder of that night. We waited nervously around the fire as the shrieking and snarling around us continued but dawn came, at least dawn as it was in Paeriannis. Under that dead embankment of cloud we packed up only what we needed and left behind our tents to seek the beast. We followed blood for a ways, horse blood, until at last we came to their half eaten corpses. From here we pondered for a moment what our next move would be. Reviewing the map, our captain decided to head toward whatever was left of Aldara'celantra, the city of the earth elves. We struck northeast until the sun went down. Then we set up a large fire and a few of us slept under trees while others kept watch, ready and alert.

How foolish our captain was and how foolish we were to follow him. For we awoke to no nightly noises but to hidden sunlight and our captain's head on a spike and the sentries dead, dismembered and disemboweled There were seven of us left now and all of us agreed Paeriannis was lost. We turned around and headed south as fast as we could.

But our doomed venture took us too far north and night eventually caught up with us. One of us carried a torch and the rest followed. As darkness settled in, the shrieking and howling grew closer. There was a crack like a whip and suddenly a tentacle grabbed the knight in the lead by the foot, and he collapsed, dropping the torch. The fire caught some dead brambles and as it hadn't rained for a while, the dead bushes caught fire. The knight itself slashed the tentacle with his sword and it let him go.

Then it stepped into the firelight. The Elrundian's I spoke to named it “Gorlock,” meaning “Doom demon.” Whether it was a demon from hell or some necromantic monstrosity Raeldrek had dreamed up, I do not know nor care. It was quite clearly twice the size of a man. It's face was wolfish and it was a thing of claws and tentacles. Even now as I write I cannot describe this thing as I can no longer picture it in my mind.

It picked up the knight, wrapping around his chest, pinning his sword arm to his side. It picked him up and roared in his face. The knight dropped his sword. Then with one of its arms, its claws plunged into his chest and ripped out his heart. Then it ripped him in half and threw his gory parts aside. We circled it, out of range of its claws and tentacles. It gave a low howl and then there were shrieks in response around us. A werewolf pounced from the trees and smashed into me but I deftly rolled aside, and blocked him with my shield. The Gorlock, with frightening agility, grabbed three men with its tentacles and threw them into the fire where they screamed out in agony. More werewolves bounded into the firelight. The remaining three of us saw we were outnumbered at least ten to one with more shrieking in the darkness around us. Our minds went blank and we ran.

To this day, I am unsure what happened next. Something hit me and I awoke in the morning. Why they didn't kill me, I am not sure. I think perhaps they thought I was dead like the others. The other two knights, they were gruesomely killed. I saw their remains as I gathered myself. Then, while it was daylight, I ran. I did not stop. Through the night as well I ran. I could hear their shrieks and howls behind me and I do not know if they were pursuing me. When day came, I'd stop and rest. I had no food and I was getting dreadfully hungry but the nightmares were behind me, ahead of me and around me. My armor weighed me down so I left it behind. My sword as well for I had no hope for victory. Somehow, I had gone east and soon there was the sea. Though I could not yet see it, I could smell it. I ran headlong for it and suddenly heard the thumping of paws at my back. They were behind me, chasing me.

I screamed and ran even faster, tripping over rock and bush. I emerged from the forests onto the beach and then my heart lept for joy. Sails were on the horizon. From what nation, I did not know or care. I lept into the sea hoping against hope that the ship would see my commotion and come to my rescue. My pursuers stopped and upon the beach they snarled and yelped. I was beyond their reach. I didn't know why but they didn't like the water. And then at last I saw. From the edge of the cloud came the sun's rays. The mindless undead hated the sun and only under the influence of a necromancer, could they be driven into daylight. These had no master

The sailors on the ship saw me. They were merchants from Darincedonia seeking to port at Krevrin, their navigator and captain were arguing as I came aboard and it was my luck and my life that the navigator had misjudged the wind and they had sailed further north than they had desired. It is upon this ship that I pen this document. It has been three weeks and we should be in Darincedon soon. They tell me the harbor is rebuilt and the city is coming back to life. After so much death and destruction a new world is being born from the ashes. Perhaps there is some joy to life yet, but I shall not share in it. No, the doomed venture into dead Paeriannis shall be my last.

Upon receiving this document, the Arcanite Scholars sent men out to find Sir Joryt and save him from himself. It was too late. Sir Joryt fell upon his sword in his room in a tavern not far from the Darincedon harbor. The Scholars set out to Paeriannis, never entering it proper and set wards along the border to keep the undead in and put up signs warning those who approach to stay out. The Royal Protectorate foolishly built an army of three thousand men to seek the Gorlock and destroy him. Only seventeen returned, all of whom either went insane or committed suicide. Expeditions into Paeriannis all met the same fate. The Elrundians, the Lanadorians and even a group of Fire Elves tried to enter Paeriannis. Most of them died or lost their minds. Of the Gorlock, it entered legend, never seen again by any man alive. -Librarian Josi Filin, Library of Darincedonia

Author's Note: This is a document from Astarnia detailing a trip into a nation once known as Paeriannis after a devastating war destroyed it with evil spells of necromancy. Raeldrek was the prime antagonist of that war, a powerful sorcerer who committed unspeakable acts. This document occurs right after that war as nations are recovering.

Suzetta and the Ogre

In the midst of the battle, the vast ogre hollered, bashing away soldiers as it lumbered through the field. Suzetta, her feet firmly planted on the bloodstained grass, threw down her swords, pulled two daggers from her belt and charged at the beast head on. At the final moment she jumped, narrowly avoiding the monster's powerful arm swiping at her, as one would swat a fly. She hit the beast, her daggers plunged into its chest. It shrieked in pain as hot blood sprayed out onto Suzetta's face and leather armor. She clung precariously, like a mountain climber on a cliff with a pickhammer. With effort, Suzetta pulled her self up, pulling her right hand dagger out with a jerk and then jabbing it into the beast's jugular. It began to sway and it staggered back in pain and panic. Then Suzetta yanked the left dagger free and then jumped up again and slammed it into the beast's eye. It collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud and catlike, Suzetta jumped off, landed on her feet and retrieved her swords.

My favorite part of combat in Dragon Age: Origins is when you get a killing blow on an ogre. You basically do what this paragraph discribes but in slow motion.

Gas! Gas! Gas!

At Kunsan Air Base, SSgt Kohler and I were enjoying a cigarette break or at least, he was enjoying the cigarette and I was enjoying the break. It was hot that day, a sweltering ninety seven degrees and humid and the extraneous fabric of the Airman's Battle Uniform did not help whatsoever.

So it was to our great dismay when the Giant Voice announced "Exercise, exercise, exercise. Alarm yellow. Alarm yellow. MOPP level 4. MOPP level 4."

Kohler and I both swore simultaneously as we jumped to our feet, pulled our gas masks on our faces and then rushed as fast as we could to our chemical defense gear. MOPP level 4. This meant, the entire suit from head to toe, no exposed skin whasoever.

I got to my bag and immediately pulled on the heavy charcoal lined trousers. I zipped them up, snapped the triple snap, pulled the straps around the waste and made it tight. Then the overcoat came on over that. And already, I was sweating from the heat. The gas mask, with its airtight seal, left no real ventilation from the heat. I got the overcoat on, zipped it, velcroed it, drew the strings and tied them tight. I pulled the jock strap in between my legs and snapped it in place.

Then I pulled my overboots on, strapping the pants over the boots, and followed with the gloves, strapping the sleeves of the overjacket to the rubber gloves. Then I put my hood up and tightened it. As SSgt Kohler and I were checking each other out, I felt a sudden urge.

I looked at him with exasperation.

"Man, I gotta take a piss."

It never fails, whether it be chemical defense gear or just freaking snow pants and a ski parka, once suited up, nature calls.

Wind

Wind
Howling, Yawning
Screams, whistles, roars
Oh how it bites!
Power

Chilling
Snow bitten, freezing
Churning and howling in
This frigid December air, the
Wind blows

Wind
Gentle, cool
Kisses, caresses, sings
It's calm embrace comforts
Serenity

Tickling
Dandelion
Seeds float over warm green grass
Defeating the arid heat of
the Sun.

Lotto Win

Carl entered the dingy gas station store, picked up a pepsi and two snickers bars and approached the counter. Behind it stood a beer bellied man in a black shirt and blue jeans. He had long bushy brown hair and a mustache and an aromatic mix of cigarettes and cheap beer. He was reading a newspaper.

"Roger! I didn't know this was your shift!" Carl grinned at the cashier.

Roger looked up, "Sarah's water broke, I'm taking her shift." He folded the paper and set it down.

"Congratulations to her," Carl replied.

Roger snorted, "another baby to a welfare mother. Sometimes, I hate the state government."

"What can you do Rog? What can you do?"

"I know what I'm gonna do," Roger answered. "I'm voting Republican next year. Getting real tired of this crap. Two snickers and a pepsi, lemme see . . ." his sausage-like fingers went over the register.

"And ten gallons of gas," Carl added.

"Thirty one seventy seven," Roger counted up. Carl slapped down a credit card and Roger swiped it.

The door opened and a man entered, an old tall man with a grizzly brown beard and a red cap on his head. As Carl gathered his snacks and his card, the man asked Roger for a lottery card.

"They're picking the numbers in just a few minutes," Roger said, pointing to a TV screen. The man leaned against the counter and scratched off the ticket. The three waited in suspense.

"What's the point?" Carl asked.

"Someone's gotta win," the man in the hat said, in a deep farmer's voice.

The numbers showed up on screen. The man jumped a mile.

"I won!" he shouted, and then, screaming in ecstasy, he ran out of the gas station. Carl and Roger watched him dancing and shouting and then he stepped into the street and got hit by a bus.

"Oh dear god!" Roger shouted, following Carl who was running out the door. The bus had pulled over and people were running towards the dead man.

"What luck!" Roger moaned.

"What luck!" Carl shouted happily.

"I'm gonna get the paramedics," Roger said, pulling out his cellphone.

"I'm gonna get the winning ticket!" Carl said gleefully

The Police Chase

Driving down I-95 in my Chevy Cavalier, I noticed I was being followed. I glanced into the rearview mirror and my heart squeezed a moment as I saw sirens. But then I realized my initial assessment was incorrect. The blue Taurus, which was following me, had a ski rack. A red and blue ski rack, made of glass.

I found this odd. Perhaps he was patriotic? Or maybe Russian. Or worse, French. I decided it was a French guy, but why he had a French colors on a ski rack while driving behind me in New Hampshire, I could not explain.

I continued driving and he stayed behind me. My mind drifted and soon, as my foot stayed on the gas. As I was riding a unicorn through verdant meadows, under a golden sky as the newborn sun began its approach, the speedometer was inching upward. When I snapped back to reality, I was doing ninety.

The Taurus behind me, the French dude, had lights coming from its ski rack. Flashing in French patriot colors. He was tailgating me, so in irritation, I pulled over to the slow lane let him pass. I cannot stand tailgaters. To my dismay, this clown stayed behind me.

This continued for a few miles. The French driver was getting irate. His ski rack was now wailing loudly and I was wondering why would you add a siren to a ski rack? Anti-theft device? Skis are expensive, but why would you set it off while you're tailgating someone? Especially since he wasn't carrying skis.

Now irate, I pulled over and came to a stop. He stopped behind me. Then the French clown came out of his car, inexplicably wearing a cop costume, looking very put out. He approached. I saw he had a gun, and not wanting to have my car stolen, I stepped on the gas and peeled out. The French guy ran back to his car and he began to chase me!

I flew at about 90 miles, trying to get this cop-disguised thief off my back. I could now see that not only had he stolen a cop uniform, he had also taken the time to paint the State Trooper emblem on his Taurus. I wondered why a French car thief would undergo such deception. He stayed behind me. For miles he chased me, he was truly desparate to steal my decrepit Cavalier! So I slammed on the brakes and he rear ended me. The force was so strong that my airbags blew and the car went off the road and into a ditch. The shock was so great, I loss consciousness.

I woke up, in a hospital, held hostage by a bunch of men in cop-costumes. I do not know what they want, and I do not know what became of my car. As soon as my wounds heal, I intend to escape!

Zadok the Dragon

Mighty Zadok, a dragon was he.
Green were his scales, sharp were his claws
Fast were his wings, strong were his jaws
His breath was of fire, his eyes were as ice.
In the land of Darloc, he exacted a price
For the peasants were weak, in terror they fled.
Those who remained are roasted and dead.
Zadok feasted upon them for hour after hour
Gorging and feeding until each was devoured.
Zadok roared and pillaged on forth
And came to a kingdom up in the north.
He ate every man, and burned every house.
Nothing survived, not even a mouse.
He gorged and and feasted until the next day
Until he went on to his terrible way.
He flew in the sky, a frightful beast,
Seeking as always, a gruesome feast.
Settling down in a quiet small village,
He roared his bright flame in terrible pillage.
Zadok, he stole all their jewels and gold
And then he ate them, the young and the old.
No one was spared, all were consumed.
Every last person on Earth was doomed.
At last, with a belly full, he declared himself king.
He put on a crown, a robe, upon his claw was a ring.
"I am your lord, I am your lord,"
Said he, and he bellowed and roared.
But alas, he looked around and saw with a stun,
None had survived, none at all, not a one.
He could not be king, he had no one to rule
And so he wondered why fate had been so cruel.
Lonely Zadok, a dragon was he.

The Echo

The Echo

The compressors were shot. The twin metal rods had burned out and hung loosely from their sockets. The engine whined terribly, refusing to enter superlight speed. Two laser blasts hammered The Echo, rocking the ship, knocking Bridget Rubori, the ship’s mechanic, back against the metal wall as she searched desperately for a replacement. She looked frantically at the damaged engine. The repairs were nearly complete, if the damned Imperials didn’t get another shot on the engine and of course, if there were spare compressors to be found. She considered for a moment bypassing the compressors, unsure if she wanted to take the risk. The compressors were vital to the stability of The Echo and without them, the ship could explode brilliantly when hitting superlight. At which point she and the entire crew would be naught but atoms floating in the darkness of space.

“Bridget! Get that engine going!” Captain Flynn’s voice hollered frantically from the intercom to the engine room.

She cursed. Searching through the shelves of spare parts, she noticed grimly that she had plenty of spares, except for the part she needed. Picking out a wrench and a spanner, she went to work on the bypass, carefully rewiring the fusion controller, trying to defuse the excess energy from the ion drive down another, less volatile path. Sweating, she wiped her red hair from her forehead as she worked, hoping to the grace of whatever deity might be out there that this bypass would not kill the entire crew. Frantically, she rewired the box, shut it, and then hooked the neutron capacitor directly to the ion drive and crossed her fingers. Two more laser blasts rocked the ship. The lights went out for a second and then came back on.

“Bridget! The engines now!” Flynn shouted on the comm. “Our shields are down dammit!”

“I worked around the compressors captain,” Bridget replied in the comm. “Try now, but I don’t recommend going past point five past superlight!”

On the bridge, Captain Tomas Flynn looked at the scopes on the pilot’s display. The Imperial warship was behind them, firing from all of its turbo laser batteries as the pilot, Sam Pherson, kept the ship flying, his hands white knuckled on the controls. Blasts of green lasers flickered past the view port, disappearing into the depths of space.

“You heard her Sam, superlight now!” Flynn commanded.

“Without the compressors?” Sam complained.

“Now Sam!” Flynn barked.

“People, hold on to something,” Sam said through the intercom, “this will be rocky . . . if we don’t all explode.”

Sam reached out and pulled a lever. The ship began to shake violently. Flynn lost his grip and flew backwards, sprawling on the floor. The scopes turned to static and the stars shook. Hairline cracks began forming on the viewport. Some of the circuits shorted and sparked.

In the engine room, the ion drivers were rattling terribly. Sparks of electricity snapped out from the brilliantly white fusion reaction core. Bridget stared at it helplessly, adjusting a power coupling, hoping to contain the massive energy surging unchecked through the engine. The coupling was coming out of it’s socket and once it blew completely, the ship would be gone

“Come on, hold together,” she prayed. She held on to the coupling, tightening it. The coupling was shaking violently. She tightened it further, opened it, rerouted the wires and then suddenly, the shaking stopped. The engine’s whining and rattling turned into a loud and smooth hum. Breathing a sigh of relief, Bridget put on a pair of protective earmuffs and began to work, fixing the stress fractures.

On the bridge, Flynn breathed a sigh of relief as the stars turned to starlines and the pursuing warship disappeared behind them.

“A few more seconds of that and we’d be sucked into the vaccuum,” Sam said, looking at the fractured glass. “Good thing none of those cracks went all the way through.”

“We’re not entirely out of it yet,” Flynn replied. “Without the compressors, the engine is still unstable, I’d give it fifty light years before it blows and we don’t want to be on the ship when that happens. Anything nearby that can service this ship?”

Sam called up the navigational display, “Randar is in twenty light years, a backwater planet, low imperial presense. It’ll take us a few hours to get there.”

“The goods are well hidden,” Flynn replied, “and our legal papers are up to date, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What of the imperials, sir?” a deep voice said. Flynn turned around. First Mate Grontik Trellg came on the bridge.

“We should be fine,” Flynn said. “The jammers kept them from pulling our flight plans, and even if they did break through, they won’t know we’re going off course. Sam, reroute navigation to Randar.”

“Yes sir,” Sam replied.

“Congratulations people,” Flynn said on the intercom, “we’ve just made yet another clean get away.”

A Canteen on Onjak

Anella Starfall sat in the canteen, coolly watching the patrons, waiting for her contact. She sipped slowly on a fine Reliosian wine. Anella sat back in the uncomfortable leather booth. She was tall, the toes of her boots touched the empty booth on the far end. She was also incredibly attractive, with wavy black hair falling over her shoulders, dark blue crystalline eyes and thin, cruel eyebrows gracing her eyes. She wore a black sleeveless shirt, and pants held up by a belt where two blaster pistols, several energy cells, and a dagger were held. Her finely manicured fingers tapped impatiently on the round plastisteel table as she waited.

The canteen was lit dimly by small bulbs in the center of each table. The patrons spoke in a quiet murmur. Androids wheeled around carrying drinks to the customers sitting at the tables, while a bartender stood before a system of pipes and tubes, mixing drinks for the regular drunks. The establishment was particularly seedy. Nearly everyone in the room was illegitimate, smugglers, pirates, criminals, and the like. Anella eyed them all. Most were armed with blasters, keeping a wary eye on the door, concerned for an unlikely, yet not unexpected, raid by imperial troopers, which would be unfavorable to everyone. Anella analyzed them. No one noticed, or cared, about her presence.

The entire planet was a backwater world in a system far beyond the grip of the Empire or the influence of the Confederacy. Onjak was its name, a green and blue haven for crooks or for people simply staying out of sight.

The door came open and a Grellian entered. The lizard like man looked at Anella and then approached her, nodding in greeting. Anella silently flipped off her blaster’s safety and sat up straight as the alien took a seat opposite of her.

“Good afternoon, Domor,” she said. “Any word on the android?”

“The droid was . . . gone when I arrived,” the Grellian replied. “I am sorry. But I do know who took it. A Cavalier class freighter escaped Astarnia just a few hours ago, under the noses of the smug imperials. The Echo I believe it is called, are you familiar with the ship?”

“Captain Flynn and his crew of pirates,” Anella snarled. “I know him. There’s a price on his head if I recall.”

“There is and it is about to be bigger,” Domor replied. “He made off with the android. I do not know if he is aware of the droid’s secrets, but he is aware of its value.”

“I am glad you came to me with this information,” Anella said. “Flynn and I go back years.”

“Friends?”

Anella barked a short laugh. “Enemies. The hatred is mutual.”

“I wonder why you never tracked him down,” Domor said.

Anella shrugged. “The bounty wasn’t high enough and I had other jobs. And I have a question for you.”

“Please ask.”

“Why did you fail to retrieve the android before Flynn stole it?” She squeezed the trigger of her blaster. The gun fired loudly and the Grellian fell over, his head hitting the table. The crowd stopped and looked at her. Then slowly, they went back to their business. She looked him over. He was dead.

“I really hate failure,” she told the deceased. Getting up, she tossed credits to the bartender and left the canteen.

The ISC Justice

Admiral Jack Parintos stood at the bay windows, staring lividly into the blackness of space where The Echo had recently been. Just a few more seconds and they’d’ve been in the tractor beam or simply blown into atoms, even at the cost of the loss of the android. Parintos was tall, wearing a spotless blue uniform, decorated with numerous metals he had earned during the course of the war. His hair was greying and wrinkles of both stress and age formed on his brow. He stood at a parade rest stance staring out the bay windows.

His ship was the Imperial Star Cruiser Justice, the Imperial fleet’s warhammer. The massive bulbous ship was the largest of the capital ships, bristling with modern weaponry, enough to terrify most planets into submission. It was one of ten Star Cruisers. The ships were large and powerful, but expensive to build and maintain. Justice alone took ten thousand crewers, including support for food, housekeeping and medical attention. Justice was a military city.

Below Parintos, crewers worked at displays, all uniformed in the blue. The crew of the Justice were the brightest and the smartest the Imperial Navy had, each one trained rigorously and disciplined harshly. Parintos turned to an ensign.

“Ensign Jenkins!” he barked, “calculate all the possible routes a Cavalier class freighter can take at superlight in five hours!”

“Yes sir!” the ensign said, turning to his console, typing in commands. A few moments later, he looked at the admiral, “sir, I have the map.”

The admiral looked at the display. “Contact the helmsman, tell him to set a wormhole coordinate for this location,” he said pointing.

The ensign complied.

“Prepare for portalization,” the admiral barked.

Outside, three enormous arms unfolded from the ship, the edge of each one broken off into three-pronged forks which began to spin. Three rays of particles shot out before them. Before them, in the space hundreds of miles away, an enormous vortex ripped into spacetime and through it, the admiral could see stars from another region of the galaxy.

“Wormhole opened to the correct coordinants sir,” the ensign said.

“Very well, helmsman, forward, full speed,” the Admiral barked.

The cruiser’s engines roared to life and the enormous ship passed through the wormhole. For being a grand advancement in astrophysics, the admiral noted, the passage was rather dull. It wasn’t any more interesting than a million mile drive through deep space. They came out of the wormhole a few moments later. Abruptly behind them, the hole shut.

“Grav control,” the Admiral said. “Fire up the gravity wells, we’ll catch them.”

Authors note: Not really a story, just some ideas being thrown together. I guess this comes from watching Firefly.

Flynn is a Han Solo/Malcolm Reynolds type pirate captain. Anella Starfall is a bounty hunter/assassin, a female Boba Fett perhaps. Parintos is an Admiral Piett type figure.

Bridget, Sam and Grontik are three of Captain Flynn's ten man crew.

This is in a time where faster than light is delivered through two technologies, an engine called an ion drive which can propel the ship past the speed of light somehow, working around the interstellar speedlimit, and a wormhole generator which can create and control a temporary stable wormhole. The idea would be that the ion drives are relatively cheap and the most common form of transport and the wormhole generator would be extremely expensive and only used by the super rich and the militaries.

This is also a time of chaos where two factions, the Empire and the Confederacy are fighting for control of the galaxy, while rogues like Flynn take no sides and try to gain a profit in illegal activities such as smuggling and piracy. Neither the Empire nor the Confederacy can be classified as good/evil, they both are gray and have committed crimes.

Flynn's ship, the Echo, is a modified frieghter. it's name comes from my car, which is a Chevy cavalier, 565 PE (Papa Echo). Cavalier class, model 565 P. E in the phonetic alphabet is Echo.

The Stars are Pretty

"The stars are pretty aren't the Jed?" I asked, looking out at a speckled navy sky, far in the wilderness, away from the pollution of civilization. The darkness was so complete that even the hazy smog of the Milky Way band could be clearly seen stretching across the night sky like some nebulous halo.

"They sure are. God's gift to man kind indeed." Jed replied. Jed was a heavy set man, religious, wearing a cross around his neck. Jed was older, a pastor at a nearby church and a man with an interest in stars nearly as complete as his faith in Jesus.

I appreciated the kind old man, he had words of wisdom and was smart in many degrees. But I remember this night because I could not help but feel a profound disgust for what happened next.

We had set up a telescope and I looked into it. A wonderous view of distant stars from a whole different galaxy came through the lens.

"Look at that, the Andromeda Galaxy," I said. "Have a look."

"I see nothing," Jed replied, stepping away from the telescope.

"I don't understand."

"Then I shall explain. The Bible says the universe was formed 6000 years ago. I believe that. Thus when I look in your telescope, I see no stars for they are beyond 6000 light years away. The light has not arrived yet. Thus I do not see them."

"But clearly you can see them through the telescope."

"No John, you are deluded. There are no stars in that telescope. The light has not arrived yet. I cannot see them."

I sighed.

FORE! .........................................BOOM!

"Beautiful day for golfing Jim," Ted said, looking over the 18 hole course.

"Indeed it is," Jim replied, sticking his tee in the grass. He pulled out the bag of balls and began rifling through it. He pulled out a small green object and set it on the tee.

"Is that a grenade?" Ted asked.

"Of course! This is such a boring sport so why don't we golf with grenades?" Jim asked. "Make things exciting."

Jim pulled the pin and really quickly took a swing at the pineapple grenade. "FORE!" he shouted as the device launched into the air and then exploded over the fairway.

"You are the stupidest person I know," Ted said.

Rumford

Prospect avenue was lined with shabby apartments and small, forlorn houses. The paint on the buildings was chipping, fading and in places, decaying brown wood was visible. Dirt stained windows opened to blackness within. A few houses were fixed up, quaint little buildings with good strong wood, fresh paint or vinyl sidings, but these were the minority. Rumford from Prospect whimpered of disrepair and hard times. The rest of the town was more of the same, shabby apartments, clumsily built houses, dirt and neglect.

A car sat out of one run-down complex, a trash-laden building that had an enclosed front porch filled with useless and forgotten junk. The offensive car was old, a model from twenty to thirty years ago, painted a disgusting brown, and the paint was chipped, the rusty metal showed through in places, more pronounced in the various dents in the body. The windshield was dusty and dirty, a dull grey film obscured the view to old ripped pleather seats. The tires were deflated. The dead corpse of a car sat quiet and forgotten in front of this junk house.

Upon the car, was snow. Bordering the street, was more snow. Dirty snow, with bits of rocks and hair and salt piled high along the edges, higher than the cars parked in driveways, mountains of soggy filth. It was March, a season in New England that was especially dirty, and the beating rays of the sun could neither decide to melt or to freeze the little mill town, so it did both. This of course, made for wet, slushy streets, salted and covered in dirt by snowplows so cars could have traction, giving the snow mounds a sickly white color.

From Prospect, the town was quiet. The dull rumbling of vehicles on Route 2 created the only ambient noise. Occasionally a car or a pedestrian would come by, but Rumford was quiet, a dying town with little left to say.

Prospect intersected with Route 2 about a mile from home, at the top of a hill. There, another mile away, was the mill, the sole economic source of the town. A sulfurous paper mill which employeed 800 workers and gave the town a reason to exist. The townsfolk were us to it, the stench no longer registered in their noses, but foreigners, which to the townsfolk was a label applied to anyone who lived in Auburn or beyond, could smell it. It was a repugnant stench, and if a townsperson could smell it, it spoke of low pressure and coming rains. Otherwise, the ghastly sulfur smell was ignored.

On an island across from a arched bridge, with it's green paint peeling, was a collection of red brick buildings. This was the business district. It had three streets, a two lane, one way street down the center and two flanking streets on the other side. It played host to a few businesses, some permanent, but most only lived for about a year before they were unable to operate any longer. Only two chains were found down there, a Rite Aid, and a Dunkin' Donuts.

Atop the hill from the green-arched Morse Bridge (the bridge to downtown) was a Catholic Church, it's splendorous spires hidden away in scaffolding. And still, the houses on the road were shabby, old Victorian homes with peeling paint and dirty windows. But past the church, it got somewhat better. Little houses with fresh paint looked respectable on the road, showing some sign that Rumford, while dying, wasn't dead yet. And then, there was the hospital at the top of the hill.

And what a sight it is. The building was built of red brick with stairs going up to an entrance adorned with greek columns and a greek overhang. But above the alcove where the ambulances dropped of their patients, was an enormous modern overhang of windows, as if some alien saucer had smashed into the rectangular building, creating an eyesore of a combination of new and old styles.

From the hospital, one could look down a precipitous road that dropped steeply for a very long ways. Looking yonder, one could see the snow buried sports fields far beyond the supermarket and the elementary school. The traffic went from dead to busy as Route 2 intersected Lincoln at the only busy light in town (but not the only light).

I could go on with my tour of my home town, but it really is more of the same.

The Girl

I was at the ski resort, my hands wrapped around an aromatic cappuccino, slowly recovering from the cold. Even covered in ski gloves, the cold air slowly penetrated and numbed my fingers as I descended at near forty miles an hour, so I had decided to take a break for a few minutes before going back up again.

And there was this girl. She was cute, with blond hair and blue eyes, off in a corner. She wasn't skiing, she wore sneakers, jeans and a hoody. She was extremely attractive, enough that she had distracted me from my cup several times. But her boyfriend stood by her (they kissed at least once) and he was an immense man. I knew by sight that he played against the bears in football when he was in high school. And I don't mean "the bears" as in a football team. No, I mean real goddamn grizzly bears. This man was in a black hoody adorned with a skull, snowboard boots on his feet, so I knew immediately, he was a badass who'd snap my neck if I so much as winked at his girl.

I thought I was being discreet. Truly I did. A girl of her stature could not be ignored however hard I tried. But at one point she went to the bathroom and the boyfriend approached me, looking very put out.

"You looking at my girl?" he demanded.

"No! No, I . . .ah I'm a homosexual!" I lied, hoping to save my neck.

"Really now!"

"I was uh, bemoaning the fact that you were taken, I'm sorry man," I said.

He leaned over to me, "wanna go someplace tonight?" he whispered.

The Transitory Plane

Terror swept through Suzetta, her breathing was rapid and shallow. Agonizing pain rocked her body. The blade through her heart still oozed rich blood. She tried to hold on but the world was flickering, dissolving, and then gone.

She could not fathom how much time was spent, but when she awoke, all she saw was an endless white light in every direction. The horrific infinity extended beyond time, space and knowledge. There was nothing but her. It wasn't fog, no she could see fine. Looking down, she saw she was in her usual trappings, leather pants, black blouse. But her hands rose to her chest, the knife wound was gone. She opened her blouse. No scar, no cut, nothing. Quickly she started to button up and then realized how silly it was being modest when there was no one else around. But she buttoned up anyways.

Behind her, followed her shadow, which was odd, for there was no visible source of light. The world was as white before her as it was behind, above and below her. Her boots stepped on nothing, but she wasn't falling either. But she was walking, although she had no idea where or why.

She had no idea how long or how far she walked. There was no sense of time in this void, nor distance. But eventually, she came across a door. The door was just that, a door. No wall held it up. It was just a square door in empty space. Curiously, she looked behind it and saw the back of the door, bronze hinges and handle. She tried it from the front and with ease it opened. She expected it to open to the white space beyond, but instead, what she saw were grasslands.

Passing through the door and leaving it open, she saw cerulean skies, painted with white puffy clouds and a yellow orb of a sun above. White daisies were scattered through the grass, intermixed with puffy dandelions. There were no trees to provide shade, but none was needed. The temperature was perfect. A cool breeze brushed Suzetta, gently tossing her hair, it was not chilling, but comforting.

"Suzetta?" a male voice said.

"My daughter!" a woman said.

"But you are too young!" the male said, a sad tint in his voice.

Suzetta turned around. A man and a woman approached, the man leading a familiar brown mare.

"Father! Mother!" Suzetta shrieked, all the wild happiness bubbling through her. She embraced them both, tears in her eyes. "I've missed you so much!"

Fred, the father, gave Suzetta her eyes. His were blue, they twinkled in the sunlight. He was tall and handsome, cleanshaven with a crop of brown hair on his head. But Suzetta got everything else from her mother Vivianne, who's lush brown hair was pulled up into a bun. She wore a green summer dress and a matching hat. Her eyes were brown pools under the shade of the brim.

"We never stopped caring about you," Vivianne said.

"We are proud of who you are becoming," Fred added.

"But you're . . ."

"Dead?" Fred asked. "Moved on, yes. But soon you'll be ready to join us."

"But that means I'm . . . dead."

"Don't be afraid dear," Vivianne said, "It is natural and it isn't so bad in the end."

"Is this heaven?"

"So to speak," Vivianne said. "As long as the door remains open, you'll have a link to the living world. And until that door closes, we cannot be truly reunited."

Suzetta was silent.

A sudden throbbing pulse began again. Suzetta gripped the doorframe into the outer nothingness, seeking the source of the heartbeat throb. Another door flew open, a new portal in the white void, emitting golden light.

"Come back . . . it is not your time! Come back . . ."

Suzetta stared at the new doorway and the feminine voice coming through it. She had found them! Her family was here and she didn't want to leave. She grasped the door handle, ready to close it and move on and then stopped.

Taeryn.

The man was in trouble. Whatever Aruvious had planned for the young man, Suzetta knew it would be horrible.

And then she realized something more.

"Come back!"

As she recalled the fading image of Taeryn's face and voice she realized something, something which had been building with in her for the last week had come true.

"Come back!"

She loved him.

Tears running down her eyes, she gave Fred and Vivianne a final embrace of farewell.

"I cannot stay," she sobbed.

"We will wait for you in the hereafter," Fred answered.

"We love you," Vivianne smiled.

The apparition of her parents faded.

Resolutely, tears streaming from her face, she stepped into the new doorway.

She was lying on the ground, breathing hard. Her hands immediately reached out to her chest. The knife was gone, but she did feel an irregular scar, and underneath, a heartbeat. She blinked and rubbed her face and realized she had been crying. A figure was sitting over her, blurry and incomprehensible still, but slowly the world came back into sharp focus. The woman was an elf, with rich auburn hair, orange eyes and a fair and noble face. She was clad in chain mail, and over the armor, she wore a tabard of black and red, depicting a dragon's head.

"What happened? Who are you?" Suzetta asked.

"You were passing through the transitory plane," the elf replied. "As for me, I am Orissa Sal'ynarai, a knight of the Order of Nethsara."

"You were the voice," Suzetta muttered. She looked at Orissa, puzzled, "was I dead? I'm not sure if I was dreaming."

"You were dead," Orissa replied.

"Eliash . . ." Suzetta cursed in amazement.

"A complex spell can be used to bring one back," Orissa continued, "provided they don't close the door. Provided that they don't move on to the realm of the dead. Fortunately, I am trained in the arts of magical healing, and of course, resurrection."

"How did you find me . . . and why did you think to bring me back?"

"Fate," Orissa shrugged. "I can't explain it. I was riding down this way, on business of my own. I saw you, dead in your own blood, stabbed with a knife. Again, let me emphasize, I don't know why, but I felt it necessary that you come back. Something, some nebulous and ethereal presence told me it wasn't yet your time. I healed the wound and called you back." She held out a hand and helped Suzetta back to her feet.

"I am curious though," Orissa asked, "If you don't feel comfortable with this, don't answer, but what convinced you to listen?"

"Taeryn. A man named Taeryn. I need to rescue him," Suzetta said.

"Because he is in danger?"

"Because I love him."

Author's Note: As I was defining this world, the limits of magic came to my mind. Naturally, if I want to make a fantasy story realistic, there must be rules that I must follow, or nothing makes sense. Resurrection is one of the most difficult magics to work. It requires that the spellcaster heal the body and make contact with the soul of the recently departed, before the recently departed finishes her transitionary period (the limbo Suzetta found herself in) and moves on completely.

Orissa is another important character, found in other stories. She is a knight, a noble elf from an ancient time.

The curse may be out of place in this snippit. "Eliash!" is equivalent to saying "Jesus Christ!"

He's a Kenyan

Cigar in mouth, dripping hot ash in the grass of the football field, barrel shaped Limbaugh put an arm on Obama's shoulders.

"You'll do great," the pundit said, puffing out an asthmatic cloud of smog.

Obama, standing out in the cold on the track in shorts looked at his competitors. "I don't see why I have to go through with this."

"The American people need to know," Rush replied. "They deserve to know. The race is to ensure that you, my Hawaiian friend, are . . uh . . . fit for office."

"Oh come on Rush," Obama complained, "an hour of basketball a morning doesn't count?"

Rush blew another grey smoke cloud into the cold morning fog. "Oh it helps, but this allows us to quantify. Get on the track!"

Obama took his place. Next to him was a Kenyan. And another Kenyan. Then it dawned on the President, they were all Kenyan. Obama looked at his competition in wonder. What stunt were the neocons pulling now?

Limbaugh pulled out a gun, pointed it straight in the air and pulled the trigger. The race had begun. Obama put his whole body into it, Nike sneakers propelling him forward with all his might. He found that he could stay with the pack, but was unable to pass the leader. And soon, it was all over. Fifth place.

"The results are in," Limbaugh said. "you were only point nine three seconds off from the lead. You are most assuredly Kenyan. The impeachment trial begins tomorrow."

Authors note: It actually sickens me that the neocons are pushing this ridiculous conspiracy on the President

Don't Call Me Suzie

Suzetta's twin swords lie uselessly on the ground, ten feet away from her. Three ruffians stood at close range, pointing swords at her. Her back was to a stone wall, her hands clenched into fists. She could smell the alcoholic stench of their breath. Her heart was beating rapidly. Suzetta was sweating, fear had gripped her, fear and something worse. Anger. A blood red haze distorted her vision.

Blood dripped from a cut on her forehead.

"Looky what we caught ourselves here!" said one ruffian.
"And ain't she a beaut, oh I am going to enjoy her tonight," the second one sneered.
"After I'm done with her," the first replied. "Whats your name pretty girl?"

She spat in his face. He laughed, a rancorous halting sound.

"Her name's Suzetta," the third one said, "she work's for Tomas's crime ring. I use to work for that bastard."
"Aw, he won't mind if we borrow the young lass for the night." the first returned.
"No matter, I ain't afraid of Tomas, little Suzie here is gonna provide us with a good night tonight." The second ruffian grinned, revealing gaped yellow teeth.

She snapped. Catlike, she pounced, hands and feet becoming weapons. Within a second it was over. She had the ruffian in a lock, with his sword pressed against his neck.

"Don't call me Suzie," she snarled in his ear, and then slit his throat. He slumped to the ground. The other two ran after her. She rolled out of the way and picked up her twin swords. She slash off the hand of the first ruffian and before he could scream, plunged her second sword through his heart. The third one swung at her but she easily parried and impaled him through the stomach. Eyes wide, he gasped and collapsed, clutching his stomach, his hands reddening with blood.

"Don't call me Suzie," she repeated.

And then left.

Author's note: Suzetta is a character of a much larger story. She is a thief and an assassin. This particular scene came to mind as I was writing her larger story, but it really doesn't have a home, so I put it here. I might use it, I might not.

Victory for the God of Murder

The Warrior Priest named Nathasius stood looking out a window in a chamber, high in a tower, overlooking the ruined realm of Reikland. From the window, he could see the encampments of the evil followers of the Raven God. The Chaos warhost host was here. the city of Praag was burning. He could see the smoke from his window. He could hear the relentless screams of agony. He could smell the blood and the fire. Reikland was falling. Praag was the last line of defense before Altdorf, the capital, the shining beacon of light and hope. A beacon of justice under the blessings of Sigmar. But the warhost had come and was now within miles of Altdorf.

Nathasius was getting old. Like most of the priests, he was bald, but his short beard was white with age. His eyes were wizened and worry had wrinkled his brow. But he wasn't useless. Over his bloodred robes, he wore a steal breastplate and pauldrons. His ornate warhammer leaned against the wall, ready for his calloused and war-hardened hands

Nathasius left the window and returned to his desk. He consulted scripture, desperately seeking away to turn back these vile Chaos cultists. The power of Sigmar could not be undone by the Raven god! It could not be undone! He opened the book and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. With reflexes like a cat, he had his hands on his warhammer, and he caught the blow of two sharp, bloodstained swords with its metal handle. Nathasius and his assailant were locked together for a short moment that lasted an eternity.

She was a dark elf. She was tall and pale, taller than Nathasius and Nathasius was considered tall by human standards. She was chillingly beautiful. Her white hair flowed down to the small of her back. Some of it was tied up into a ponytail. Two thin braids hung down past her pointed ears. Her eyes were a chilling yellow. She wore dark blue robes, stained with blood, and her steel swords, cruel instruments of torture, dripped onto the wooden floor. Nathasius could actually see the blood haze in the elf's eyes. Those yellow eyes that branded her as a Disciple of Khaine, the dark god of murder.

He pushed back. She stepped back. He swung. She parried with one sword and he dodged as she struck out with the other. She swung again and again they were locked together, holy warhammer against twin blasphemous blades. Her foot shot out and caught Nathasius in the stomach. The man smashed through the walls of the chamber, bricks and mortar collapsed and Nathasius fell, the ground below him hundreds of feet away. He cried a quick plea to Sigmar and then felt a gentle breeze that let him down. He landed on his feet in a courtyard, where a Raven zealot still hung from the gallows. He looked in horror at the bodies of the dead lying strewn about the courtyard. The stones were slick with red blood. She had killed them all.

From the hole in the wall, he saw her standing, her swords at her side. Furious to see that her quarry was still alive, she jumped. By some evil grace, she landed like a cat.

"Sigmar always saves those who have faith," the priest said, almost in a whisper.
"He won't save you," the disciple replied in a snarl.

She assaulted. Her savage blows came one after another, her speed and agility was almost too much for Nathasius. But still he held on. He jumped onto the stone steps leading back into the tower and swung at her head, but she ducked out of the way. One of her swords ripped into his thigh. He cried out as blood poored from the wounds. The jagged weapon ripped into more flesh as she yanked it out. He collapsed and toppled down the steps. She stood over him triumphantly, about to make the killing blow. He blocked it with his warhammer. Calling for Sigmar's grace, he hit her, square in the chest and she flew into a daze against the gallows. The gallows cracked and collapsed, bringing the dead cultist down with it.

She cursed and invoked Khaine's wrath and struggled up. Nathasius was there. He took a mighty swing at her. But then stopped as her sword entered his stomach. The warhammer dropped with a thud.

"Khaine!" she shrieked victoriously. She yanked her sword out hard. Nathasius collapsed, his eyes widening to the excrutiating pain ripped into him. One bloodied hand clutched his entrails as he lie on the courtyard dying. As his vision faded, he watched the Disciple of Khaine leave the courtyard, as if she was on a summer stroll. Sigmar would not save Altdorf.

Nothing would save Altdorf.

At least the pain had ceased.

Author's note: This event was inspired by a quest in Warhammer. I was tasked to kill this computer-controlled guy in a tower on my character, a Disciple of Khaine, which I did. As I was doing it, I was wondering about Nathasius (the guy I was tasked to kill) and what his perspective would be if some evil dark elf had come into the door intent on killing him. Unfortunately, the game's physics didn't allow me to kick him through a wall.

The Disciple of Khaine and the Warrior Priest are mirror classes for Destruction and Order factions in the game. They both are front line, melee/healer types with a few variations on the theme that make them unique. As such, you'll notice they both pray/invoke to their respective gods to help them during during the fight, they both have similar abilities and yet at the same time are opposites. Nathasius is good, the Disciple is evil. Sigmar is benevolent, Khaine, malevolent. Nathasius stands for justice and light, the disciple stands for death and darkness.

The Old Guitarist

I was rather impressed with the old guitarist I met the other day. He was at a bonfire in the park at night, playing some old Woodie Guthrie songs. It was just him and his guitar, the melodies drifted into the soft cool night, a perfect blend of human voice and guitar string.

He was selling tapes. But no CD's. Nothing digital. Being 2008, I was shocked to see that. I wasn't even sure if cassette decks still existed in stores anywhere.

I told him he should burn his music onto a CD.

He asked me why he'd want to burn a CD? He asked me, is it better than firewood?

I looked at him odd. I then explained to him that burning a CD is the act of putting music onto one.

He nodded as if he understood. I handed him a blank CD and was about to tell him how it worked, but suddenly, he threw the disk into the fire. He pulled out his guitar and started singing into the fire.

Maidenform

You'd think I'd be embarrassed by working at a store like Maidenform and being a guy, but it was the only job available in town and I have college bills. It actually isn't so bad, I run the counter and stock the shelves. They obviously don't let me in the changing rooms. If a girl needs to try something on, there's another female employee around to help out.

So one day I'm behind the counter bored as hell. I'd listen to my iPod but the manager's a bit of prick and doesn't allow such amenities, even though it's a Thursday morning and there hasn't been a customer in thirty minutes. She was out back busy with paperwork. The door chimed and a large fat man came in. He wore a plain black tee-shirt and jeans. Paul Bunyan could have poked three holes in him and used him as a bowling ball. He went over to the racks where the large bras were. Not the Pamela Anderson large, but the fat opera singer large. He picked out several bras, some of them pink and frilly and then came up to me at the counter.

"Those for the wife?" I asked genially, making small talk.
"No," he said in all seriousness and without an ounce of shame, "I'd like to try these on."
I paused.
"Fitting rooms are behind the um . . . what?"
"I'd like to try these on."
"Behind the racks over there," I pointed. I wanted to laugh or cry but couldn't.
"I'd like your assistance," he said.
I no longer wanted to laugh. Just cry.
"It's uh, against policy for uh, male employees to go into the fitting rooms. Yeah, policy."
"Oh cut that out," the man replied. "You made that up."
"Look man, I wouldn't know how to put on a bra! Take one off, yeah sure, but . . . why me?"
"I just need someone who can see that they'll fit."
"I uh . . . there are mirrors."
"But I need to know how they look."
"How they look . . . not to be mean but . . . you're a guy . . . in a bra. . . Shannon?"
The manager came out.
"Whats the problem?" she asked.
"This gentlemen would like to try on some bras, but needs assistance."
"Look in the policies, only members of the same sex can share stalls, you go with him."

This job sucks.

The Five Pointed Condom

"Holy crap!" Jeff cried out, pointing to a pile of latex that sat on the counter. "Look at that there condom! Man, I didn't know a feller could come equiped like that! You could do five girls simultaneously! Five! Holy Jesus, havin' five peckers!"
"Uh that's a latex glove . . ." I muttered.
Jeff was silent a moment.
"Oh. Well shoot."

***********

I was headed down the street when I ran into Sarah.
"Hi! You missed me at the supermarket!" she gushed.
"Missed? More like, 'narrowly avoided'" I replied.
Somehow, that upset her.

***********

FAR 91.15 states that no pilot in command of a civil aircraft may drop an object from an aircraft in flight that can cause a hazard. However, this section does not prohibit the dropping of objects if reasonable precaution is taken to avoid injury or damage.

So I shouted "Look out below" from my Skyhawk before I dropped the toilet paper rolls.

That's a reasonable precaution.

Isn't it?

***********

"Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob and Ann! Don't eat my ham! Bob bob bob, Bob and Ann, don't take my ham!" He was singing.

"Those aren't the words!" I said.

Brian Wilson rolled in his grave.

And he isn't even dead yet.