Poem, I say.

So here's something different. Poetry. I've never written a poem before, but this is all about learning and experimenting, so here goes nothing. (It should be noted that I wrote this at four in the morning, where reality and wishful thinking have a tendency to flow together. I might wake up tomorrow and realize that what I have wrought is nothing short of an abomination). 

He comes from the darkness that connects humanity.
His grin flashes hidden dreams and razor-edged wishes.

A man in robes of shrouded clarity.

Arms spread, he locks us apart in our mind's niches.

In your mind rings ”eye for eye, tooth for tooth”.

You think yourself a virtue of diligence.

He will embrace you and whisper his truth:

”Lo, my name is ignorance.”

Edit: In retrospect, this was stupid and pretentious. Just ignore this whole post.  

Ninjas, Politicians and Gunslingers

The custom drawings I got from Christopher Hastings when I bought the first three Dr. McNinja books. For those curious, it's Dan McNinja, John C. Calhoun and Roland Deschain.

Thoughts

As I'm writing this, I have three stories - and possible books - floating around in my head. The first one - Zeke and Ugly Jack - you've already read part of. I'm still trying to figure out the setting (and everything else, for that sake), but at the moment it's something like this: a dark, dystopian near future. A war between Europe and the US has ravaged the world, both economically and ecologically. The oceans are mostly filled with oil, and any countries still up and running are sheltered behind walls and guns. Great Britain is one of the few countries where civilized society still reigns true. Barely. It is a crime-ridden slum ruled by equal part organised crime, over-eager politicians and police officers, all of which want to control the island. Zeke and Ugly Jack are two small time crooks, working odd jobs for whoever will hire them. I'm still not sure if they're the main characters, but they're certainly major ones. Mezzofinelli, one of the many assassins roaming the world, was raised on the streets. He's proud of his skills, and rightfully so.

The second story is the one I'm most hesitant about. It was a dream I had approximately six months ago, and - as dreams often are - the story was confusing and often nonsensical, but I will try to explain it as best I can. The story is set in feudal Japan. It's a beautiful spring morning, and two men are walking along a largely empty street in a small village. One is tall and serious-looking (heavily inspired by Toshiru Mifune, I'm sure) and the other is short, fat and merry-looking. His cheeks are round and red, and he carries a multitude of katanas in brightly-colored sheaths. He is some kind of festive katana salesman, I guess? The tall man carries a katana approximately 7 feet long. This is where the story gets a little... hazy. The two men - as yet unnamed - somehow get into some trouble. The local crimelord, a small girl (who is some kind of demon, apparently), want them both dead, and they flee the village, the girl's hired thugs in hot pursuit. Later, they arrive at a city. Its walls and buildings are made from some kind of pale, beige rock, and the architecture is middle eastern in appearance. There, the tall man fights some guy on a roof and - here the dream got a little trippy - falls through a portal. He appears on a busy street in modern day Copenhagen. Here, the evil demon girl shows up along with some red alligator-looking demon motherfuckers. The evil alligators have an epic fight with tall samurai man while evil demon girl hurls black and purple balls of fire at him. So, yeah. Still working on figuring that one out.

The third and final story is an autobiography of an evil henchman. You know the sort. A secret lair and a bomb big enough to cover New York in scalding hot chocolate fudge is all well and good for an Evil Genius, but if you really want to take over the world, you need some Evil Henchmen. The foottroops of any moderne villain. The ones that pilots your stealth-bomber, hijacks the train and kidnaps damsels, thereby putting them in distress. A single punch will knock them out cold, they are dumb as a pile of bricks and they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. Or so the stereotype goes. But the main character (still working on the name) tells the true story of Evil Henchmen. They work in much the same way as private security firms, except, y'know, more "evil". Except, that's the thing: they're not evil. Sure, some of them aren't the most sympathetic guys in the world, but most of them are just regular guys with a wife and kids. The pay is good, they get dental, and in these hard times - with the recession and all - a guy's gotta take any job he can. I've never tried writing anything in first person, but the premise really appeals to me. I might give this a go for the next update.

Awww yeaaaah

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!
.

Francis Law, ladies and gentlemen.

I am a lazy bastard

The next two weeks will be really hectic with a big school assignment coming up, so stories will probably be few and far between. I'll try to get at least one update per week. Thank you for your patience.

Zeke and The Sun

Just a little something I wrote today. Not a direct continuation of the previous Zeke and Ugly Jack stories, but the same setting.


Zeke coughed and spat. Groaning, he got to his feet and looked around. To either side of him, the Wall was broken and shattered. Bits and pieces of the thick, concrete walls were scattered everywhere. Beyond the slabs concrete, the ocean lay gleaming beyond a sandy beach. In the horizon, the sky was a brilliant array of orange and purple.
Suddenly, blinding rays of light from the dawning sun breached the horizon. He gasped and shielded his eyes but did not turn his head away. He squinted at the bright light, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. His hands were shaking as he pulled off his hat and let it fall to the ground. His breathing ragged, he ran his hand through his hair. ”Fuckin' beautiful,” he choked and burst into sobs.

Zeke, Ugly Jack and a Suitcase, part 3

Harold was breathing hard as he skidded to a halt in an alley. He could hear the clatters and bangs construction work nearby. He had been running for hours, desperately trying to stay ahead of the man who was chasing him. He hadn't actually seen him yet, but a sixth sense had made him duck a moment before the bullet would have struck him in the temple. Instead, it had rippled through his blonde curls and lodged itself in a wall behind him. 

He'd been running since then, and every now and then he'd heard the whistling of a bullet missing him inches. He tugged desperately at the handcuffs chaining the suitcase to his wrist, to no avail. 

Footsteps. He turned around slowly, feeling very cold and very alone. Silhouetted briefly by the headlights of a passing car, Harold saw a dark figure standing at the end of the alley. The figure stepped closer, passing under a light, and his features became visible. He was at least six feet tall. His face was all angles and sharp edges; a black, bushy beard beneath his hawk nose. His eyes, like pools of liquid darkness, were fixed on Harold's. 

"Please," Harold said before the man shot him three times. 

Zeke, Ugly Jack And A Suitcase, Part 2

 Mezzofinelli was an assassin. In fact, he liked telling people, he was the most dangerous assassin on this side of the ocean. When people asked him which ocean he meant, he would simply reply "All of them." He had shot a man from more than a mile away, right between the eyes. He had killed no less than three of his colleagues in a single night. He had beaten a heavyweight boxer to death with his bare fists. Granted, he had walked away with a black eye and three broken ribs, but at least he had walked. All in all, he fancied himself a pretty dangerous guy. So why, he wondered, was he having so much trouble getting hold of a briefcase?

Mezzofinelli was born from his Italian mother who had fled Italy in 2080, a month after the Intercontinental War had started. In the cold, cramped depths of a ship headed for Sussex, she died in labour and Mezzofinelli was born screaming and motherless into a strange and tumultuous world. His earliest memory was of a man - a giant clad in white - who carried him onto shore. He remembered the taste and smell of the sea; salty and sharp. It burned in his nose and throat. He remembered little else of his first years. He knew that the giant in white (probably a sailor from the ship) had taken him to the nearest orphanage and left him there.

Zeke, Ugly Jack And A Suitcase, Part 1

Harold Roberts was a 31-year-old businessman. He lived in London, he owned a Volvo S60, his watch was a golden Rolex and he sorely regretted stealing the briefcase he was currently clutching in his well-manicured hand. That is to say, he didn't regret stealing the suitcase as much as he regretted stealing the money inside it. He was fairly certain that Chris R. felt much the same way. He probably missed his two million pound sterling something fierce. Harold's pinstripe suit was stained and torn, and his Italian loafers were covered in mud as he fled through the backstreets and alleyways of Brixton.

***

"Bloody Polacks," Zeke said, taking a bite of his pizza. He glared at the men across the street through the car window. They wore orange vests and safety helmets, and from their labor came clatters and bangs as their hammers and picks smashed down the walls of an old, abandoned house. "They come wanderin' in 'ere, takin' all the jobs meant for proper English blokes," he said, turning towards Ugly Jack. "This country's a right bloody mess, innit?"

Ugly Jack grunted in agreement. A dusty leather jacket covered his broad frame, and a pair of black sunglasses covered part of the bulldog-like face that had earned him his nickname. He kept his black hair cropped close to his scalp, a pair of impressive sideburns framing his face. Ugly Jack never talked much, but Zeke, his partner in crime, more than made up for his near constant silence. Zeke was the polar opposite of his companion. He was short and wiry, always equipped with an ill-fitting suit, a fedora and a mouth that never stopped working. 

Author's note: This is the first part of a possibly ongoing series. More to follow.

Shift

Author's note: This story was heavily, heavily inspired by a passage from "The Drawing Of The Three", the second book of the Dark Tower series, written by Stephen King. 

The fever has taken a terrible hold on him. It courses through his veins, poisons his body and sickens his mind. Everything seems wrong, warped, reality slowly slipping away, leaving only shadows and whispers. The forest is dead, the ashen remains covering everything. The world seems to

shift

the sun stings him, cold and merciless. He shivers and coughs into his hand, and red droplets stain the skin. His gaunt, bony hands shake as he pulls his cloak tighter around his emaciated frame. He walks on, towards the mountains. They frame the horizon like the pointed, blackened teeth of a great maw, longing to devour. In his fevered mind, they are his doom and his salvation. In his fevered mind, they

shift

backwards, the hands grasping at his clothes. He falls, hard, his breath fast and ragged in his chest. He shuffles backwards. The ground rises and falls beneath his trembling limbs. His movement kicks up clouds of dust, and it stings his eyes. It enters his nose and his throat. It fills his ears, robbing him of his senses. The man that is not a man shrieks, and it shakes reality. Darkness descends, and the lights

shift

the scream never stops tearing tearing tearing through his head. The man that is not a man that is not a man that is not a man always screams. He can't see it, he never has, he never will, but he knows. He has never known and always known the screaming screaming screaming. It has hidden behind his thoughts, always screaming. It has hidden behind everything and nothing. The screaming is the source, the core, the truth. The scream continues and enters the final

shift

as mountains collapse, darkness shines and light freezes, the world ends.

Hey guys, apologies for the lack of updates this past week. Been under the weather, and still am, but updates should resume as usual next week. Might write something saturday or sunday, but no guarantees. Have a great weekend.


 - David

Switch

Tonight's story will be a little unusual. It's something I experienced tonight, and it basically freaked me out. So here you go.

I was just looking around the internet, seeking cheap thrills, and I stumbled upon some creepypasta. Being a big fan of creepypasta, I started reading. The first one I read was this:

http://img340.imageshack.us/img340/6610/1286009405762.jpg

And then this:

http://img3.imageshack.us/img3/7028/1286010011802.png

Now, if you've read those two, read on. If not, go take a look at them.

Ready? Excellent. On with the story.

My interest piqued, I started looking around for the aforementioned game, "Killswitch". After a bit of searching, I actually found a .rar called "Killswitch (1989) (Karvina Computing)". I downloaded it, promptly crashing my browser. I unpacked it, which caused 7zip to crash. Slightly freaked out, I opened the folder and looked for an exe file. I found one.

"switchinstall.exe"

Getting severely freaked out, I opened an unnamed .txt file, hoping to find some explanation. All it said was this:

you cannot install me
but if you must
enter in the 2nd number in the 3rd collumn on page 6 of the manual

I have not found a manual of any sort, and I have yet to try and install the game.

Not sure if I'm gonna do it.

What do you say? Yes? No? Let me know in the comments section. Or don't. Whatever you feel like.

Jonn

Got a bit of a fever, so tonight's story will be later than usual. I pray your forgiveness and I hope that you will enjoy it nevertheless.

"Come on," Jonn said, exasparated. He pulled on the rope, breathing hard. "Would you just..." He gave another tug, moving forward a couple of inches. "...cooperate!". He threw down the rope in disgust and glared at his captive. The girl sat flat on her backside and glared back at him, his rope tied securely around her midriff and her arms behind her back. Her features were sharp and angular, her long, black hair tangled with twigs and dirt.

"Keghtot khoz!" she spat, sneering at him.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I know what you mean."

He sat down with a thud and mopped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve. He stretched his back, wincing at the stiffness. Dragging a bound girl around for five days in a row will do that to you. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out a strip of dried meat and a hunk of stale bread and started chewing listlessly. The forest around him was alive with animal sounds; birds were singing overhead and mice rustled through the dead leaves that covered the ground. The sky above him was the no-color gray of autumn, leafless trees reaching up, as if seeking sunlight. He took a swig of his wineskin to wash down the bread.

"If you weren't Kralj Lovac's only daughter," he said to the girl. "And if he hadn't offered ten thousand gold coins for your safe return, you best believe I'd have brought him your head instead."

He took another swig of wine.

"Frankly, I don't see what's so appealing about those commoners. I mean, you lived in a perfectly fine castle. You had maids, servants, soldiers and more coin that you could spend in a lifetime."

He spat on the ground. "And for some reason," he said, frustrated "You decide to run off and live with the rabble. And when I try to bring you back to your blasted father, you act like a spoiled child!"

"Ću iseći svoje srce i hrane ga psima-," she started, but stopped when Jonn drew his sword. He looked beyond her, eyes unfocused, a concentrated look on his face.

"Riders," he said. "Damn it."

Before he could pull the girl off the road, the riders came into view. Five men, all clad in leather and mail sat atop brown horses. They pulled to a stop in front of him, and one of them stepped forward.

"Well, well, well," he said. "What 'ave we got 'ere?"

His voice was slurred, a long scar running from right temple to left chin. His hair was cropped short, and he wore a crude sword at his side.

"A kidnapper?" he asked, raising a heavy eyebrow.

Jonn stood between the riders and the girl, sword in hand.

"She is my prisoner of war," Jonn said. "I won her fair and square. Now I'd ask you to be on your way, sirs. I have no business with you."

The man Jonn presumed was the leader gave a barking laugh. "Sirs!?" he laughed. "Hear that, lads? He thinks we're sirs!"

He dismounted and walked towards Jonn, pulling his sword from its scabbard.

"Sorry to disappoint, but we ain't no sirs," he said. "We're just friendly bunch of travellers trying to make our way in the world. And that girlie right there looks like just the thing to brighten our day."

He held out his hand, palm up.

"So why don't you save yourself some trouble," he said, his voice low. "And hand over the rope?"

***

When it was over, Jonn sheathed his sword and picked up the rope. The smell of blood had made the horses panic and run before Jonn had had a chance to catch any of them. He sighed and pulled on the rope, sliding the girl across the blood-soaked ground.

"I better get a blasted knighthood", he muttered. "I want, like, a hundred knighthoods."

The girl just glared at him.

Zeke and Ugly Jack

"So Lucy got me this book, right?" Zeke said.

"Right," Ugly Jack said.

"An' it's about this French bloke called 'Sarder' or summin'."

"Sartre."

"Sure, yeah. Now, I read meself a couple o' pages, right?"

"Right."

"An' this geezer's got 'is knickers all in a twist about wot defines summin', and like, 'ow if it ain't in the plan, it ain't real, right?"

"Right."

"An' 'e keeps goin' on an' on about existentianism an-"

"Lism."

"Wha'?"

"Existentialism."


"Right, just that."

Ugly Jack 

"About bloody time," Zeke said. "You drive like me mum, swear to God."

He stepped out of the car and stretched. It was almost noon, and the sun shone brightly on the old, red farmhouse. He took a deep breath and abruptly started coughing.

"Whew! Wot a bloody stench!" he said. He waved a hand in front of his face, and made a face that left no secret as to what he though of the odour that wafted over them.

Ugly Jack pulled on a pair of heavy, black gloves and popped open the trunk.

"Here," he said, and threw a similar pair of gloves to Zeke.

"So anyway," Zeke said, as he and Ugly Jack gazed down at the body in the trunk. "This Sawder bloke was awarded the Nobel Prize fer something or other, but - you grab 'im by the legs, I'll take the arms - 'e flat out refused it! Bloody frenchies, I tells ya."

They started across the yard, hauling the body between them.

"An' this bloke got so obsessed with all this thinkin' and philosophasin' that 'e ended up getting all smacked out on drugs, jus' so 'e could keep thinkin' and philosophasin' 24 hours a day! I tells ya, Jackie-boy, those frenchies are bonkers."

"Right bonkers," Ugly Jack said.

They rounded a corner and the pigsty came into view, a dousin pigs snorting or sleeping in the muddy pen. With a heave, they threw the body over the fence and next to pigs. Zeke pulled off his gloves and threw them next to the body.

"So these pigs'll eat anything, right?" said Zeke, walking back towards the car.

"Right."

"I'm driving back," Zeke said as Ugly Jack closed the trunk. "Maybe we'll be back in time for tea."

The Four

"Sit down, children. Sit down, and let me tell you the story of the gods," the ancient, gnarled man said to the sailors, wenches and sellswords that had gathered around him. The inn was full to bursting, but his voice carried over the hubbub easily.

"Once upon a time, before gods were gods and time was time, a great beast was born. Vast beyond imagening, the beast ruled the cosmos for millennia, travelling among the stars, devouring all it came across."

The old man leaned forward, and, lowering his voice, continued "But from the great beyond, the Old God witnessed the destruction the beast wrought upon his creation. It awoke a great anger in the Old God's heart, and in his rage, he made The Four."

He pointed to a mural hanging on the wall. On it were four figures, but the mural was so worn and faded that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. Every person in the inn knew about The Four, as did everyone in the kingdom, but the old man went on nevertheless.

"First of his Four was Ish'Nahmel, the heart of rage, gifted with the strength and fearlesness of the Old God himself. Second came Meen'tesh, the sister of secrets. She was blessed with cunning and the sharpest mind existence had ever seen. Third was Al-Jebel, the mountain that walks. The only creature that rivalled him in size, was the beast. Finally, the Old God made his fourth, and last, creation. The Stranger."

At the sound of The Stranger's name, a ripple passed through the crowd. Men and women alike made protective wards with their hands and muttered prayers. A gypsy woman whispered urgently to herself.

"Betrayer, deceiver, outcast, kinslayer," she said with the feverish eyes so common in soothsayers. "Betrayer, deceiver, outcast, kinslayer."

"The Stranger," the old man intoned, his rasping voice both hard and melodious, "was neither man nor woman, yet it was both. It was young. It was ancient. It was everyone and everything. It was matter and it was void. The Old God sent forth The Four to battle the beast. The Four felled the beast and scattered its remains throughout the universe. After the battle, The Four were weak and exhausted, having fought for nearly an eternity without rest or respite. They were all tired."

The old man paused and looked around the inn. The entire room had fallen silent, his story the focus of everyone's attention.

"All of them," he said. "Except The Stranger. In their weakened state, the siblings could only watch as their brother struck each of them down in turn. The Stranger turned to its creator and roared its defiance."

Shadows in the forest

The forest was dark. A foot of snow crunched under Al'Sharir's feet. His brown destrier trodded behind him, the bridle clinking softly in the still night. His torch threw flickers of light and shadow all around him. It illuminated half his face, his one remaining eye gleaming darkly. His eye was the color of obsidian, a trait from his mother's side of the family; the wild folk of the god mountains. The destrier whinnied, tugging a little on its reins. "A horse must be quiet now, hm?," he whispered to the horse, using the common tongue of the north. He stroked the horse's muzzle, whispering soothingly. "Forest of dark, we are in. A man has reasons of fearing this," he muttered. "But a horse must be calm now." The destrier seemed to calm. He patted its flank, feeling the strong heartbeat beneath. "Come," he whispered and urged it forward. The night was starless, thick clouds covering the night sky. Al'Sharir walked on, his breath steaming.

A few hours later, he came upon a clearing in the forest. He pushed his way through the pine needles and looked around. The clearing was about 15 meters across and, as far as he could tell, a perfect circle. He didn't like it. A queer feeling settled in his stomach. The forest was dark and still. The horse whinnied again, louder this time, and it made him jump. He laughed, voice shaking slightly. "A horse scares a master. Eager to exit a forest, hm?" he muttered as he patted it again. It was cold to the touch. He turned back, took a deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, and stepped into the clearing.

Nothing happened. He took another step. Still nothing happened. He started picking up pace, striding across the gleaming plain of snow. His cloak, red and tattered, caught on something, the clasp digging painfully into his throat. He grumbled and turned around, looking for whatever had caught it. What he saw made him freeze in place. A hand black as night protruded from the snow, grasping the hem of his cloak. He cried out, lurching backwards, away from the hand. It did not release its grip, so he tore off the clasp, letting the cloak fall to the ground. The hand began sinking into the ground, pulling the cloak with it. Within moments, both it and the hand had disappeared. Panicking, he sought to mount his horse, only to find that it was nowhere to be seen. He look at the tracks. Horse prints led into the clearing. But they did not lead out. He heard the sound of something moving through snow. He heard it all around him. He raised his torch, peering into the dark. A hand of ice clutched at his heart. Black creatures surrounded him. Tall, obsidian creatures that stood on two legs like a man. But they were anything but human. Their arms almost reached the ground, and they had no mouths. Their eyes were like stars, points of cold light in an otherwise featureless face. Al'Sharir screamed as the dark creatures surged forward, silent as shadows.

Dragons, man. Dragons.

Stark gripped his massive, two-headed axes tight, one in each hand. From his vantage point atop the cliff, he could see the entirety of the once proud city. Far beneath him he could see the great, red dragons soaring among the many spires and pointed roofs of the city. He could see the dragons breathing great gouts of flame that set the city ablaze. He could see the inhabitants scurry around in the streets, desperately trying to flee from the beasts. It was clear they would not succeed. Stark cracked his neck, sank into a crouch and jumped.

For a moment he hung suspended in the air, thousands of feet above ground. Then he fell. Wind ripped at his long, braided blonde hair and beard. It ripped at his axes and his armor of boiled leather beneath his scalemail hauberk. The roar of the wind deafened him, but he did not to hear. He just needed to aim. Head first, arms at his sides, he twisted his body to aim for the nearest dragon. As he came closer, he came to realize how truly enormous they were. At least a hundred yards from firebreathing head to spiked tail, and a wingspan of twice that. As a meteor falling from the heavens, he came crashing down towards the dragon's back. Moments before impact, he brought his axes around and, his massives biceps bulging with the effort, swung them down. He heard a sickening crunch at the same time he felt the dragon's spine snap from the impact of his descent. His axes bit deep, the razor-sharp edges cutting through dragonscale, flesh and bone. When he pulled them out, blood spurted from the wounds. Before the sizzling, red liquid had touched him, Stark had taken off, running along the now falling dragon's back, toward its head. Despite running on a dragon in free fall, his ran sure and straight, not stumbling once.

When he reached the base of the base of the dragon's neck, he leaped forward, falling alongside the dying beast's head, its wings still flapping feebly. His right axe lashed out, catching the dragon just below one enormous, glowing eye. The axe caught bone, lodging itself firmly in the dragon's skull. Hanging from one hand, Stark gave a great heave on the axe, pulling the dragon's head down and to the left. The dragon shuddered and went silent as it plummeted towards the city. More dragons were circling beneath them, Stark could see. He swung himself around and planted his feet on either side of his axe. Moments before the falling dragon collided with another, he pulled the axe free and leaped once more. He heard the roar of pain from the unfortunate dragon as it was crushed beneath its falling compatriot. Dragons snapped at him as he fell, and when one of them got too close, he let his axe bite into bone once more. The dragon snapped its head back, pulling him with it. It roared and tried to claw at him, but he swung his other axe up as he pulled the first one free. Pulling himself up, he dodged the dragon's claws, each of them as long as he was tall. He started climbing up the dragon's skull, using his axes as picks as he pulled the first axe free and swung the other around, throwing himself upwards. He was covered in blood, his beard and hair a glistening, crimson mess. He reached the top of the dragon's head. He stood astride it, gripping one of its horns as it tried to throw him off. Hundreds of dragons were attacking the city. With a great swipe, he cut off the dragon horn he was holding. He planted his axes in the dragon's thick hide and picked up the horn. It was a full two meters tall and thick as a tree trunk. He swung it around, the gleaming tip facing down. He roared and plunged the horn into the dragon's head, skewering it. It did not make a sound as it died. He wrenched his axes free and leaped once more. As he passed within hands reach of a dragon, he lashed out with both axes, cutting one of its wings clean off. It immediately started spinning towards the ground, roaring in pain. He started picking up speed as he fell, lashing out at dragons who came too close. Suddenly, a dragon came barrelling into him, knocking his axes out of his hands. He turned around so he fell face up and looked at the beast. It snapped at him, massive jaws with rows of gleaming white fangs cutting through the air around him. He spun in the air, the dragon's head flying past him. He grabbed it around the neck and squeezed. He squeezed until he felt the vertebrae snap. He let go and looked down. He was no more than 50 yards from the ground. He twisted upright, feet first and with a sound like a thunderclap, he hit the ground, still standing.

Noise

The noise from the crowd was deafening. The podium was shaking. Or maybe he was shaking. He wasn't sure. All around him, people cheered. Maybe for him, maybe for his opponent, he couldn't tell. The spotlights were blinding. He squinted, turning his eyes towards his opponent. He was clad in a black, loose-fitting robe, tied together at the waist with a piece of rope. The robe was so faded it had turned almost gray. The robe, faded almost to gray, had been torn in several places, pale skin showing beneath. Blood trickled down the man's right arm, the crimson liquid gathering in a small pool on the floor.

Straining to keep his eyes focused, he took a shaky step forward, the robed man gazing at him with those white eyes set beneath his shaven scalp. The sweat stung his eyes, and he could taste the salty drops on his lips. He tried to breathe, but found that he could not. He shambled forward another step. Then another. On the next step, his legs gave away, and he fell to his knees. He felt no pain. The robed man walked towards him with his usual self-confident stride. He stood before him and looked into his eyes. The man said something, but the crowd drowned out the words. The robed man smiled. A sad smile, it seemed to the kneeling man. But an honest one.

Cayete

So here's my first post. Just a little story I wrote on the bus. First story I've written in years, really, so it's not exactly perfect. Enjoy.

The roar of an engine roused Cayete from his sleep. Dazed and confused, he lurched drunkenly to his feet, swaying slightly. In his homeland, he had been a warrior, he thought bitterly He had a been a poet and an artist. He had been honored. But not here. Not in this hellish place of poverty, grief and science. A loud honk from a car-horn interrupted his reverie. He tried to focus his eyes, squinting against the blinding headlights which were flooding his alley – and all its disease-ridden contents – with the false light of technology. The engine roared again, and the car lurched closter.

”Apparently,” Cayete thought ”I'm in his way.”

The alley wasn't wide enough for the car to pass without running him over. He staggered towards the car, his heavily bearded face grim and his right hand on the hilt of his sword. The driver honked again. The sharp smell of gasoline reached Cayete's nostrils. He inhaled deeply, feeling his cold, calculating rage surface. With a sharp, metallic 'click', he thumbed his sword's hand-guard, exposing an inch of the steel blade.

With supernatural speed and strength, he swung the sword in a great arc across the front of the car. Metal parting and glass smashing, he cut a deep gouge into the black, polished helm of the car, He stood still, waiting for the driver's reaction. As he had suspected, the car door slammed open, and a man in a dark suit stepped out, swearing and sputtering. The man, face obscured by the dark shadows of the alley, reached into his suit and pulled out something black and metallic. Cayete heard the tell-tale click of a hammer being cocked. Before the man could bring his gun to bear, Cayete was on him. In two strides he was next to the man, and with a flick of his sword, he cut off the man's hand at the wrist. A lightning-quick slash cut open the man's throat and to silenced his cries of paint. In the same motion, he buried his blade in the man's chest. For a moment, the man stood frozen, shock and outrage lingering in his features. He was young, Cayete thought. Young enough to be his son. The man's body crumpled, and Cayete let it slip off his sword and onto the ground. There it lay in a heap, blood seeping from his throat and chest. Cayete sheathed his blood-stained sword and turned on his heels.

”Damn shame,” he grumbled, the memory of the boy fading from his mind as he walked out of the alley, and into the busy streets of New Kyoto. "I liked that alley."