Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Rock You Like a Hurricane

sharing a piece of my nanowrimo project.  just because.  and remember, it's nano, quantity-not quality.




Andrew was coming in hard and merciless. Anne Marie was swinging a hammer with the rest. Boarding up windows, ready to ride out the storm.

As the winds blew in, the sky darkened. She’d come here to investigate the stories of zombies. She’d seldom followed up on this type of report, most were crap. But this particular area seemed to have more than its share of urban legends about them as well as a run of mysterious and gruesome killings.

She cursed herself for not looking at long term forecasts for the area. Hurricane parties were not going to further her research. She pounded a final nail and scurried indoors to wait out the storm.

The low rent complex she had chosen was mostly empty. The hold out residents were those with the glassy eyes of drug users that had no where else to go. Most were camped out in the building’s narrow hall. Curled up in pitiful balls, enduring various states of jonesing. The mostly conscious eyed her warily as she passed, her steps disturbing the perpetual dust and other debris that ever lined the worn carpet.

None dared to bother her since she had physically removed the few that thought her rooms to be an easy target for robbery and other amusements by assault. Anne Marie never feared the criminal fringes of humanity. A few broken bones and other embarrassing injuries had them walking a wider path when they caught sight of her. After all, they were merely human. Of course, she rarely feared the inhuman either. They could handled, though she found killing them to be the easiest and obviously most permanent answer.

She let herself into her rooms. The boarded windows made the space seem close in the darkness. With no power, she resorted to candlelight. The lazy flickering gave her a feeling of calm that electric lighting never could. As the storm gained strength, she settled into a comfortable overstuffed chair with a pile of pages, some computer printed, others were copies of notes from the local police, along with many newspaper clippings, all covered with notes scribbled in her own hand.

She was intent on her work, when she became aware of a sudden lull. The eye, she thought. Soon the other wall would arrive with another round of screaming winds and pounding rain.

Just as she opened another can of soda, she heard the crash of the outer entry door. The heavy footsteps that followed were muffled only a small bit by her closed door. Her hearing was more acute than most people, she could sort out the sounds of shuffling that would be the residents winding themselves into tighter balls as heavy footsteps moved along the hallway. Boots, she decided, well made, heavy boots.

The ancient broadsword that traveled with her had made its way to her hand. She stood in practiced balance, ready to defend or strike. Which ever she deemed necessary.

“Annie! Annie, me love! I know you're here, I can smell ye!” the heavily accented voice, funneled by the narrow confines of the hall, seemed to fill her room.

With a sigh of annoyance, she relaxed her stance slightly. She knew the owner of that voice. Had hoped never to hear it again.

Anne Marie could feel the boot tread stop in front of her door, “come on sweetling, let an old friend in. It’s positively monstrous out there.”

She could refuse to answer, but it wouldn’t stop him, just make him more determined to get a reaction from her. Giving irritation to her voice, she answered, “Go away, Liam, I’m not in a mood to entertain you, and I’m far too busy to be bothered with killing you right now.” She gave a short snort of regret, “I should have killed you last time. I was evidently in a far too generous state.”

He chuckled, “you'd not be the first lass that wanted to do me in, m’dear. Its my wanderin’ eye always gets me in trouble with the ladies.”

“Then please, wander your eye elsewhere, there’s naught here to see.”

“Hah!. Slipped into the “auld” English a moment there.” The doorknob jiggled as he tested it, knowing it would be locked. “You're too tense, girl. All worried about fitting in. Have you adopted the local drawl as well?”

Anne Marie growled under her breath. Her ability with language and dialect had served her well. She could pass for a local almost anywhere in the world. Yet Liam could cause her to make mistakes. That made him dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than those she hunted.

She resigned herself to his presence and returned the blade to its worn leather sheath. “Soft as a babe’s breath that was.” Liam’s hearing was almost as good as her own. “ I’m glad you've changed your mind about killin’ me right now.”

“Right now, but I could reverse that decision easily if you annoy me much more.” She turned the flimsy lock and opened the door. The point of the dirk she held to replace the sword drew a single drop of blood from Liam’s neck as she blocked him from bursting into the room. “Not so fast, I’ll need an inventory of your knives first.”

Liam rolled is eyes dramatically, “Annie, I’m here as your friend…”

“Now, Liam. How many and where.”

“Fine lassie. There's the blade is me right toe, the buck knife, a switchblade in me left pocket and three of them throwing stars from the Japans in the right. A tension triggered blade on one arm and the other,” he grinned with pride, “the other is released and pointing at a target right below your pretty bosom.”

Anne Marie side stepped with practiced ease, her dirk taking an extra layer off his throat out of spite. “You are a fool, Liam. I will kill you one day.”

“But not today, Annie, not today.” He glanced quickly around the small space, then made himself comfortable on a small love seat across from her chair. “Sit down, girl! Relax.”

Anne Marie returned to her chair, gathering the papers and clippings she’d dropped when Liam made his noisy entry. “Ive never been good at small talk, Liam, what do you want? I would like to finish my research, when the storm has passed I have things I need to do.”

“Company, Annie. You told me long ago that immortality was over rated. I know now what you meant.” The smile he gave her now held a hint of sadness and regret. “You're the only one left has known me most my life.”

‘You made you own choice, I warned you.” Anne Marie had limited pity for him. “Why don’t you track some of your blood? Become the obnoxious well to do uncle. And leave me alone.”

“I just don’t have the stamina to track my bloodline like you did. I have to say though, I was intrigued when I found you had left Renewal and your little great great great…how many? Granddaughter.”

Liam eyed the papers, “that’s why I'm here to help you out, sweetling. I have info ye need to finish your task and get back to stalking your descendants”

“I. Work. Alone.” She said each word quietly, yet the force made her meaning clear.

“Aye, I know, the lone gunman. Er, swordsman…woman, whatever.” Liam wave a hand in dismissal. “I still have info. I know some things ye don’t. So. You can hear me out, and let me help, or I can take my knowledge elsewhere.”

The elsewhere caught Anne Marie’s attention. “What do you mean, elsewhere? Who else would believe, much less be interested?” He was hinting at another hunter. She hated dealing with other hunters. They were, generally, ill equipped, undereducated, and mostly, in the way.

“Oh, there’s others. Here. Drawn by the same stories probably caught your eye, lassie.” Liam knew he had her attention now. “Scary murders, no suspects. Fresh bodies disappearing from the local morgue…”

“Bodies disappearing?” Anne Marie hadn't come across any news of body snatching.

“Got ye now, haven’t I, lass.” He didn’t even attempt to hide his delight. “Aye, girlie, bodies gone missing overnight. And often the theft, if that's what it is, is followed by another unpleasant crime scene.”

He snatched the stack of papers from her hand and started to study them. “For someone that pokes fun at me accent, you oughtta start writin’ in that language you're speakin’ at the moment.” He could make no sense of the characters scrawled in the margins of the reports and clippings. The alphabet used had disappeared over a millennium ago.

Anne Marie smiled sweetly, “ there's a reason for that. Of course, if your info is legitimate, I might translate some of it for you.”

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Dressed to Kill


Liam straightened the the sheath of the buck knife on the belt of his black jeans.

The onyx jewelled string tie adorning his cobalt blue shirt concealed a tiny dagger.

He rapped the heel of one snake skin boot and was pleased by the snick as the razor sharp blade sprung from the toe.

He adjusted the tension bands on his forearms, satisfied they would release the daggers when needed.

A quick check of the pockets of his leather jacket. Yes, three shuriken, one switchblade.

Curling a lip at his reflection he thought, "Now, there is one sharp dressed man."



My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog
Linking up with Lance and Leeroy
This is my 100 words inspired by ZZ Top’s Sharp Dressed Man.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Not Present

Exhaustion rolls across me in waves.

Confusion eroding intellect, twisting the mundane to the monstrous.  Frustration filing compassion to an angry blade of indifference.

Bits of humanity leached away on a desperate tide of tired.
 
Muscles numb with ache continuing their task by rote.  Shattered, scattered thoughts no longer involved in the process.

Mindless movement attempting to achieve a forgotten goal.

An empty shell worn smooth, tossed like so much flotsam in an ocean of things needing done, wanting finished, demanding attention that has wandered off with unrested distraction.

Leaving only tears to wash away the ashes of my dreams.


My take on Lance's 100WordSong: Falling to Pieces by the great Faith No More


My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Never Forget

 It should never have happened.  

Anne Marie had fallen for one of them.

She knew what he was.  

She'd stalked and destroyed enough of them.

But this one...so gentle.  Never threatening, never allowing her to see the predator within.

She lay beside him, softly brushing the hair from his forehead.  Placing her lips there, above his brow.

A tear threatened to escape.  A shuddering breath called it back.

She had made a mistake, forgetting who she was.

One last look at the crimson stained stake in his chest.  

He'd known what she was as well.  And, as well, had forgotten.





Joining Lance and Leeroy again, here are my 100 words inspired by Chasing Cars by Snow 


My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Borrowed Time

His heart beat against her breast in time with her own. One arm about her waist, the sleeve of his black jacket indistinguishable from the black sheath embracing her.

They floated around the dance floor as one.  The orchestral notes weaving a spell of desire.

A whisper so soft. "Don't let go..."

The final notes faded, overcome by the insistant shrill of dream's end.  They are drawn away from each other. Fingers lingering, tracing the curve of cheek, sweep of lips.

Each committing the other to memory as they are pulled apart.

"I'll come back for you."
 
"I'll be waiting."


Joining Leeroy for the 100 Word Song.  The 100 words inspired by Mumford and Sons’ I Will Wait.
My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog


Sunday, September 30, 2012

Where They Come From

My entry for  Emily Suess' Writers Week 2012 writing contest 



Inside the notebook were the words that would revive her.  She gotten a few lines written during lunch.  Once at home she could get back to her real love.

 Dorothy climbed the last few stairs leading to her efficiency apartment. She spent the half hour walk home from her monotonous office job composing the next piece of her personal world.

By the time she opened the door, she had a crowd of characters following her. All telling their stories, and where they fit, and what place they lived, and how they dressed. She shooed them off for a moment as she went to the “almost a kitchen” and started her coffee pot.

After changing to sweats and pouring the fresh coffee into a mug, Dorothy headed to her cluttered desk. Several well used notebooks shared space with a sleeping laptop and plain lamp that she’d left on before she’d gone to work.

She settled into her chair and flipped though a few pages before deciding where to start. Before she picked up her pen, she lit a tall candle. Once the flame bloomed steadily, she switched the lamp off.

She began to write. From behind the candle holder a tiny gargoyle peeked out. He’d been in hiding since the harsh incandescence of the lamp had chased away the shadows. Dorothy smiled indulgently as the little creature played atop the piles of unpaid bills and grocery ads. She continued to write.

As a castle began to erect itself next to the silent laptop, the gargoyle found a scaly tail beneath an overdue notice for the electric. A small puff of smoky annoyance reminded Dorothy she needed to take care of that. Tomorrow.

Scratch and scribble, the pen picked up speed. The ink on paper barely keeping up with the flow of words from Dorothy’s world. The gargoyle, worn out with aggravating the dragon, curled up around a pencil holder and drifted off to sleep. A knight leaned on his broadsword, watching the tale grow over Dorothy’s shoulder. The castle completed its wardrobe with a colorful pennant on its uppermost tower.

There was one last flicker as the candle wick finally gave in to the puddle of wax at its base. Dorothy looked up, startled by the dark. The pen in her hand still on the page. The river of thoughts coming to a stop.

She flipped the lamp on sadly. The castle faded, the little gargoyle jumped up in a huff and climbed inside the pencil holder. The knight sheathed his sword and disappeared with the blade. Dorothy took time to grab a sandwich, then showered and headed to bed. Her dream peppered sleep bringing new characters and creatures to fill more notebooks.
*******

As she readied to leave for work the next morning, Dorothy gazed longingly at her desk. The gargoyle braved a hopeful peek from the pencil holder, blinking in the glare. When Dorothy grabbed her purse and turned to the door, he slid back down in a pout.

She started her trip and let her mind slip into her other world. The shadow of the knight walked beside her. A bubbling cauldron rolled along behind, trying to catch her attention. A gaggle of fairies flitted around her head, giggling at some inside fairy joke.

Whether or not it was the knight, the cauldron, or the fairies that distracted Dorothy, she didn't see the light change. She stepped off the side-walk in front of the car.

The people gathered around didn't notice the crying knight kneeling next to her, or the fairies sitting in uncharacteristic silence on the lip of the cauldron. They were completely unaware of the grief-stricken gargoyle that had arrived within minutes on the back of miniature dragon.

Nor did they see the figure of a matronly woman in ancient robes reach gently to take Dorothy’s hand and pull her upright. The woman looked at her skeptically.

“I don’t know” she said.

“Don’t know what?” asked Dorothy. The gargoyle had perched protectively on her shoulder and was glaring at the other woman.

“This creature says you write. Is that so?”

Dorothy thought about the many notebooks full of half finished stories that covered her desk and filled its drawers. “Well, yes. Sort of. Mostly I guess I just scribble.” She thought sadly of her unfinished novels and the characters she’d be leaving behind.

“Scribbles, eh.” The woman reached over and scratched the little gargoyle’s ears. “Well, Dottie, I suppose you'll do.”

“Uh, my name is Dorothy. And I'll do what?”

“Your new job, Dottie Scribbles. I got your resume, you're hired.”

“Hired?”

“On a probationary basis of course. But, yes, you are now a Muse.”






writers' week writing contest

Friday, September 28, 2012

Goal

the prompt: We want to know what your goals and ambitions are for your writing, in 300 words or less. 


A long time ago, I used to make up stories. Write them down and sometimes illustrate them.

I took creative writing in high school. Even a poetry class.  I wrote. I have little journal books of crappy teen angst poems. The stories I wrote?  I don't know where they are. Long decomposed in some landfill I expect.

It all got lost.  In growing up and boys and work. Then motherhood and marriage.  Yes the mommy part came first.

The stories were still there. Locked in my head. Told and retold to the invisible passenger as I drove my intergalactic fighter or horse drawn cart to work or the grocery.

Pieces of elsetime.  Glimpses of otherwhen.

I can remember my mother telling me long ago she could see me at a typewriter, mixed drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, cranking out books.

Didn't happen.

Yet.

But I have taken a step. Sitting in front of a keyboard, coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other.  Learning how to pull  pieces and glimpses of elsetime and otherwhen out of my head and put them together.

Telling those stories.  Flying my magic carpet through the Internet, babbling away to You, my invisible passengers.

My Goal?

Simple.

Don't stop.