"Let's Get This Over WIth"

"Let's get this over with," Grief said quietly, her wings folded and her face set. Wrath, who was already at the door, nodded. He was under control but more than ready for action. Hatred and Love stood side by side, calmly awaiting what was to come. The final battle was upon them.

"Go," Hatred said simply.

Wrath kicked down the door with one blow, and was through it in a flash of red. Grief whipped through the doorway and disappeared into the shadows.  The Others had hardly had time to react when Hatred stepped over the broken door.

"So you have come at last," said the tall figure within. He resembled Hatred in many ways, but his face was contorted with malice. Around his neck hung a tarnished medallion, scarred and beaten as its owner. He destroyed and marred all that was shining and unbroken.

In the smoke around him three more entities stood. Once they had all been more than friends, but that was long ago. The rift changed many things.

With a roar and a howl, Rage and Despair were heard suddenly from the dark rafters above. Wrath and love intercepted them, while Hatred charged upon Hatred. The battle was joined once more, and only the dawn will find the victors.

Movement, Epilogue (#2)

When the water dried up, the city slowly, slowly ground to a halt. For a time the boiler worked with the slowed flow of water, but it worked at half capacity. The trains ran, but at painstakingly slow speeds. The clocks themselves ticked out long minutes. Some refused to pay their employees full wages, citing the city clocktower, and the lessened productions of the machines they ran. The first people to leave were only a handful, the ones who had been on the edge of bankruptcy already. Others tried to stay longer, to find where the river was blocked, or just to wait and see if it would run again. Time stood sill, and the rate of exitus grew by the uncounted hours. Random belongings of those who had left were strewn in the street, not worth heir weight in the long miles they knew were ahead. Few of the airship captains would allow anyone on board, save for an outrageous sum. One or too filled their holds with the hungry and the sick; the others filled theirs with the rich, packed amid cargoes of brass and coal.

The subterranean river had always flowed freely in the past, but the networks had never been mapped and they were not well understood. One would need a submarine, lights, enough coal and food to last for days. A compass to map by, and a master cartographer to wield the pen. The abandoned city was rich in materials, there was much that was not worth bringing away. The coal stacks were full, there were brass and iron aplenty in the silent refineries. But of men, there were few indeed with the courage for such a mission. And no such vehicle existed that could map the waterways.

The mayor of the city was a good man, and a strong one in its hour of peril, but there was no true solution to the dilemma of the river. He spoke with the greatest inventors, adventurers, map makers, and few words of hope were spoken. One man had been all three of these in his life, and he alone laid out a plan of acion, and blueprints of a strange machine. It would walk on the very bottom of the river, its hull would be smoothed like an airship so the waters of the river would flow around it and not hinder. His machine was far from finished, and it would take him six years, he said, to finish it. Then the true task would begin.

Movement

Not a breath of vapor rose from the smokestacks, not a single train moved along the glistening tracks. A silence and a stillness blanketed it all, and was more jarring than the noise and heat of the city had ever been. A tall man strode through the streets, the only movement in the metropolis.

All the Movements of the city were powered by a single boiler that stood in the center of the bronze, urban web. It was massive and ugly, ancient and beautiful in its own way. For what is more beautiful than something serving its true purpose?

The man checked his pocketwatch, and hurried on. The movement of this city had been still for too long, and it galled him like a stopped watch does an old watchmaker. He longs to see it move again, and count the hours with its patient hands.

When the water dried up, the city ground to a halt. It is an old, old story. Coal and water, water and coal; the twin pillars of the city gate were etched with those words. One without the other was mere heat, mere moisture, but combined, they were power.

He approached the center of the city at last, and a glad sound met his ears. He bent to the pavement and out hit ear to it to be sure. A rushing a bubbling of water, far below him in the subterranean river on which the city had been founded, again ran free.

The creases around his eyes deepened at the sound, but he was back on his feet in a moment, and moved with renewed strength.

The city would live once more.

I Wasn't Going To Say Anything

I wasn't going to say anything. I know, I know, I should I guess. Just one of those little things that happens. Maybe the letter wasn't important. Probably not.

The girl got up and just left it sitting there. She'd been reading it pretty attentively, so it must be something out of the ordinary. There are things like that.

She hadn't cried over it; at least, not obviously. Maybe she'd left it there on purpose?

Theoretically there was still time to catch up and give it to her. I could still see her bluish jacket moving towards the train station. It'll be awkward I suppose, giving it to her. It's not like I know her.

I walked over to the bench and looked at the envelope. A corner of something was sticking out a little bit. Oh, well then. The thing was mostly full of money.

Finders keeper's, eh? It might not be much, but I could use it. Haven't had a job in a year and a half. It doesn't depress me too much now, I've gotten over it. I just have to keep an eye out for ways to make money, keep my hand in the game, as it were.

And if this isn't a way to make money... what is? Well, technically I'm not earning it, just getting lucky.

That girl had kind of a nice coat though, and I liked the way she walked. Not because she was leaving behind an unknown sum, either. Let me count it.

One, two three, four, five, six... Twelve hundred? That's a good month's rent where I come from. Losing something like that... That could put a person on the street.

I glanced around, looking around for that blue jacket. Yep, she's still there, walking down the hill to the train.

Hmm, what should I do? Well, taken literally, I know what I should do I suppose. Fine.

I loped off down the hill, I could feel every irregularity in the sidewalk through the thin soles of my shoes. I haven't run like this in a dogs age, and that was under different circumstances.

I didn't yell to her, I was sure I'd catch up now. I just walked up to her, thrust the envelope towards her, and said "Merry Christmas."

I knew it would be awkward. It's July.

Her face went through about five emotions in as many seconds. Then she gave me a smile like I haven't gotten since that old guy mistook me for his dog in the dark.

Pssh, and I wasn't going to say anything.

(Dedicated to Caleb for some reason.)

The End Came

"I missed the end of the world."

The man spoke aloud, though there was no one to hear his words. He had only stepped a few yards from where his small plane had touched down, a remarkably smooth landing. The red and white plane was painted with pink and orange by the rising sun. There was still a chill in the air, and the young pilot's breath was colored white. His back was to the sunrise, and his face lay in shadow.

He stood in the smoking ruins of a once great city. The runway was clear until the very end, where aircraft of various sizes lay in blackened heaps. The tower had fallen, the terminal had collapsed, the remains of its glass roof sparkled in the waxing light of dawn. But over both of these he could see his entire city devastated. The proud skyline was rent and torn, buildings bent and fallen, like the teeth of an old, broken man. A bluish smoke curled up here and there, and dust obscured the streets.

He had flown over it on his way in, he needed to see no more. There was nothing left.

He pulled out a cigarette, and cupped one gloved hand around it as his match flared. For a moment it revealed the numb, cold look on the mans face, then he shook it out and carefully put in his his shirt pocket.

Commitment, Epilogue (#1)

(Original, read first)

She was a rather queer old woman, my grandmother, though it wasn't obvious at first glance. She did all the normal old lady things; gardening, knitting, cooking a bit, complaining about her back. Not much reminiscing over old times, perhaps that's what made her seem a little off. That and the fact that no one quite knew how old she was. Little things like those add up.

Alone in my study, the oak paneling gleaming in the firelight, I returned my attention to the box. It wasn't locked, it never had been, but it was a puzzle box of an old variety. I have a wide range of knowledge, most of it outdated and much of it useless; nearly all of it interesting. I know how to open such boxes as this, a few seconds pushing and peering did the job.

She used to tell me old stories of far off lands. Not quite your average fairy tales of princes and princesses, trolls and witches, but all of those featured throughout. The quests were different, grimmer, the princes fought harder, and died as often as they lived. The trolls and witches were old beyond old, and wise in wicked ways. The princesses were beautiful in different ways. There was a strange air about those tales, my grandmother was quite the storyteller.

The box lid was a little stiff, or perhaps my hands were clumsy with anticipation, but when I slid off the lid I did it with a jerk, and one of the two small round things inside rolled out onto my desk. They were apparently perfect spheres; one a bronze-gold, and one a kind of platinum. I slowly moved to replace the gold ball in the box, but when I touched it I drew back my hand with almost a gasp. It was hot as fire.

I took my coat off the back of my chair, and lifted the ball off my desk using it as a kind of glove. As I replaced it, I noticed for the first time a slip of paper tucked in the corner.

To the boy who so enjoyed my stories. Perhaps these will bring you one more of which my lips can never tell.

Retirement

The grizzled old space marine shuffled to his chair and slumped into it. His muscles were somewhat atrophied from long periods of zero-grav. Memories, love lost, lasers; he'd led a full life. But he was somehow disappointed, as he surveyed his many medals and commendations that lined his walls. There was one missing, one that he had always planned on obtaining, but had never quite found the right opportunity. The Silver Nova, the medal given to those who had given their lives in battle. Those who gave it and those who expected to receive it always considered it a fair exchange. In many ways it was the ultimate achievement.

But he had fought so long and had never won it. He had lost battles, he had nearly lost his life a dozen times over, he had been captured, escaped, and regained his command. Somehow he always came out in one piece.

Restless, despite his white hairs, he rose from his seat and strode to the open window, the curtains billowed in the night breeze. He looked towards the stars, naming them in his mind, remembering the scars he had won among them. He looked at his old, bony hands that had wrought such destruction in their day. In one system the natives gave him a name that roughly translated to The Steady Hand Of Justice. They would call him something different now.

He had risen through the ranks like a devouring fire, accepting each offer of advancement with the single caveat that he must be kept in the field, on active duty. He'd often wondered why no one tried to assassinate him, he suspected his reputation in combat had something to do with it. Though there had been so many deaths among the higher staff lately... Someone would stop the killer soon, no doubt.

He slapped the handgun that he still kept always on his hip.

As he turned away from the window, there was a flicker of movement. The old marine saw it in one of the mirrors affixed the walls.

And then the assassin stepped onto the small balcony, and was silhouetted in the moonlight. The figure was reflected subtly in every medal and every plaque upon the walls.

The veterans eyes narrowed. To give his life, here was one more chance. But he must give it in combat, there was no honor in the death of cattle in the slaughterhouse.

With a movement like a fine clock his old right hand flew to his gun, he drew as he turned to face his assailant.

They were both found the next day. The marine shot in the solar plexus, and the assassin who would never kill again, drilled right between the eyes.

Waste

"What a waste," the tall girl said to herself quietly, with sadness lining her green eyes. It was a dim, gray day, and the wind was cold over the rolling hills. It whipped her dark blue dress around her, and she crossed her arms for warmth.

The other girl sat on the stone wall nearby, her eyes likewise red rimmed. The funeral had been touching, but their grief went deeper. Their childhood friend never should have enlisted in the space marines.

Explorer

He had always wanted to be an explorer. To discover new lands, new animals, new ways of thinking. To name new lands. Bernard's Break, Two-Finger River, the Last Ford. Aged maps of places both real and imagined covered his walls, many places scribbled in. A figure or a creature would be etched in here and there, reminiscent of the days when maps were edged with sea monsters and whirlpools.

As he grew older he realized just how much of the world had been explored. Satellites swing constantly overhead, scanning and imaging the world again and again in a ceaseless, mechanical dance. Every valley seemed to be named, new animals were merely a slightly new variation of fly, or an ape with an odd nose that no one had ever seen. The world was not wild enough a place to hold his names and his dreams.

He searched on, unsatisfied.

So the maps came off his walls, one by one. He found the real, mundane names these places had. Hoover Dam had blocked off his Rising River, Vaulted Valley was all but destroyed in a volcanic eruption before he was born.

Then he discovered the way into a new world, a shining world much like our own in the early days. The sky was bluer, the grass greener, the animals even more strange and varied. No island was named, no river mapped. It was his world, though he named it after his mother. And he lived happily ever after, the end.

Pressure

So I'm a genius. I know, I know, everyone says that. But for me it's true, I guess. Genius is a bit difficult to define. I like the WIkipedia definition of the IQ test, which sates that it "test a certain kind of intelligence." Whichever one it tests is the one that spills out my ears. Strange phrase I know, try and get past it.

But seriously the pressure. people don't understand what it's like. They think that it's easy to be a genius, to have everyone look at you and wonder what crazy calculations are spinning through your mind. Like my head is a giant abacus, with gray beads.

My head is more like a very clear mirror. Whatever it reflects (on) becomes very clear, sometimes clearer than you'd like.

And I can't stop it, I can't turn it off. I just think, on and on. And on. Sun up, to sun down, often to sun up again. Then I sleep and dream clever dreams.

it gets to you after awhile. I was much happier as a kid playing in the mud in my backyard. People knew what I was, and expected me to act accordingly. A dirty little dude. Now they see some shining paragon of brilliance, and expect me to live up to that. The sons of guns.

Now it would be different if everyone was a genius (even though that would still be horrible). Everyone would be smart enough to understand that other people had their off days, their problems, their handicaps. I'm horrible at chess. I got over it. Eventually.

I go for walks. Long walks. They kind of help, but not too much. I feel like I'm a computer with a broken fan, just whizzing on and on until I crash from overheating.

For the sake of honesty I'll admit that being a genius has its good points. They just escape me at the moment.

I could write a book. It'd probably be pretty good. I could try and get better at the piano, become famous if not rich. I could write songs, maybe have my own band. I could go into some marketing company and possibly reinvent the so called art. Or I could go into fine arts,m there I might be rich, but I could never live with myself. I'm too good a scammer to fail something that subjective.

Eh, I'll play some Halo.

Commitment

"I made a promise." the old man said flatly.

I looked him over. He was dressed in cheap old clothes, the shirt too big and the pants too short. He struck me as a flaky old geezer, more prone to lying for a buck than to keeping decades old promises. He might have kept that shirt for that long though. The beard must have been older.

He pulled a small bundle from his coat pocket, and carefully unwrapped the object within. It could have been anything, but somehow I suddenly knew what it was. My grandmother's box.

I never knew what was in it, no one did I think. It made a chinking sound, and was very heavy for it's small size, most people assumed the mundane explanation of gold, or even silver. Perhaps it was because I was young at the time, but I always felt it was something more. My grandmother kept it on the highest shelf, and I once caught her looking into it when I came quietly into the room. She snapped it shut, and all I saw was a glimmer of light. I wasn't able to make it too her funeral; too many miles and too few dollars. They said they never found her will, though I never quite believed that she would be so careless as to not write one. Apparently she had other plans.

The old man looked at the box with love, no, perhaps honor in his old, red eyes. I felt that this was his last scrap of integrity, the last wall within which his conscience still reigned. Now that his task was completed he could look back and know, that of all the mistakes of his long life, and the cold, the hunger of a seemingly useless man, he had done one thing and done it well.

I didn't know what to say to him. It seemed a shame to give him five bucks and never see him again.

"Would you like to see inside it?"

The old an raised a bushy eyebrow. "No, I don't think so. After all these years, there's no way it can live up to my expectations, I suppose."

He raised one wrinkled hand in an arthritic salute, and shuffled down the street.

But now, looking back, I think he may have opened that box. For only one who knew what was inside it would never want to see it again. His burden was heavy, but mine is the heavier.

United

So long, so many hours pacing the polished floor of the Hall. A divided people are like sand under the foot of the enemy, again and I again I harangued my compatriots. Stone divided is merely a path on which to tread, but stone untied is a monolith that can obfuscate the mightiest foe. And they were all like, dude, calm down. So I have a good vocabulary and I get carried away sometimes; so what?

We are in trouble, they know as well as I. The very fact that we are having such a lengthy debate about whether or not to band together should be evidence enough that we must. The legions of our foes march ever nearer our borders, and still we squabble among ourselves. Yes, the world is wide, and we could fly far from here, to safety and new lands, but this is our home.

The real problem is that we're a bunch of punks. The feds are bad verging on pure evil, but we aren't the greatest people ourselves. We have our own kind of justice, and if no one gets hurt, no one gets charged. Every man of us carries a judge, jury and executioner on his right hip. Except the lefties.

We live a pretty good life, and we've found a way to get along in this harsh new world, far from the all seeing eye of Big Brother. We don't pay taxes anymore, because somehow when you ride around a herd of cattle twelve hours a day and sleep under the stars wondering when you'll have to get up for your next watch; it's hard to take a tax man with his little briefcase seriously. We just have other things to worry about. Like semicolons.

I took the makeshift podium to make my case one last time. I slowly pulled my pistol from its holster, tipped it upward and slowly pulled back the hammer. These men know the language of the gun.

"Look, it's simple. People are coming to kill you and burn down your homes. Are you going to sit there and argue, or stand up and draw your gun?"

Midnight

There was something about midnight that I always found particularly attractive. it's a very dramatic time when the hands on the clock line up. Assuming the clock is well made.

Time seemed to slow down as my eyes wandered from the clockface. The wind was soothingly brisk, and it gently rippled the water at my feet. But as I sit here tapping my fingers on the park bench, waiting for the clock on the brightly lit clocktower toll its twelve strokes, midnight suddenly seems like a frightening thing. What am I doing here, under the stars, when all sensible people are in bed?

If there's one flaw no one ever tried to pin on me, it's being too sensible. I stopped myself from double checking to make sure my automatic was loaded. I knew it was, I'd checked a dozen times or more on the ride here. I'm not used to carrying a gun. It feels heavy my pocket.

The second hand reached the bottom of the clock and started up the other side. It flashed across my mind that this, somewhat ugly, clock might be the last thing I'd ever see. There was so much more I wanted to do, it seemed a shame. But come to think of it, this was bigger than all of those hopes.

I wondered about the clockwork behind that face, the many hidden cogs, springs, fanbelts and who knows what that kept the hands in motion. It reminded me of all the movements of fate that had led me to this place, and the utter incomprehensibility of it all. The clock ticked on.

I had the paper bag sitting on the bench beside me. It was filled with cut up pieces of paper. For an instant I wondered why we hadn't used real money if we were so sure of success. I never had been, I knew as I know that this is a dangerous gambit.

The real problem was that we knew they wouldn't come unless I came completely alone. And it had to be me. And I'm not much good with a gun.

But that's life I suppose. Or the other thing, depending. The clocked ticked down the final seconds.

A gunshot shattered the silence, and I felt a searing pain in my ribs. He fired again as I slumped off the bench, trying to pull my gun from my hip pocket. I struggled, gun in hand, to face my attacker. The only surprise was that he waited until midnight. I brought the gun up and leveled it at him, my right hand shaking.

Guns are heavy.

I pulled the trigger, and then fired again before I could recover from the first shot.

Midnight is dramatic.