Don’t get caught. The best advice an old thief can give, and the old thieves are the ones to heed. It’s easy to say, less easy to do, especially when the guards are coming and the lock picks just aren’t working. It’s a time to consider whether this is a good life path. The door is very ornate, very imposing, and very solid. Wood may seem old fashioned, but when it’s centuries old oak it might as well be cast iron. Coupled with an unexpected state of the art lock it is impregnable to the opportunist thief.
A kick only results in a sore toe and a muffled swearword. Being found isn’t an option – this is not the time to get caught, that’s for sure. The windows on either side of the corridor are starting to look more tempting; falling twenty feet seems a better alternative than having my kidneys used as bongos.
The imposing pillars that line the corridor also provide a little cover for anyone trying to open the window. It’s a small comfort, but in this situation it’s better than nothing. The latch is, naturally, sealed shut, but it is less of an obstacle than the heavy wood of the uncooperative door.
The task is a fiddly one, but doable. The voices are getting closer, but obviously these guards are more easily fooled than some. Doubling back or hiding in a cupboard would seem amateur to an amateur, but in the right situation it can provide those few extra moments to evade capture.
The window finally opens with a noise that could be interpreted as a sigh of relief by those of a fanciful nature. The night air is cold but welcome, like a scent of freedom on the wind.
The drop is enough to give pause, but only for a moment. Whoever designed the gardens planted a shrubbery for this very purpose, or at least never considered a flower bed under the window a security risk. They were foolish, but they earn a quick murmur of gratitude.
Edging out through the window and onto the ledge is the easy part: closing the window again from outside is more difficult. Clearly the architect was less fond of criminals than the gardeners are. It’s necessary, another ruse to give a few moments before the escape route becomes clear to those in pursuit. All those moments add up, eventually equaling a successful getaway.
It’s impossible to close the window entirely. A rush job will have to do. So far these guards have not proven the most observant, and it might just be enough.
Decision: wait and hope they don’t notice the window is ajar, or risk them hearing the rustle of the greenery below? The chill breeze makes the decision – even the stupidest guard will have more trouble ignoring a draught.
At arms length hanging from the ledge the ground still seems a long way away, but it is too late to second guess. Footsteps which have been getting steadily closer for five minutes are now too close to ignore.
A deep breath, a reluctant unclasping of fingertips, and the deed is done. A bush doesn’t provide much cushioning, but it’s better than the cold hard ground. Bruises will have to be ignored for now, a stealthy creep through the shadows stands between me and freedom. The gardener has earned his thanks with an avenue of trees that provide excellent cover, and the outer walls are no barrier to one experienced in burglary.
A moment to brush off the leaves, and a thief becomes an ordinary citizen emerging from an alleyway into the light. Hiding in plain view is another trick the old thieves will teach the young. It’s one of the best ways of following their favourite piece of advice. What was that again? Don’t be afraid to ask – a proud thief is a dead thief in this city.
But always remember. It’s simple. Don’t get caught.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Challenge 12: How predictable can the iconoclast get?
"I think it's a stupid idea," says the boy with the 'Trainee' badge.
"Well, it's got to be someone." This is the woman with sunglasses, who's lounging on the stool.
"Hold on, I'm coming," says a voice from the main building somewhere.
The boy kicks the door to the back room open. "I can't believe you people do this!"
The green-haired man who's shelving in the 400s has emptied his shelf and wheels his trolley back to the issues desk, where he leaves it to join them in the back room. "It took me a while to get used to it too, but management orders, y'know? We really need the stocktake - look what a mess the place is!" He gestures at the ground floor. "It's even worse upstairs. The last two times the university let us close for long enough were both over Christmas, and I was away."
"The students start complaining if you close for no reason," the woman says. "So, who's it going to be? I'll arrange the people for next week."
The green-haired guy pulls up a swivel chair. "I still think Carter Brier. That kid has lost more books this month than everyone else all year."
"What about that woman, uh...you know, the old one. She's always doing the shelving wrong, you've had me redoing it."
"No," the man says sharply. "Not one of us."
The woman sighs. "Get on with it, please!"
"Next time, come when the rest of the staff are here. Particularly the Chief Librarian. We need to talk this through."
"Yeah, yeah...and then the place would be full of 'patrons'." She makes little quote marks with her hands when she says 'patrons'. "Well?"
"That book reviewer guy in the student magazine," says Trainee. "He puts his apostrophes in the wrong places."
"Oooh, yeah, him," says green-haired guy. "Can't stand those apostrophes."
"Does he come into the library, though? Do you know what he looks like?"
Trainee folds his arms. "Surely your people can deal with details like that!"
"Ha. We're not that sophisticated. C'mon, don't make this more complicated than it needs to be. Someone who'll be in here Monday, that's easiest. Who's on duty Monday evening?"
"Us, again," says the green-haired guy. "We'll stay down on the ground floor. There will be people shelving on floors two to six on Tuesday morning, and seven to twelve on Tuesday afternoon."
"I'd do all the work I could on the eight floor on Monday, then. You won't get a chance to be in there until you open again. They'll make you open up again as soon as they can, you know. Wouldn't be surprised if you only get two or three days."
"We got a week, last time!" protests the green-haired guy.
"Well, time's've changed. We do what we can."
"We may's well wait till Christmas, at that rate!"
"Can't make everyone put off their holidays. You said yourself, the place is a mess. Besides, can you afford another seven months?"
"It's got to be Brier, then. He's been in Monday nights. And his name came up last round, remember?"
"Shit, remind me never to lose a book," says the kid.
"Lost, damaged, late, ugh! It's disgusting. And he's been here for five years. If he treats his degree as carelessly as his books, we'll have to put up with him for another five."
The woman looks happier. "Right, and would he have any reason for the eighth floor?"
"Hold on..." he goes to the nearest computer and logs on. "I'm looking up his record now...hm, his books are more on the sixth."
"Oh, I think that can be managed. Let's have a look?" she studies his photo on the screen. "I'll make sure they check his ID first anyway. Don't want to kill off one of your well behaved patrons."
---------------------------------------------------------------
Word count: 639
The moral of the story is: read the prompt properly before you write anything. I may be coming back to this later :P
"Well, it's got to be someone." This is the woman with sunglasses, who's lounging on the stool.
"Hold on, I'm coming," says a voice from the main building somewhere.
The boy kicks the door to the back room open. "I can't believe you people do this!"
The green-haired man who's shelving in the 400s has emptied his shelf and wheels his trolley back to the issues desk, where he leaves it to join them in the back room. "It took me a while to get used to it too, but management orders, y'know? We really need the stocktake - look what a mess the place is!" He gestures at the ground floor. "It's even worse upstairs. The last two times the university let us close for long enough were both over Christmas, and I was away."
"The students start complaining if you close for no reason," the woman says. "So, who's it going to be? I'll arrange the people for next week."
The green-haired guy pulls up a swivel chair. "I still think Carter Brier. That kid has lost more books this month than everyone else all year."
"What about that woman, uh...you know, the old one. She's always doing the shelving wrong, you've had me redoing it."
"No," the man says sharply. "Not one of us."
The woman sighs. "Get on with it, please!"
"Next time, come when the rest of the staff are here. Particularly the Chief Librarian. We need to talk this through."
"Yeah, yeah...and then the place would be full of 'patrons'." She makes little quote marks with her hands when she says 'patrons'. "Well?"
"That book reviewer guy in the student magazine," says Trainee. "He puts his apostrophes in the wrong places."
"Oooh, yeah, him," says green-haired guy. "Can't stand those apostrophes."
"Does he come into the library, though? Do you know what he looks like?"
Trainee folds his arms. "Surely your people can deal with details like that!"
"Ha. We're not that sophisticated. C'mon, don't make this more complicated than it needs to be. Someone who'll be in here Monday, that's easiest. Who's on duty Monday evening?"
"Us, again," says the green-haired guy. "We'll stay down on the ground floor. There will be people shelving on floors two to six on Tuesday morning, and seven to twelve on Tuesday afternoon."
"I'd do all the work I could on the eight floor on Monday, then. You won't get a chance to be in there until you open again. They'll make you open up again as soon as they can, you know. Wouldn't be surprised if you only get two or three days."
"We got a week, last time!" protests the green-haired guy.
"Well, time's've changed. We do what we can."
"We may's well wait till Christmas, at that rate!"
"Can't make everyone put off their holidays. You said yourself, the place is a mess. Besides, can you afford another seven months?"
"It's got to be Brier, then. He's been in Monday nights. And his name came up last round, remember?"
"Shit, remind me never to lose a book," says the kid.
"Lost, damaged, late, ugh! It's disgusting. And he's been here for five years. If he treats his degree as carelessly as his books, we'll have to put up with him for another five."
The woman looks happier. "Right, and would he have any reason for the eighth floor?"
"Hold on..." he goes to the nearest computer and logs on. "I'm looking up his record now...hm, his books are more on the sixth."
"Oh, I think that can be managed. Let's have a look?" she studies his photo on the screen. "I'll make sure they check his ID first anyway. Don't want to kill off one of your well behaved patrons."
---------------------------------------------------------------
Word count: 639
The moral of the story is: read the prompt properly before you write anything. I may be coming back to this later :P
Challenge 12
Gather together three or four ordinary people. Let them meet in a businesslike environment—a conference room, a grade-school classroom after school hours, a hotel room that is part of a suite so the bed is out of sight. These three or four people are going to decide to put someone to death. They are not government officials, rogue CIA agents, Mafia lieutenants—they're just plain folks. And the person they choose to execute is also a run-of-the-mill person just like them, except he is slated for death. Stay in this room. Don't follow through on the death sentence. Simply watch the group decide who needs to die and why. Choosing the victim is going to be hard. Keeping the group from simply going after someone who has angered them or cut them off in line or slept with their spouse—that is going to be your problem. This group of executioners should know one another but not terribly well. Don't tell us why or how they've chosen to do this; just accept the situation and try to let them accept it, too. POV—the executioners', as well as the intended victim's in a sense--will matter a great deal. One POV will predominate. You probably want to tell this scene from a dramatic perspective, allowing only spoken words to come out (don't show the executioners' thoughts)
Wordcount: 700 (+/- 10%)
Wordcount: 700 (+/- 10%)
Challenge 2: dirty babies
Wake up nauseous in the night and find blood in your panties, just a little. Go back to sleep, dream about dirty babies. Pull on your favourite skirt and take a panadol, go about the day as though everything is normal. Think everything is normal. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew.
Watch the dirty babies at the park and in the prams. Hitch up your favourite skirt and splash in a big puddle when you’re sure no one’s watching. Skip class to tell Emma all about Axel, and Jessica all about Emma, and Karen all about Jessica… and Axel all about you. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew.
Find blood in your panties, a little more. Wipe it away and take a panadol. Tell your mum you’re staying at Emma’s, tell Axel you dreamed about him. Dream about dirty babies.
Wake up nauseous and take two panadol. Try to go about the day as normal. Hope everything is normal. Pull on your favourite shirt and leave the top button undone, just so. Skip class to babysit Karen’s dirty baby. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew. Tell Karen all about Axel, find Jessica when class is out. Tell Jessica all about Karen and how big her breasts are now.
Do up your top button and go home to get a panadol. Find blood in your panties, more. Tell your mum you have your period and take the packet of panadol. Watch her carefully, with her cigarette and her magazine and her beady eyes. Don’t look her in those eyes. Take a few tampon packets too, so she doesn’t know you haven’t used any in two months. Kick the puddle when you’re sure Mrs Yeates is watching. Look away from the dirty babies at the park and in the prams.
Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew faster. Find Axel. Don’t look him in the eye. Tell him you dreamed about him. Dream about dirty babies and blood. Squeeze into your favourite jeans and go to class where there are no dirty babies, try to go about the day as normal. Don’t look the teachers in the eye when their voices trill with sarcasm and they snark how lovely it is to have you back.
Find blood in your panties, lots. Skip class to sit in the lavatory and rock yourself, and eat panadol, and flush the lavatory so you don’t have to see what’s in it, and flush it again, and catch your breath like a knife in your throat, and use the strongest language you know when Emma pounds on the door. Let her in. Shake, but don’t sob, and don’t look her in the eye. Let her sit with you, and rock you, and then let her find Jessica and let Jessica find Karen. Let Karen take you to her doctor.
Half listen to the doctor as the words roll out. Be dejected as he pokes you in your belly, resent him as he asks you gently to unzip your jeans. Want Axel. Feel sick as he inspects parts of you that you never wanted to show him. Do up your top button and go home.
Watch Karen’s dirty baby gurgle and her breasts grow. Jump in the puddle when you’re sure Mrs. Yeates is watching. Buy tampons. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew. Find Axel. Don’t look him in the eye.
Wordcount: 587! OMG
Watch the dirty babies at the park and in the prams. Hitch up your favourite skirt and splash in a big puddle when you’re sure no one’s watching. Skip class to tell Emma all about Axel, and Jessica all about Emma, and Karen all about Jessica… and Axel all about you. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew.
Find blood in your panties, a little more. Wipe it away and take a panadol. Tell your mum you’re staying at Emma’s, tell Axel you dreamed about him. Dream about dirty babies.
Wake up nauseous and take two panadol. Try to go about the day as normal. Hope everything is normal. Pull on your favourite shirt and leave the top button undone, just so. Skip class to babysit Karen’s dirty baby. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew. Tell Karen all about Axel, find Jessica when class is out. Tell Jessica all about Karen and how big her breasts are now.
Do up your top button and go home to get a panadol. Find blood in your panties, more. Tell your mum you have your period and take the packet of panadol. Watch her carefully, with her cigarette and her magazine and her beady eyes. Don’t look her in those eyes. Take a few tampon packets too, so she doesn’t know you haven’t used any in two months. Kick the puddle when you’re sure Mrs Yeates is watching. Look away from the dirty babies at the park and in the prams.
Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew faster. Find Axel. Don’t look him in the eye. Tell him you dreamed about him. Dream about dirty babies and blood. Squeeze into your favourite jeans and go to class where there are no dirty babies, try to go about the day as normal. Don’t look the teachers in the eye when their voices trill with sarcasm and they snark how lovely it is to have you back.
Find blood in your panties, lots. Skip class to sit in the lavatory and rock yourself, and eat panadol, and flush the lavatory so you don’t have to see what’s in it, and flush it again, and catch your breath like a knife in your throat, and use the strongest language you know when Emma pounds on the door. Let her in. Shake, but don’t sob, and don’t look her in the eye. Let her sit with you, and rock you, and then let her find Jessica and let Jessica find Karen. Let Karen take you to her doctor.
Half listen to the doctor as the words roll out. Be dejected as he pokes you in your belly, resent him as he asks you gently to unzip your jeans. Want Axel. Feel sick as he inspects parts of you that you never wanted to show him. Do up your top button and go home.
Watch Karen’s dirty baby gurgle and her breasts grow. Jump in the puddle when you’re sure Mrs. Yeates is watching. Buy tampons. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew. Find Axel. Don’t look him in the eye.
Wordcount: 587! OMG
Monday, February 1, 2010
Challenge 11: Fin's world
The evacuation started around midafternoon. Cowie took me with her to their little hideout - an open alleyway between tall brick houses, which was blocked up by detritus on either end. Bits of wood, a rotting garbage heap, a dead dog and piles of sacking. She was most worried about her man, who still wasn't back. "We're good here," she told me. "They're all caught up in their own business."
"What about Fin though?"
She acknowledged that this was a problem.
They'd had an argument the night before. She thought he wasn't there enough for the boys. He thought the boys wouldn't have anything to eat if it weren't for him. The boys - Et and Ley - and I sat aside in the bedroom while they argued. "They want Ley to get married," Et told me, "but he doesn't even get to go out and work, so I dunno what he'd do with a woman."
Ley said, "It's only Cowie. Since when does Fin care? He'd take me to work if he could."
"We'll never agree," sighed Cowie as we lazed in the corner furthest from the dog. "Fin's such a linear, practical view of the world. Work, marry, children. I want them to grow up in an exciting world!"
"It seems pretty exciting to me," I said wryly.
"But Fin doesn't see it that way! This is my point. His world is just there to be dealt with. He sees a difficulty, he deals with it. Ack, this is not like him." She climbed onto the sacks - not clambering, although she should’ve been. She just climbed right up no problems, peered over. "He sees a difficulty, he should turn up. We're gonna miss the evac, is what. Oi, boys."
Ley put aside the wind-up clock he'd been playing with. "We going?"
"No sign o’ Fin yet."
"We've only been here seven minutes, sheh!"
Minutes don’t mean much here, and I’d never heard any of them asking the time before. Cowie sat next to me again, wrinkling her nose as she moved aside a bit of soggy newspaper. "I want them to experience everything. To enjoy it. To absorb it. To see it through different eyes every day!"
I wasn't sure what to think of this, because Cowie didn’t have a job, and given that attitude in this place, if it weren't for Fin she probably wouldn't have anything to eat either.
Ley and Et started to hit one another. Nothing major – Cowie just ignored it. “Their names are short for Finley and Finnet. I was hoping they’d look just like him.”
“Well, that’s not so exciting, you’ve already got Fin,” I pointed out. “Didn’t you want your boys to be something different?”
Cowie didn’t answer this. “How long’s it been?”
“Eight minutes. We really have to wait in here?”
“No, I want you boys to go down to the ‘port. Me’n Fin will come when he gets back.”
Ley puts his clock in his pocket. “Ya sure?”
I know just as well as Cowie does that they won’t go down to the ‘port. They’ll go uptown where Fin works – it’s a couple of kilometres from here – and try to find him.
“No...you boys stay here and I’m’na look for Fin. You can come if you like,” she added to me. “But, Cowie,” protests Et. “What if neither of you’n Fin come back?”
“Well...you got that clock. Give it...uh...an hour. Give it an hour, ‘n if neither of us back you should go for the evac.”
I didn't know how far away the 'port was, but Cowie didn't know what an hour was. In our mutual ignorance, we left the boys behind and climbed – well, she climbed and I clambered – out of the alley. The city was dead quiet, apart from occasional yells where someone was still home. We had to duck out of the way a couple times to make sure we weren’t spotted. “I wonder if Fin’s gone to the port without us.”
“Leave the boys behind?”
“He’d take them to work if he could!”
I shut up then, because it was cold and she was upset. We went along like that for a while. And that’s how I ended up being with Cowie when she got to where Fin worked and found all of his stuff, scattered around. All the furniture upside-down. “They must’ve come through here already...”
“Hey Cowie, we’d better head back to the boys,” I say, grabbing her arm. I don’t know what it means, and here I was thinking the walls were holding during the evac, but Cowie’s shaking and sits down on the underside of the upside-down table, staring around like she can’t see anything. I’ve never been here, but I recognise Fin’s favourite pin-cushion with the stuffing coming out. “He’s got it too...my Fin!”
"What about Fin though?"
She acknowledged that this was a problem.
They'd had an argument the night before. She thought he wasn't there enough for the boys. He thought the boys wouldn't have anything to eat if it weren't for him. The boys - Et and Ley - and I sat aside in the bedroom while they argued. "They want Ley to get married," Et told me, "but he doesn't even get to go out and work, so I dunno what he'd do with a woman."
Ley said, "It's only Cowie. Since when does Fin care? He'd take me to work if he could."
"We'll never agree," sighed Cowie as we lazed in the corner furthest from the dog. "Fin's such a linear, practical view of the world. Work, marry, children. I want them to grow up in an exciting world!"
"It seems pretty exciting to me," I said wryly.
"But Fin doesn't see it that way! This is my point. His world is just there to be dealt with. He sees a difficulty, he deals with it. Ack, this is not like him." She climbed onto the sacks - not clambering, although she should’ve been. She just climbed right up no problems, peered over. "He sees a difficulty, he should turn up. We're gonna miss the evac, is what. Oi, boys."
Ley put aside the wind-up clock he'd been playing with. "We going?"
"No sign o’ Fin yet."
"We've only been here seven minutes, sheh!"
Minutes don’t mean much here, and I’d never heard any of them asking the time before. Cowie sat next to me again, wrinkling her nose as she moved aside a bit of soggy newspaper. "I want them to experience everything. To enjoy it. To absorb it. To see it through different eyes every day!"
I wasn't sure what to think of this, because Cowie didn’t have a job, and given that attitude in this place, if it weren't for Fin she probably wouldn't have anything to eat either.
Ley and Et started to hit one another. Nothing major – Cowie just ignored it. “Their names are short for Finley and Finnet. I was hoping they’d look just like him.”
“Well, that’s not so exciting, you’ve already got Fin,” I pointed out. “Didn’t you want your boys to be something different?”
Cowie didn’t answer this. “How long’s it been?”
“Eight minutes. We really have to wait in here?”
“No, I want you boys to go down to the ‘port. Me’n Fin will come when he gets back.”
Ley puts his clock in his pocket. “Ya sure?”
I know just as well as Cowie does that they won’t go down to the ‘port. They’ll go uptown where Fin works – it’s a couple of kilometres from here – and try to find him.
“No...you boys stay here and I’m’na look for Fin. You can come if you like,” she added to me. “But, Cowie,” protests Et. “What if neither of you’n Fin come back?”
“Well...you got that clock. Give it...uh...an hour. Give it an hour, ‘n if neither of us back you should go for the evac.”
I didn't know how far away the 'port was, but Cowie didn't know what an hour was. In our mutual ignorance, we left the boys behind and climbed – well, she climbed and I clambered – out of the alley. The city was dead quiet, apart from occasional yells where someone was still home. We had to duck out of the way a couple times to make sure we weren’t spotted. “I wonder if Fin’s gone to the port without us.”
“Leave the boys behind?”
“He’d take them to work if he could!”
I shut up then, because it was cold and she was upset. We went along like that for a while. And that’s how I ended up being with Cowie when she got to where Fin worked and found all of his stuff, scattered around. All the furniture upside-down. “They must’ve come through here already...”
“Hey Cowie, we’d better head back to the boys,” I say, grabbing her arm. I don’t know what it means, and here I was thinking the walls were holding during the evac, but Cowie’s shaking and sits down on the underside of the upside-down table, staring around like she can’t see anything. I’ve never been here, but I recognise Fin’s favourite pin-cushion with the stuffing coming out. “He’s got it too...my Fin!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Word count: 805
Challenge 1: Paramour
“Lucas”, he laughed, “you are what the sun will always sing.”
A moment ago, el sol sat in the sky wearing his purple wedding dress, the one with the orange vale. He doesn’t know that the aisle he walks goes around and around, or that he’ll be back here in a day. Timeless waiting takes timeless patience and often, in frustration, he burns with anger, or hides and sobs. But still he walks.
El sol is not the only ignorant. Long ago, nobody realised the earth was a sphere.
Now, las estrellas are beginning to arrive. Too late to hem their lover’s fiery dress with silver lace, or to set his bright blue hair glancing with gemstones; still, timelessly, they seek a trysting place.
The street is hushed, expectant. A young woman saunters into the lamplight, she drags a giggling man. He pulls her against him and tilts her neck to bite collarbone and now she is giggling, he arrect, they trace their shadows around a corner.
“Lucas”, he assured, “you know I will be there.”
Waiting like el sol is enduring and empty. But expecting is urgent and full of him. Full of his moonlike features, his gaunt and silvered bone-hollows. Full of his shadowed breath and the way he cuts the universe in half with his eyes. Full of his bold thrill.
The streetlamps know he is coming and flicker their mockery.
“Lucas”, he insisted, “their slurs, their spit, they don’t matter. Always remember to leave them behind.”
The wind knows he is coming and hisses its disapproval – para-hhaha-mour, para-hhaha-mour.
In this way I am the luckiest man in the universe, luckier than a sunbeam: he will keep his tryst. He is coming.
There are moths under this lamp and they know he is coming before he is here. They scatter sideways. I scatter at the sideways scowls of moths who have never before seen two men in a lover’s embrace.
With full, insistent lips he kisses collarbone.
“Lucas,” he craves, “it’s no different, it’s no more shocking. Long ago nobody realised the earth was a sphere.”
wordcount: 348
A moment ago, el sol sat in the sky wearing his purple wedding dress, the one with the orange vale. He doesn’t know that the aisle he walks goes around and around, or that he’ll be back here in a day. Timeless waiting takes timeless patience and often, in frustration, he burns with anger, or hides and sobs. But still he walks.
El sol is not the only ignorant. Long ago, nobody realised the earth was a sphere.
Now, las estrellas are beginning to arrive. Too late to hem their lover’s fiery dress with silver lace, or to set his bright blue hair glancing with gemstones; still, timelessly, they seek a trysting place.
The street is hushed, expectant. A young woman saunters into the lamplight, she drags a giggling man. He pulls her against him and tilts her neck to bite collarbone and now she is giggling, he arrect, they trace their shadows around a corner.
“Lucas”, he assured, “you know I will be there.”
Waiting like el sol is enduring and empty. But expecting is urgent and full of him. Full of his moonlike features, his gaunt and silvered bone-hollows. Full of his shadowed breath and the way he cuts the universe in half with his eyes. Full of his bold thrill.
The streetlamps know he is coming and flicker their mockery.
“Lucas”, he insisted, “their slurs, their spit, they don’t matter. Always remember to leave them behind.”
The wind knows he is coming and hisses its disapproval – para-hhaha-mour, para-hhaha-mour.
In this way I am the luckiest man in the universe, luckier than a sunbeam: he will keep his tryst. He is coming.
There are moths under this lamp and they know he is coming before he is here. They scatter sideways. I scatter at the sideways scowls of moths who have never before seen two men in a lover’s embrace.
With full, insistent lips he kisses collarbone.
“Lucas,” he craves, “it’s no different, it’s no more shocking. Long ago nobody realised the earth was a sphere.”
wordcount: 348
Challenge 11: My Mistress' Secret
My mistress is not sleeping well. Many nights, she murmurs, rustling sheets and beads of sweat on her brow. Sometimes, she wakes with a cry, eyes wide, heart pounding like a skittish gazelle.
This morning, she emerges from her bedroom, dressed in loosely fitting robes that only emphasize how thin she has become. She puts on her best ‘normal’ face and sips her tea, leafing through the mail. She has a visitor, Emily, and before going into the lounge, she checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror, hating the face she sees there.
I arrange the platters of fruit and cheese just so, while Emily waits, long red nails tapping on the glass topped table. There are tattoos all over her skin, dark and twisting, like vines with thorns. My lady emerges, cheeks flushed, muttering to herself beneath her breath. We are all used to the way she does this and think nothing of it, mostly.
“Sister,” Emily says, rising to embrace my mistress. They are not blood sisters, but they share one tattoo in common, a serpent encircling the sun. Emily’s is on the back of her hand. She is not afraid to show who she is. My lady’s is more disguised. It sits at the base of her spine, a place only a maid or a lover would see.
My mistress smiles, kissing Emily’s cheek. “Welcome, sister. You have news?”
“I do,” she glances at me and my lady dismisses me at once. I bow and take my leave.
The girls huddle in the kitchenette, swapping rumours. Jenifer kneads bread for our lady’s evening bread, whispering, “Emily is an assassin. She tattoos a thorn for every kill.”
Diedra is preserving fruit from our lady’s garden. “Her Holiness would not allow a servant of the Dark God into her home.”
Our mistress is a priestess. I am her student. I listen to their theories and let my mind wander. One thing my mistress does not know about my abilities – I can project my vision.
“I will confirm my suspicions tonight,” Emily says.
“And if you are right…” my lady takes a slow sip of her tea. “You know what you must do.”
“Of course,” Emily stands, kissing the silver ring on my mistress’ finger.
The day passes slowly. My mistress spends much of it in meditation. She prays more fervently than ever and the voice in her head will not give her peace. She mutters over and over, fighting with herself in the privacy of her cloister.
There is soup for dinner tonight, caught by our island’s own fishermen. My mistress does not emerge to join us. We pray for her, and Emily, whatever she may be.
Night and sleeping, screams in the distance, though too faint to wake any of the girls. I am just sensitive. I am gifted. The shutter in the hall bangs in the wind, almost masking the sound of feet, whispering over marble tiles. Ghostly eyes without a body, I watch as Emily slips through the shadows into my lady’s room. She has spatters of blood on her skin and her white, knee length dress is torn. She puts her bloodies knives down on the bedside table and wakes my lady with a kiss. Eyes flutter open and the words, “It is done,” echo faintly.
My lady arises and stares for a moment out the window, her eyes full of conflict. Then she guides Emily into the adjoining bathroom and strips off the torn dress, sponging away the dirt and blood with her own hands. In return, Emily slips the thin straps of my lady’s dress off her shoulders, helping the silk slip to the floor. They embrace and kiss, tenderly at first, then with more and more violence as recollections of their guilt overtake. Somehow, they make it to the bed again, a mess of hands and passion and groans of frustrated pleasure. I feel a heat in me, wishing, perhaps, that I could be a part of their world.
Eventually, there is nothing left in them and Emily falls asleep. It is only then, that my lady lets the tears flow. It is her secret self who grieves for fallen friends and a cruel betrayal. I know this side of her, this woman, trapped inside the body of a tyrant. She looks at the naked woman beside her, face cringing in disgust. She arises and goes to the window, watching for the dawn. She lifts one of Emily’s knives and positions it over her breast, hands trembling at the thought of driving it home. But then my lady returns to her senses, voice harsh as she says, “Keep your hands to yourself, you bitch.”
Wordcount: 782
This morning, she emerges from her bedroom, dressed in loosely fitting robes that only emphasize how thin she has become. She puts on her best ‘normal’ face and sips her tea, leafing through the mail. She has a visitor, Emily, and before going into the lounge, she checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror, hating the face she sees there.
I arrange the platters of fruit and cheese just so, while Emily waits, long red nails tapping on the glass topped table. There are tattoos all over her skin, dark and twisting, like vines with thorns. My lady emerges, cheeks flushed, muttering to herself beneath her breath. We are all used to the way she does this and think nothing of it, mostly.
“Sister,” Emily says, rising to embrace my mistress. They are not blood sisters, but they share one tattoo in common, a serpent encircling the sun. Emily’s is on the back of her hand. She is not afraid to show who she is. My lady’s is more disguised. It sits at the base of her spine, a place only a maid or a lover would see.
My mistress smiles, kissing Emily’s cheek. “Welcome, sister. You have news?”
“I do,” she glances at me and my lady dismisses me at once. I bow and take my leave.
The girls huddle in the kitchenette, swapping rumours. Jenifer kneads bread for our lady’s evening bread, whispering, “Emily is an assassin. She tattoos a thorn for every kill.”
Diedra is preserving fruit from our lady’s garden. “Her Holiness would not allow a servant of the Dark God into her home.”
Our mistress is a priestess. I am her student. I listen to their theories and let my mind wander. One thing my mistress does not know about my abilities – I can project my vision.
“I will confirm my suspicions tonight,” Emily says.
“And if you are right…” my lady takes a slow sip of her tea. “You know what you must do.”
“Of course,” Emily stands, kissing the silver ring on my mistress’ finger.
The day passes slowly. My mistress spends much of it in meditation. She prays more fervently than ever and the voice in her head will not give her peace. She mutters over and over, fighting with herself in the privacy of her cloister.
There is soup for dinner tonight, caught by our island’s own fishermen. My mistress does not emerge to join us. We pray for her, and Emily, whatever she may be.
Night and sleeping, screams in the distance, though too faint to wake any of the girls. I am just sensitive. I am gifted. The shutter in the hall bangs in the wind, almost masking the sound of feet, whispering over marble tiles. Ghostly eyes without a body, I watch as Emily slips through the shadows into my lady’s room. She has spatters of blood on her skin and her white, knee length dress is torn. She puts her bloodies knives down on the bedside table and wakes my lady with a kiss. Eyes flutter open and the words, “It is done,” echo faintly.
My lady arises and stares for a moment out the window, her eyes full of conflict. Then she guides Emily into the adjoining bathroom and strips off the torn dress, sponging away the dirt and blood with her own hands. In return, Emily slips the thin straps of my lady’s dress off her shoulders, helping the silk slip to the floor. They embrace and kiss, tenderly at first, then with more and more violence as recollections of their guilt overtake. Somehow, they make it to the bed again, a mess of hands and passion and groans of frustrated pleasure. I feel a heat in me, wishing, perhaps, that I could be a part of their world.
Eventually, there is nothing left in them and Emily falls asleep. It is only then, that my lady lets the tears flow. It is her secret self who grieves for fallen friends and a cruel betrayal. I know this side of her, this woman, trapped inside the body of a tyrant. She looks at the naked woman beside her, face cringing in disgust. She arises and goes to the window, watching for the dawn. She lifts one of Emily’s knives and positions it over her breast, hands trembling at the thought of driving it home. But then my lady returns to her senses, voice harsh as she says, “Keep your hands to yourself, you bitch.”
Wordcount: 782
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)