life its self is the most wonderful fairy tale
-Hans Christian Andersen
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-Hans Christian Andersen
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Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
ramble
It seemed so out of context
For one with a small dog complex
And that anyone nearby could be
someone with an eye for me
then you set out to prove
That my feelings deserve to move
My heart with its hope set
on the one that it first met
or have you been listening?
Because your forehead's glistening
with thoughts of bloody mutiny
cursing the love you had for me
and sailing into its sunset
as soon as it found an outlet
for its messy implication
and affair with our whole nation
but it seemed so out of context
for one with a small dog complex
because apathy will find you
when you finally learn how to
chain a runaway emotion
and lose yourself in an ocean
of people still to know
until I strike the final blow
that lifts up the blindness
that I'm doing you a kindness
by leaving
For one with a small dog complex
And that anyone nearby could be
someone with an eye for me
then you set out to prove
That my feelings deserve to move
My heart with its hope set
on the one that it first met
or have you been listening?
Because your forehead's glistening
with thoughts of bloody mutiny
cursing the love you had for me
and sailing into its sunset
as soon as it found an outlet
for its messy implication
and affair with our whole nation
but it seemed so out of context
for one with a small dog complex
because apathy will find you
when you finally learn how to
chain a runaway emotion
and lose yourself in an ocean
of people still to know
until I strike the final blow
that lifts up the blindness
that I'm doing you a kindness
by leaving
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Expiration Date, 1
This is One World at a Time. The difference: I plotted it. You will find, as you read it, that it is very different from the first chapter that you read before although it keeps the same general plot points. I also think that this is the longest chapter I have ever written for a story. It took me more than one day to write. Enjoy!
Lance crouched atop the ruins of the Empire State Building, preparing himself to take another man’s life. In one hand he held a long-range pistol. In the other, he held a hand grenade. He preferred the hand grenade; a lot less blood that way. And there would be bloodshed today.
Lance looked through the scope of his pistol and surveyed the rubble below. The MacDonald's building just across the street was in ruins. The neon ‘closed’ light flickered in the morning mist. The road next to McDonald’s was a mesh of potholes and trenches. There was one clear spot on the road. That was where it would happen.
That is, if he really wanted to murder the Emperor.
Zeppelins rumbled overhead. The zeppelins’ sleek, long sides gleamed silver. Painted on their sides was the insignia of the United States Empire and, below that, the insignia of the Mathematicians was barely visible. The Mathematicians, also known as Magicians, were examining the roads ahead of the Emperor, raking the ruined city with bright searchlights. Being found by the searchlights would mean death.
Lance took a deep breath and adjusted his position. He might as well be comfortable while he shot the Emperor.
Emperor Conrad was an evil man—a murderer. For three decades his mantra had been “Root out the weak to rebuild.” And that he had done. Millions had died at his hand.
So why was it so hard to kill him now?
Lance tightened his grip on the trigger, reminding himself to squeeze, not pull, to shoot.
The echoing rumble of the Emperor’s car sounded behind Lance. He took a deep breath and squinted at the clear spot in the road. When the Emperor passed through—
Lance shuddered, his knuckles white. His trigger finger twitched as if eager to get it all over with.
The car, a deep blue limousine, came into view. Lance counted under his breath, trying to time his shot perfectly. From where he perched, the car was the size of a mouse, unless he looked through his scope. He glared through the scope now.
The limousine’s tire came into view, and Lance squeezed the trigger. A muffled bang came from the gun as the bullet flew toward its target. The bullet scuffed against the ground and bounced into the surrounding rubble. Blast! He had missed the tire by just a few seconds.
The limousine shot forward, causing Lance’s next shot to bounce off the hood with a dull thud, leaving a small dent. The car skidded around a corner, disappearing from view.
Lance, a religious man, refrained from swearing. Instead, he jumped off the top of the building.
Hundreds of feet raced by in mere seconds. Lance’s stomach seemed to push up into his spine, and his clothes went wild in the wind. His heart raced in his ears. His brain, jacked up by a fierce adrenaline rush, worked quickly.
Without another moment of hesitation, Lance forced his hand into his pant pocket and pulled out a glass sphere—not his first pick, but he had to do with whatever he pulled out. It began to glow. He struggled against the wind resistance to bring his hands together in order to crush the sphere. The wind ripped the sphere out of his grip. It crashed into the Empire State Building, flashing a bright blue. Lance prayed that it would work.
The sphere, a Dividend, momentarily fractured gravity’s equation. Lance felt strong forces suddenly pulling at him from all directions, threatening to tear him apart. He jolted to a halt, midair. The Fracture lasted only a few moments. Earth quickly forced gravity back into working condition. But it had given Lance enough time to pull a more delicate disk from his bag.
He shattered the Variable in one fist and immediately felt the effects. The air pressure around him increased slowly and then exploded in force, slowing him to a halt, then shooting him upward. It jarred his bones and caused serious bruises, but it was better than smashing into the ground after a fall that was nearly a mile long.
Lance felt himself slowing again. He whipped out a Solution and pointed it in the direction of a distant building. He put pressure on the cube, imprinting the equation of the the building. After a few long moments, the cube flashed a brilliant blue. The solution had been found.
The cube yanked Lance at an incredible speed. It felt like his arm was ripping off. The roots of his blond hair tugged at his scalp. His bag of Numes jerked off his shoulder and fluttered away. He nearly cursed. Without his Numes, he could do nothing but count on his instincts and the natural, unchanged equations of nature.
He still held the cube in his right hand. It pulled him all the way to the building and threw him with incredible force onto its top. He lay there, breathing raggedly. Finally, aching all over, he stood and looked over the sprawling metropolis of New York City.
The horizon was streaked with smoke from distant factories. Most buildings were crumbling, although the center of the city was in full repair, gleaming in the rays of sunlight that poked from the clouds. The zeppelins were dots in the distance. The smell of rancid waste was everywhere.
Lance bowed his head, and his locks of hair fell into his eyes. Sweat dripped into multiple cuts and scars, forming into stinging pools.
I’ve failed.
Silently, Lance pulled a yellowing sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and read it with a furrowed brow. It read:
WANTED: all rebels and dissenters. Those who kill a rebel will be awarded a garden. Any who kill a rebel in the following list will also be awarded $5,000: Jason Cornelius, 19; Geo Pedder, 31; Lance Raeburn, 17…
Lance looked up from the paper, trying not to cry. Jason’s name was crossed off—Lance had crossed it off himself when Jason had died fighting alongside him. Geo Pedder was missing. Lance—Lance had failed on his mission. When serious missions like this failed, the Rebels killed the soldier who had failed, in this case Lance. He was now considered useless, and he knew too much.
I’m going to die.
Lance buried his face in his hands. He was only eighteen, and already both sides of the Civil War wanted him dead. Where could he go? Where could he hide?
Before he could answer either of those questions, however, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck. It felt as if a projectile had hit him there at light speed. He staggered forward, silently screaming. A wave of drowsiness passed through his body. His head buzzed. Darkness snapped into place, and he felt as if he were floating.
“He isn’t awake yet,” a man said.
“Then wake him,” said Limsky, a man Lance was familiar with.
Lance tried to open his eyes and move, but he was completely paralyzed. His brain felt foggy, his heart beat rapidly, his outer extremities tingled. The good news: he was alive.
Lance felt a tiny, electrical shock run through his body.
“That won’t wake him,” Limsky snapped. “Put it on half-power.”
“But, Commander, that will kill him.”
“He’s strong.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Half a second later, a powerful jolt of pain screamed through Lance. His hairs stood on end, and he arched his back, screaming with the pain. His heart jumped frantically. Finally, after only ten seconds, it stopped. Lance opened his eyes. They streamed with tears.
“Good, nice to see you, Lance,” Limsky crooned, grinning. His round face was a rosy red color.
Lance tried to speak, but only a weak mumble escaped his lips.
“I apologize for your lack of speaking abilities. Perhaps more electricity would clear that problem up…Doctor, what do you think?
“No,” the doctor said firmly. “It would kill him.”
“Later, then.”
Lance glared, vision blurred, still gasping for breath.
“We should wait for the drug to leave his body before proceeding,” the doctor said.
“Yes, yes, very well. We’ll let the baby rebel rest for a few minutes.” Limsky winked at Lance. “Isn’t that right, baby brother?”
Lance’s vision slowly cleared up. He was soon able to see the dim light bulb above him and to his right. The room was plain except for a desk at the far corner. The walls were a lackluster white. Lance twisted his head to see in the back of the room, but the loose straps had tightened—when? He thought he heard someone crying behind him.
“Ready, Lance?” Limsky asked. His grin was genuine—the same grin he had had as a child, slowly peeling away the skin of a living baby rabbit.
Lance stared straight ahead, avoiding Limsky’s gaze. Limsky was the real son of Russian parents, while Lance had been adopted. It had been Lance who was loved. He knew that whatever Limsky did to him, it would be far from merciful.
“Doctor, please get me a chair.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor moved to the desk and grabbed the chair. It was oddly shaped, metal, and had shackles attached to the armrests. Not Lance’s first choice for a desk-chair.
The chair was placed directly in front of Lance, glinting faintly in the light. Then, without any gentleness, the Doctor grabbed whoever was behind Lance and dragged him to the chair.
Lance gasped.
“J-jason?” he breathed. “You’re—you’re dead.”
Jason shook his head, still crying. “They got me, Lance. They got me.”
“That’s what you said right before you died,” Lance said, beginning to cry. “You’re not real. You’re dead.”
“I’m not dead—not yet.”
“I watched as you got shot,” Lance said. “I watched as your body was burned with the rest of the rebels that died that day.”
“They got me.”
“I hate to interrupt,” Limsky said, “but we have important matters to attend to.” He pulled a knife from his belt and walked close to Jason. “Tell me everything you know about the rebel movement, Lance. Oh, and don’t lie. The doctor is an expert on telling when people are lying.”
Lance struggled against the straps, forcing himself into a forty-five degree angle. He spat at Limsky who casually stepped out of the way. The globule landed on Jason and disappeared, seemingly into his tattered, denim jacket.
“Tsk, tsk. Let’s not be babies here.” Suddenly Limsky was inches away from Lance, pressing the knife into his throat. “The next time you do something like that, I cut off one of Jason’s fingers. Then one of yours. Understood?”
Lance grunted, not daring to nod.
“Good.” Limsky took the blade from Lance’s neck, but not without cutting him. A trickle of blood ran down Lance’s neck, into his blue T-shirt. “Now tell us everything.”
Trembling, Lance shook his head.
Limsky smiled warmly. “I was hoping you’d say that. It give me the chance to do this:”
Limsky moved over to Jason who was shaking so hard, the chair rattled. Or was the chair rattling anyway? Wasn’t everything rattling? Lance had an epiphany. He was in the middle of a zeppelin.
Limsky slowly placed the knife on Jason’s finger, preparing to dig in.
“He isn’t real!” Lance shouted, more to himself than anyone. “He’s an illusion.”
Limsky jerked his wrist back, and the blade dug into Jason’s skin. He screamed, eyes wide open, showing the whites. When the cut was over, he looked at Lance, sweat gleaming all over.
“It’s your fault,” he said. “Everything was your fault.”
The words stung. But Jason was just an illusion.
“He’s just an illusion,” Lance yelled. “None of the blood got on you, and no matter how much Jason moves, the chair doesn’t react.”
“Very good, little brother. I had hoped you would be dumber than that. Oh well, I guess we’ll have to bring someone in who really is alive. I believe you already know him?”
The door into the gray room swung open, and streams of light burst past the stooped silhouette of a small man and a guard with one arm who held him tightly. The small man stumbled into the room, his eyes on the floor. Finally, as if ashamed, he looked up at Lance’s face, but not into his eyes.
“Hello, Lance,” he said in a thick, Russian accent.
Lance gaped, not sure what to feel. Here was the beloved priest who had saved his life, shipped him off to America. Here was one of the only religious people left on the earth.
“P-priest?”
“Yes,” the Priest cried, suddenly looking into Lance’s eyes. “It is me. I’m so sorry.”
“What happened?”
Priest rubbed his bald, sweaty head with fidgeting fingers. Part of his skull was slightly caved in and had dried blood on it. His robe was greasy, ripped, and patched up in many places. His eyes were a sad brown.
“What happened?” Lance repeated.
“I failed.”
“What do you mean?”
Limsky was watching the conversation, smirking.
“I started a rebellion in Russia,” the Priest said, “and they killed my friends. I didn’t stop.” Fresh tears dribbled down his once-chubby cheeks that were now hollow. “Then they killed my parents. I didn’t stop. Then they killed my children—even cute, little Aida. It was her fourth birthday. When they walked into our home, she asked if they wanted cake. Then they shot her through the forehead. I—I didn’t stop.” He choked back a sob. “Then they killed my wife, and I had no one—no one. Then they took me.”
“That is the way of the Empire,” Limsky said. “Killing a man makes him a hero. Killing his family makes him pitiful.”
The little man set his jaw. “But I haven’t failed yet.”
What do you mean?” Lance asked.
The little man didn’t answer. Rather, he grabbed something from thin air and smashed it.
“Goodbye, Lance. Do as you promised your parents.”
Limsky ran forward, but he was blown backward by Priest. Priest had changed his own equation, something that would give him incredible power, then kill him.
Priest raised his hand and blasted a hole through the wall. The walls.
Lance sprinted through the tunnel of holes. Priest could not be saved, so he didn’t look back. When he got to the last hole, he leaped out of the zeppelin. He flew out, close to the front of the zeppelin where ropes waved in the wind. He grabbed hold of one. He gritted his teeth as the rope burned through his skin. His fall was ended, but the zeppelin had entered a steep dive—he had no idea why. The wind became more powerful, and he was battered against the side of the zeppelin.
He looked about at the confused landscape. The zeppelin was over Manhattan Island, close to the ocean. He could just make out the headless Statue of Liberty.
Wait for it…
The zeppelin scraped the top of an intact building, throwing Lance higher than ever with the force. He let go and risked a mind-driven Nume. He knew that if he got it at all wrong, he would explode, or worse, implode.
He looked at the ocean, remembering its equation. He formed the solution in his head, and, still carried by the force of the zeppelin’s crash, flew into a steeper arc. Seconds later, he crashed into the ice-cold ocean. It dragged at him with powerful currents caused by naval warfare several miles away. He struggled, fighting his way to the surface. He gasped for air when he broke free. It took him what seemed like forever to swim to the statue. He grabbed hold of the sticky surface with wet hands. Shivering, he hefted himself up, avoiding the slime-filled barnacles.
He curled up into a ball in a large crack and slowly fell asleep. His dreams, those he could remember, had to do with Jason’s death. It was, as the illusion had said, all his fault. If only he had resisted the urge to use the Exponential Nume.
When Lance awoke, it was dark all around him. He heard the sound of waves crashing and felt rain pounding against him. His left leg was sticking out; its boot was missing. He shivered intensely, curling himself into a smaller ball. He hadn’t been this cold since his last night in Russia on a skipper during a rainstorm.
He heard voices, faint voices, below him.
“Why are we out here, master?”
“Sh-h-h, Hiroki. Raise the lantern.”
The soft glow of light broke through the torrent of rain. Lance could make out a small fishing boat. He adjusted his position to get a better look.
“I saw something,” Hiroki said. “It was in the statue.”
“Good, the old man said to search the statue. Do you have the gun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll bring us in.”
Lance pushed himself deeper into the crevice. Who were these people? What did they want?
They want to kill me.
The boat pushed through the waves with ease. Obviously it was a Numician boat—and the Numicians were almost all on the Emperor’s side. That meant—
Just as the boat tapped lightly on the statue, Lance leaped out of the crack, into the ocean. He heard a cry of terror for Hiroki, a boy who seemed to be a little younger than him. The ‘master’ was an older, fatter man who had not reacted at all.
Pushing his way under the boat, Lance felt a surge of panic. The current, stronger than ever, dragged him further and further under the boat and into the ocean. He would drown. That was much worse than getting shot by a Numician.
Just as he thought his situation was completely hopeless, a strong hand grasped him and pulled him up, up toward the surface of the water where lightning flashes reflected with violence. Lance broke the surface. He tried to breath, but he could not.
“His lungs have begun to fill up with water,” the master said. “Do you remember your training?”
Hiroki nodded hesitantly.
“Then help him.”
Lance’s vision became spasmodic. He gripped one of the boat’s ribs with a white-knuckled hand. His back twisted as he tried to gulp in air.
Hiroki, none to gently, put his hands on Lance’s chest. Lance tried to get away, thinking that Hiroki was trying to murder him. Hiroki pressed down and up three times. Lance threw the water up, breathed for the first time in what seemed like ages, and lunged at Hiroki.
Hiroki knocked him back. Lance, weak, crumpled into a pile. He tried to get up again, but the older gentleman pushed him down making hushing sounds.
“I saved your life,” Hiroki said. His voice cracked. “I would be in your debt if you didn’t murder me back.”
“Sorry,” Lance croaked. “I thought you were a Numician.”
The master shook his head, his dark eyes sorrowful. “We’ll take him to the tunnels. He has been through a lot—more than a mere boy should ever go through. Unfortunately, he will have to go through much, much more. The least we can do is give him a rest.”
“You really believe that this is the boy then? He doesn’t seem like much.”
“But he is. Just wait and watch. You will see.”
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Please comment on this question:
Are we posting at the rate we write? If so, you're going to get about four chapters a week from me. I write at a really fast pace once I get going. And if we are posting at the rate we write, how many chapters are we obliged to critique the next meeting?
Monday, July 11, 2011
My Death, 7
Whoot! Farthest I've ever gotten in a book so far, by a long shot! I know the section about the mirror needs work, so if you could give special attention to it and let me know how you think that would best be told, I'd appreciate it. There are some details that aren't exactly parallel to the first few chapters. Don't worry, I plan on changing some of the earlier stuff.
And sorry boys. More girl talk.
When you look in the mirror, you do not see yourself. Robin found this out when she slipped off the white horse’s rump onto her brown living room carpet. She did know how the horse, which was the height of a tall truck, could cram between two sofas and an armchair and not knock over the tiny TV as well, but it did fit. She thought about this as she turned around to thank Isaac. He silently remained on his horse, smiling at something over Robin’s shoulder. She turned around and stared at the still-open blinds (Tom always closed them late at night when he came home), which had warm mid-afternoon light glowing through them. She sort of involuntarily walked over and stared at what she saw.
Stacey’s sleek car, blinding Robin a little in the light, was humming in her driveway. Robin watched, horrified, as the passenger side door swung open and Robin climbed out. She watched herself shut the door and pretend to walk to the house with measured steps. Muffled by the glass, Robin heard Stacey call out to her other self, who turned around momentarily. Stacey pulled out of the drive and hesitated for a moment before peeling away. The other Robin waited for a moment. Robin, watching, counted to twenty as she had that afternoon, and saw herself march down the road. She doesn’t know what she’s in for, Robin thought, absently massaging her stomach.
Isaac sort of silently coughed. Robin turned away from the window and raised her eyebrows inquiringly at him and dangled her jaw. He only smiled brightly and waved. Then, before she could saying anything, he and his horse dissipated into curls of black and white smoke and were gone. Robin was surprised when the smoke alarm didn’t go off. She stood rooted to the spot, thinking.
“The little sneak!” Robin finally told the silent house, almost laughing, “He took me back in time.”
Since it would be another three hours until Tom came home from his new construction site, Robin wandered the house, alternating between idling in front of her laptop in her room and lazing before the TV’s flashing screen. Eventually, she reasoned it was about the time she should be making dinner, and dragged herself in front of the stove. She absently began cracking eggs.
He took me back in time! She told her growling stomach.
How cheeky of him, it replied. Isn’t that pan hot enough yet?
She slurped down her burned eggs and somehow found herself plopped onto the couch with three textbooks begging her attention.
But I went back in time, she reasoned.
Tell that to Pythagoras, said the first one she flipped open.
I always hated math, Robin thought with a scowl.
Another hour later, when Robin had taught that Pythagoras and his triangles a thing or two, Tom still wasn’t home. Instead of waiting for him, she slumped her way into her bathroom.
Time travel’s marvel had significantly worn off by that time. Now she thought about the spirit boy whose name was actually Isaac and who wasn’t a spirit at all, but Death himself, only he wasn’t a skeleton like the online pictures, just really thin. He’s blond, she thought. He has brown eyes. Gordon had blue eyes. His are brown. No, they aren’t alike. But still, as they rode home and Robin clung to his waist, it all seemed familiar and strange. In the bathroom mirror, Robin reflected on herself. She had just seen her very own self mere hours ago. Mirrors can’t do that; they miss the rest of picture. The reflected eyes she looked at were blank. Robin knew she had more emotion in her baby toe. In fact, she saw herself twice that day, when she remembered the silver book. She had seen inside herself then, like the way Isaac did.
She looked into Gordon today, too, in the black book. Robin’s mind leapt into a sprint, like a whirring tire hitting the pavement. Gordon’s soul wasn’t a reflection like a mirror. His eyes had life and were inside Isaac’s book. Who was Death. Gordon was dead, inside Death’s book. Who was Isaac.
“I have to get him out!” she yelled into the mirror.
* * * *
Robin crashed her lunch tray next to Stacey’s. She missed the table by half and would have dumped its contents into her best friend’s lap had Brent not caught it in time.
“So good of you to join us,” Robin smiled up at him. He was a lot tanner than she remembered.
“Thought I’d check up on my ladies today,” he answered and set down his tray opposite the girls. Robin watched him inconspicuously stared at Stacey, waiting for her response, while Robin waited for his.
“Hey,” she said as friendly as ever, but didn’t look up from her chicken sandwich.
Silence reigned inside the droning cafeteria while each picked at their lunches. Robin finally cleared her throat.
“Um,” she said. Stacey and Brent looked up from their meals.
She had formulated her plan that morning. Death must keep all the souls inside that black book, Robin surmised, which is why it was so big. Gordon looking out at her, even with his same cocky smile, was a message. She was sure of it. She’d seen Death twice now; she could even go to the Other Side on her own. If she hadn’t been mistaken, Isaac did want her to find out about him. He was even friendly. Perhaps he would be willing to permit favors to a close friend? If they were really close? She found Thanatos still stuffed in her backpack, along with everything else she brought to the cemetery yesterday. She guessed it had something to do with going back in time. She had read the book all through third period, which was English anyway. She didn’t find anything useful in it and hadn’t really expected to—she didn’t expect the ancient Greeks would be interested in flirting with Death. So she went to the next expert she knew. But she had to choose her words carefully.
“So, Stac,” Robin started, trying to ignore how hurt Brent looked that he was deliberately shut out, “about the dance in two weeks…”
“Oh!” Stacey sprang alive and leaned in close after she gave Brent a sweeping glance.
“Did you get asked?”
“Yes!” Robin said, grinning to show how excited she was. She would have giggled, but Stacey knew her too well. She changed her face on cue. “Well, no. I know who I want to ask me. The thing is I don’t know how to…”
“Oh!” Stacey said, rolling her eyes professionally, “I see. Um,” She looked over at Brent. He had been rubbing his neck while his olive skin blushed purple. Robin knew he was trying to not listen in. “Could you excuse us?” Stacey commanded.
“No problem!” he replied. Robin watched him pick up his tray and wander to the table occupied by the wrestlers and wondered if he was hurt or relieved. But Stacey was already whispering loudly to her.
“Ok, who is it?”
“You don’t know him,” Robin answered quickly.
“Who?” Stacey pressed.
“Isaac?”
Stacey stared at Robin, thumbing through her mental contacts list.
“Nope,” she said after a moment, “I don’t know any Isaac’s.”
“Anyway,” Robin went on, “how do I…”
“Do you know him really well?”
“I… wouldn’t say that.”
“Good. Starting from scratch is easier,” Stacey mumbled through a bite of chicken sandwich.
“What does he look like?”
“Does that matter?”
Stacey gave Robin an exaggerated eye roll. “Of course! It’s not shallow,” she added when Robin gave her a look, “it’s science. Is he taller than you?”
Robin nodded.
“By how much?”
“Half foot, about.”
“Good margin. How’s he built?”
The questionnaire took the rest of lunch hour and carried on during the drive home. By the end, Robin thought Stacey knew him better than Robin. Some questions were difficult, like when Stacey pried into how much Robin knew of his home life and family (Robin played dumb) and his age (she gave a rough guess and said he was a senior in high school, a year ahead of them). Then she wanted to know how Robin met him. Robin almost told her it was through a mutual friend but remembered Stacey knew all of Robin’s friends.
“Tom,” she blurted, since Stacey might be suspicious of the long pause.
“Your dad?” she sneered. It obviously a bad sign. Stacey had met Tom only once and that was enough.
“He’s the son of Tom’s boss,” Robin continued, waving her hand in the air, which she hoped looked casual and convincingly vague. “There was a neighborhood party last summer…”
“You still see him?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
Stacey waited for Robin to go into more detail, but she remained silent and turned to her untouched lunch as if there was nothing more to tell. And there isn’t, she thought truthfully.
“So,” Robin pursued. “How do I get him to ask me out?”
“Well,” Stacey started, “first he has to like you.”
And sorry boys. More girl talk.
When you look in the mirror, you do not see yourself. Robin found this out when she slipped off the white horse’s rump onto her brown living room carpet. She did know how the horse, which was the height of a tall truck, could cram between two sofas and an armchair and not knock over the tiny TV as well, but it did fit. She thought about this as she turned around to thank Isaac. He silently remained on his horse, smiling at something over Robin’s shoulder. She turned around and stared at the still-open blinds (Tom always closed them late at night when he came home), which had warm mid-afternoon light glowing through them. She sort of involuntarily walked over and stared at what she saw.
Stacey’s sleek car, blinding Robin a little in the light, was humming in her driveway. Robin watched, horrified, as the passenger side door swung open and Robin climbed out. She watched herself shut the door and pretend to walk to the house with measured steps. Muffled by the glass, Robin heard Stacey call out to her other self, who turned around momentarily. Stacey pulled out of the drive and hesitated for a moment before peeling away. The other Robin waited for a moment. Robin, watching, counted to twenty as she had that afternoon, and saw herself march down the road. She doesn’t know what she’s in for, Robin thought, absently massaging her stomach.
Isaac sort of silently coughed. Robin turned away from the window and raised her eyebrows inquiringly at him and dangled her jaw. He only smiled brightly and waved. Then, before she could saying anything, he and his horse dissipated into curls of black and white smoke and were gone. Robin was surprised when the smoke alarm didn’t go off. She stood rooted to the spot, thinking.
“The little sneak!” Robin finally told the silent house, almost laughing, “He took me back in time.”
Since it would be another three hours until Tom came home from his new construction site, Robin wandered the house, alternating between idling in front of her laptop in her room and lazing before the TV’s flashing screen. Eventually, she reasoned it was about the time she should be making dinner, and dragged herself in front of the stove. She absently began cracking eggs.
He took me back in time! She told her growling stomach.
How cheeky of him, it replied. Isn’t that pan hot enough yet?
She slurped down her burned eggs and somehow found herself plopped onto the couch with three textbooks begging her attention.
But I went back in time, she reasoned.
Tell that to Pythagoras, said the first one she flipped open.
I always hated math, Robin thought with a scowl.
Another hour later, when Robin had taught that Pythagoras and his triangles a thing or two, Tom still wasn’t home. Instead of waiting for him, she slumped her way into her bathroom.
Time travel’s marvel had significantly worn off by that time. Now she thought about the spirit boy whose name was actually Isaac and who wasn’t a spirit at all, but Death himself, only he wasn’t a skeleton like the online pictures, just really thin. He’s blond, she thought. He has brown eyes. Gordon had blue eyes. His are brown. No, they aren’t alike. But still, as they rode home and Robin clung to his waist, it all seemed familiar and strange. In the bathroom mirror, Robin reflected on herself. She had just seen her very own self mere hours ago. Mirrors can’t do that; they miss the rest of picture. The reflected eyes she looked at were blank. Robin knew she had more emotion in her baby toe. In fact, she saw herself twice that day, when she remembered the silver book. She had seen inside herself then, like the way Isaac did.
She looked into Gordon today, too, in the black book. Robin’s mind leapt into a sprint, like a whirring tire hitting the pavement. Gordon’s soul wasn’t a reflection like a mirror. His eyes had life and were inside Isaac’s book. Who was Death. Gordon was dead, inside Death’s book. Who was Isaac.
“I have to get him out!” she yelled into the mirror.
* * * *
Robin crashed her lunch tray next to Stacey’s. She missed the table by half and would have dumped its contents into her best friend’s lap had Brent not caught it in time.
“So good of you to join us,” Robin smiled up at him. He was a lot tanner than she remembered.
“Thought I’d check up on my ladies today,” he answered and set down his tray opposite the girls. Robin watched him inconspicuously stared at Stacey, waiting for her response, while Robin waited for his.
“Hey,” she said as friendly as ever, but didn’t look up from her chicken sandwich.
Silence reigned inside the droning cafeteria while each picked at their lunches. Robin finally cleared her throat.
“Um,” she said. Stacey and Brent looked up from their meals.
She had formulated her plan that morning. Death must keep all the souls inside that black book, Robin surmised, which is why it was so big. Gordon looking out at her, even with his same cocky smile, was a message. She was sure of it. She’d seen Death twice now; she could even go to the Other Side on her own. If she hadn’t been mistaken, Isaac did want her to find out about him. He was even friendly. Perhaps he would be willing to permit favors to a close friend? If they were really close? She found Thanatos still stuffed in her backpack, along with everything else she brought to the cemetery yesterday. She guessed it had something to do with going back in time. She had read the book all through third period, which was English anyway. She didn’t find anything useful in it and hadn’t really expected to—she didn’t expect the ancient Greeks would be interested in flirting with Death. So she went to the next expert she knew. But she had to choose her words carefully.
“So, Stac,” Robin started, trying to ignore how hurt Brent looked that he was deliberately shut out, “about the dance in two weeks…”
“Oh!” Stacey sprang alive and leaned in close after she gave Brent a sweeping glance.
“Did you get asked?”
“Yes!” Robin said, grinning to show how excited she was. She would have giggled, but Stacey knew her too well. She changed her face on cue. “Well, no. I know who I want to ask me. The thing is I don’t know how to…”
“Oh!” Stacey said, rolling her eyes professionally, “I see. Um,” She looked over at Brent. He had been rubbing his neck while his olive skin blushed purple. Robin knew he was trying to not listen in. “Could you excuse us?” Stacey commanded.
“No problem!” he replied. Robin watched him pick up his tray and wander to the table occupied by the wrestlers and wondered if he was hurt or relieved. But Stacey was already whispering loudly to her.
“Ok, who is it?”
“You don’t know him,” Robin answered quickly.
“Who?” Stacey pressed.
“Isaac?”
Stacey stared at Robin, thumbing through her mental contacts list.
“Nope,” she said after a moment, “I don’t know any Isaac’s.”
“Anyway,” Robin went on, “how do I…”
“Do you know him really well?”
“I… wouldn’t say that.”
“Good. Starting from scratch is easier,” Stacey mumbled through a bite of chicken sandwich.
“What does he look like?”
“Does that matter?”
Stacey gave Robin an exaggerated eye roll. “Of course! It’s not shallow,” she added when Robin gave her a look, “it’s science. Is he taller than you?”
Robin nodded.
“By how much?”
“Half foot, about.”
“Good margin. How’s he built?”
The questionnaire took the rest of lunch hour and carried on during the drive home. By the end, Robin thought Stacey knew him better than Robin. Some questions were difficult, like when Stacey pried into how much Robin knew of his home life and family (Robin played dumb) and his age (she gave a rough guess and said he was a senior in high school, a year ahead of them). Then she wanted to know how Robin met him. Robin almost told her it was through a mutual friend but remembered Stacey knew all of Robin’s friends.
“Tom,” she blurted, since Stacey might be suspicious of the long pause.
“Your dad?” she sneered. It obviously a bad sign. Stacey had met Tom only once and that was enough.
“He’s the son of Tom’s boss,” Robin continued, waving her hand in the air, which she hoped looked casual and convincingly vague. “There was a neighborhood party last summer…”
“You still see him?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
Stacey waited for Robin to go into more detail, but she remained silent and turned to her untouched lunch as if there was nothing more to tell. And there isn’t, she thought truthfully.
“So,” Robin pursued. “How do I get him to ask me out?”
“Well,” Stacey started, “first he has to like you.”
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
My Death, 6
Again, Robin recalled this was probably the spirit boy’s private library, yet Robin had the gall to traipse around like it was a museum. She flung the curtain back over the trio and hoped the way it only half concealed its alcove wouldn’t look suspicious. She searched the walls near the fireplace. The more she failed to see another door, the more Robin dreaded being caught in the library. Finally, she decided the only escape was the same way she came in. She turned and ran to the door, but met a dark figure who barred her way. The spirit boy leaned in the doorway. In one hand, his terrible knife-stick leaned with him. Robin unconsciously backed away. He noticed and followed her into the room. He raised an eyebrow like he was sharing some inside joke with her.
“I’m pretty sure,” he began, “you shouldn’t be in here.”
Robin instinctively side-stepped so the short chair was between them.
“In fact,” he continued, “no mortal should be able to get to this side at all.”
He folded his arms and leered down at her a bit. Robin didn’t think about lying. He wasn’t easy to lie to—he was someone to whom lies did not exist, she was surprised to find herself thinking. Besides, Robin remembered her fingers whose feeling was returning with blazing pain. And that had been only his book. She desperately wanted out of the library, to be back home. She tried to plan her words carefully, but it occurred to her that he enjoyed being taller than her. For a moment she forgot her guilt and trepidation.
“Oh, really?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at his elbow. Doing all she could to sound the least sarcastic as possible. “So why are you keeping me here?” Her curiosity was sincere, even though she was buying time while she gauged the distance between her and the door. A quick sprint seemed unlikely.
“I don’t answer questions,” he replied with a long-suffering sigh, “but I can do the asking, if it helps. How did you get here?”
“You told your dogs—”
“To This Side.”
“Oh,” Robin said. “There was this book at the library—”
While she spoke, he walked passed her to the armchair. Could she beat him to the door from here? He hooked his blade over the chair’s back and sunk into the cushions. Never mind, Robin thought, that knife-thing had a far reach. His feet propped themselves on the foot stool before the roaring fire.
“—that’s all about death and how to communicate with…”
He had been rubbing his hands over his closed eyes and massaging his temples while she spoke as if her voice wearied him. Then he stopped, planted his feet on the ground, and leaned forward towards her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t look away from his black eyes this time. Again, he gave her the strange impression that he saw inside her.
“A book?” He asked sharply. Robin noticed his interest and pursed her lips lightly shut as an idea weaved itself in her mind. At her silence, he stood up. She vaguely estimated he was about six inches taller than her.
“What book?” His eyebrows knit together. Robin relaxed slightly when she didn’t hear any anger in his voice. Still she kept her mouth shut. She finally had the upper hand with him and she wasn’t about to let it go. Bravely, she stared into the fire, shoulders square and brow firm. After a pause, during which she was aware of him studying her, he threw his hands up.
“I don’t get you! You’re totally fine to ask me all the questions under the sun, but don’t bother to answer any yourself!” he huffed at her. This made her blink a few times, but she kept her eyes trained on the fire as she answered with lethal softness.
“You don’t answer any either.”
“I can’t!” He almost yelled. “Not directly.”
“Then how I got here isn’t important,” she replied coolly. Her curiosity had been piqued, however, and she couldn’t help asking, “Why not? Oh, sorry…”
At her last question, he sunk back into his chair, nearly grazing his blade on the way down. She almost asked him what that thing was, then quickly stopped herself. He seemed so put out, she almost felt sorry for him. Anyway, when she couldn’t hold information he wanted ransom for answers she needed, her plan to twist her mission here unraveled. Besides, she felt as exhausted as he looked. She pulled the footstool a distance from the chair and plopped onto it. She looked him willingly in the eyes for the first time. No questions, she thought. Right.
“Thing is,” she carefully stated, “I need to get home. Fast.” She had just remembered Tom, who probably arrived home hours ago. He’d kill her when she got in so late. If she got there at all.
The boy, who had been cupping his forehead in his palms, answered, “I know. That’s why I had to bring you here. I had to fulfill my obligations first.” He gave his blade an unloving glance.
Questions bubbled inside Robin’s head. She kept trying to twist them into declarations the boy could either confirm or deny, but none would get her the information she needed. Finally, she stated, “You’re…uh, not a spirit boy.”
He glanced up at this and thought for a moment, probably wondering if it counted as a question, Robin reasoned. Eventually, he seemed satisfied and answered her, “Not exactly. But,” he said, gathering up the folds of his black cloak and raised them to show Robin its webby blackness, “I’m hardly human, either.”
This frustrated Robin, since she mostly knew that already. She wanted to know what he was, but she noted, he could have told her if he had wanted her to know.
There was a brief pause, during which Robin felt sure they were on the same page. Obviously, Isaac wanted to tell her things about himself and she admitted curiosity. She just had to go at it very carefully. She decided to use what she knew.
“You’re nameless,” she said.
“I’m Isaac,” he rejoined. Success, Robin thought, and couldn’t help grinning.
“You’re horse is a spirit, though—a nameless spirit.”
“My horse needs no name,” he nodded, “but he is like me.”
Robin felt like she was grasping at straws. She could only make statements about things she already knew about, which told her very little she didn’t already know. She would have to make statements at random and risk him being unable to answer them at all or avoiding lengthy explanations. Besides all that, Robin felt Isaac’s answers were as carefully selected as her inquiring statements. He was dropping hints. Robin, however, couldn’t tell what he wanted her to know, which made her frustrated. Wildly, she said what popped into her head next.
“Oh… We’re in the land of the dead.”
Isaac gave her a satisfied nod with a distinct not-smile. “Yes, we are in the Realm of Death.”
Robin choked on her next statement. He didn’t just repeat her sentences; he said…
“Realm of…” she murmured. Louder, she replied, “Then this castle belongs to…”
Her mind began to race slightly. She snuck a glance the blade-stick hooked over the chair’s back. She thought of the white horse and the dogs. Isaac stared at her blankly, leaning forward, hands clasped on his bony, thin knees.
“You’re Death!” she cried.
He didn’t respond immediately, except for rolling his eyes to say No, duh! He did visibly relaxed, though, and leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in the satisfied manner Robin was getting used to. But she wasn’t finished yet. She had lots more questions, and finally a way to get answers. She thought about the two chairs and the two beds.
“You live here,” she started, and added quickly, “alone.”
“Yes,” he said, his face turning from smug pride to sorrow, “I am very lonely.” Then he stood up, and to Robin’s surprise, came towards her, sadly looking at his feet. “I never had anyone I could really,” he paused to look Robin in the eyes, “talk to.”
“Well,” Robin said, putting her arms around her stomach. She forgot it didn’t hurt anymore. She tried to say something cool and standoffish, but couldn’t think of anything.
“You know,” he said, making Robin jump as his icy breath tickled her ear, “I could show you the rest. Of my castle. Right now.”
“Well, actually, I think I’d better get home,” Robin streamed loudly as his hand found her elbow and began guiding it towards the door. “Dad, er, doesn’t know I’m here.” —And he wouldn’t want your hand right there, she added in her head.
Isaac didn’t stop leading her to the door, but he wasn’t whispering in her ear when he said, “Of course. You know, I forget you mortals have to run on time. How annoying.”
Robin expected the door to lead back to the bedroom, but as Isaac flung it open, there was nothing there. Robin stupidly peered down. The Castle far below swam in circles. She blinked, trying to focus.
“Ger…hm… Can’t we use the stairs?” She mumbled, her stomach lurching into her throat. “I’m afraid of—”
“This way’s faster,” Isaac said, still holding her elbow while his other arm grasped her firmly around the waist. He jumped.
Robin would have liked to scream, but it caught in her throat and released itself in shudders inside her limbs.
“Don’t worry,” Isaac chuckled, “You’re not falling.”
And they weren’t. It was a slow decent, like an invisible, quick ski lift that gently swooped them down to the castle gates while Isaac’s cloak billowed snake-like around them. They smoothly met the dusty ground and Robin’s knees buckled.
“You’re crazy.” She gasped as she heaved for breath. Apparently, she had been holding it the entire time. Isaac didn’t reply, but walked to his white horse, which stood waiting patiently. It looked up at Robin with its doleful long-suffering face. Robin was even more convinced the horse could look into her, like Isaac could. He mounted the horse and led it to Robin as before. This time, she gratefully took his hand and straddled the horse behind him, and wrapped her arms tight around him.
“Hm. Heights and horses,” Isaac said over his shoulder. “I shall have to remember that.”
“Please do,” Robin grumbled. “Just get me home.”
“Consider it done.”
And it was.
“I’m pretty sure,” he began, “you shouldn’t be in here.”
Robin instinctively side-stepped so the short chair was between them.
“In fact,” he continued, “no mortal should be able to get to this side at all.”
He folded his arms and leered down at her a bit. Robin didn’t think about lying. He wasn’t easy to lie to—he was someone to whom lies did not exist, she was surprised to find herself thinking. Besides, Robin remembered her fingers whose feeling was returning with blazing pain. And that had been only his book. She desperately wanted out of the library, to be back home. She tried to plan her words carefully, but it occurred to her that he enjoyed being taller than her. For a moment she forgot her guilt and trepidation.
“Oh, really?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at his elbow. Doing all she could to sound the least sarcastic as possible. “So why are you keeping me here?” Her curiosity was sincere, even though she was buying time while she gauged the distance between her and the door. A quick sprint seemed unlikely.
“I don’t answer questions,” he replied with a long-suffering sigh, “but I can do the asking, if it helps. How did you get here?”
“You told your dogs—”
“To This Side.”
“Oh,” Robin said. “There was this book at the library—”
While she spoke, he walked passed her to the armchair. Could she beat him to the door from here? He hooked his blade over the chair’s back and sunk into the cushions. Never mind, Robin thought, that knife-thing had a far reach. His feet propped themselves on the foot stool before the roaring fire.
“—that’s all about death and how to communicate with…”
He had been rubbing his hands over his closed eyes and massaging his temples while she spoke as if her voice wearied him. Then he stopped, planted his feet on the ground, and leaned forward towards her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t look away from his black eyes this time. Again, he gave her the strange impression that he saw inside her.
“A book?” He asked sharply. Robin noticed his interest and pursed her lips lightly shut as an idea weaved itself in her mind. At her silence, he stood up. She vaguely estimated he was about six inches taller than her.
“What book?” His eyebrows knit together. Robin relaxed slightly when she didn’t hear any anger in his voice. Still she kept her mouth shut. She finally had the upper hand with him and she wasn’t about to let it go. Bravely, she stared into the fire, shoulders square and brow firm. After a pause, during which she was aware of him studying her, he threw his hands up.
“I don’t get you! You’re totally fine to ask me all the questions under the sun, but don’t bother to answer any yourself!” he huffed at her. This made her blink a few times, but she kept her eyes trained on the fire as she answered with lethal softness.
“You don’t answer any either.”
“I can’t!” He almost yelled. “Not directly.”
“Then how I got here isn’t important,” she replied coolly. Her curiosity had been piqued, however, and she couldn’t help asking, “Why not? Oh, sorry…”
At her last question, he sunk back into his chair, nearly grazing his blade on the way down. She almost asked him what that thing was, then quickly stopped herself. He seemed so put out, she almost felt sorry for him. Anyway, when she couldn’t hold information he wanted ransom for answers she needed, her plan to twist her mission here unraveled. Besides, she felt as exhausted as he looked. She pulled the footstool a distance from the chair and plopped onto it. She looked him willingly in the eyes for the first time. No questions, she thought. Right.
“Thing is,” she carefully stated, “I need to get home. Fast.” She had just remembered Tom, who probably arrived home hours ago. He’d kill her when she got in so late. If she got there at all.
The boy, who had been cupping his forehead in his palms, answered, “I know. That’s why I had to bring you here. I had to fulfill my obligations first.” He gave his blade an unloving glance.
Questions bubbled inside Robin’s head. She kept trying to twist them into declarations the boy could either confirm or deny, but none would get her the information she needed. Finally, she stated, “You’re…uh, not a spirit boy.”
He glanced up at this and thought for a moment, probably wondering if it counted as a question, Robin reasoned. Eventually, he seemed satisfied and answered her, “Not exactly. But,” he said, gathering up the folds of his black cloak and raised them to show Robin its webby blackness, “I’m hardly human, either.”
This frustrated Robin, since she mostly knew that already. She wanted to know what he was, but she noted, he could have told her if he had wanted her to know.
There was a brief pause, during which Robin felt sure they were on the same page. Obviously, Isaac wanted to tell her things about himself and she admitted curiosity. She just had to go at it very carefully. She decided to use what she knew.
“You’re nameless,” she said.
“I’m Isaac,” he rejoined. Success, Robin thought, and couldn’t help grinning.
“You’re horse is a spirit, though—a nameless spirit.”
“My horse needs no name,” he nodded, “but he is like me.”
Robin felt like she was grasping at straws. She could only make statements about things she already knew about, which told her very little she didn’t already know. She would have to make statements at random and risk him being unable to answer them at all or avoiding lengthy explanations. Besides all that, Robin felt Isaac’s answers were as carefully selected as her inquiring statements. He was dropping hints. Robin, however, couldn’t tell what he wanted her to know, which made her frustrated. Wildly, she said what popped into her head next.
“Oh… We’re in the land of the dead.”
Isaac gave her a satisfied nod with a distinct not-smile. “Yes, we are in the Realm of Death.”
Robin choked on her next statement. He didn’t just repeat her sentences; he said…
“Realm of…” she murmured. Louder, she replied, “Then this castle belongs to…”
Her mind began to race slightly. She snuck a glance the blade-stick hooked over the chair’s back. She thought of the white horse and the dogs. Isaac stared at her blankly, leaning forward, hands clasped on his bony, thin knees.
“You’re Death!” she cried.
He didn’t respond immediately, except for rolling his eyes to say No, duh! He did visibly relaxed, though, and leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in the satisfied manner Robin was getting used to. But she wasn’t finished yet. She had lots more questions, and finally a way to get answers. She thought about the two chairs and the two beds.
“You live here,” she started, and added quickly, “alone.”
“Yes,” he said, his face turning from smug pride to sorrow, “I am very lonely.” Then he stood up, and to Robin’s surprise, came towards her, sadly looking at his feet. “I never had anyone I could really,” he paused to look Robin in the eyes, “talk to.”
“Well,” Robin said, putting her arms around her stomach. She forgot it didn’t hurt anymore. She tried to say something cool and standoffish, but couldn’t think of anything.
“You know,” he said, making Robin jump as his icy breath tickled her ear, “I could show you the rest. Of my castle. Right now.”
“Well, actually, I think I’d better get home,” Robin streamed loudly as his hand found her elbow and began guiding it towards the door. “Dad, er, doesn’t know I’m here.” —And he wouldn’t want your hand right there, she added in her head.
Isaac didn’t stop leading her to the door, but he wasn’t whispering in her ear when he said, “Of course. You know, I forget you mortals have to run on time. How annoying.”
Robin expected the door to lead back to the bedroom, but as Isaac flung it open, there was nothing there. Robin stupidly peered down. The Castle far below swam in circles. She blinked, trying to focus.
“Ger…hm… Can’t we use the stairs?” She mumbled, her stomach lurching into her throat. “I’m afraid of—”
“This way’s faster,” Isaac said, still holding her elbow while his other arm grasped her firmly around the waist. He jumped.
Robin would have liked to scream, but it caught in her throat and released itself in shudders inside her limbs.
“Don’t worry,” Isaac chuckled, “You’re not falling.”
And they weren’t. It was a slow decent, like an invisible, quick ski lift that gently swooped them down to the castle gates while Isaac’s cloak billowed snake-like around them. They smoothly met the dusty ground and Robin’s knees buckled.
“You’re crazy.” She gasped as she heaved for breath. Apparently, she had been holding it the entire time. Isaac didn’t reply, but walked to his white horse, which stood waiting patiently. It looked up at Robin with its doleful long-suffering face. Robin was even more convinced the horse could look into her, like Isaac could. He mounted the horse and led it to Robin as before. This time, she gratefully took his hand and straddled the horse behind him, and wrapped her arms tight around him.
“Hm. Heights and horses,” Isaac said over his shoulder. “I shall have to remember that.”
“Please do,” Robin grumbled. “Just get me home.”
“Consider it done.”
And it was.
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