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 Posted: Thu Jul 07, 2016 2:44 pm
As Rasmus scrolled through his phone tabs as part of his daily morning ritual, he opened up the window to Fragrantica.com to update his Scent of the Day. A delicate digit paused as he he perused his digital library of scents and mentally assessed the samples box before deciding on Bogue Maai. Today will be an oakmoss affair. He clicked the next tab to read Luca Turin's latest scathing review on a bomb of a synthetic floral the fallen French houses were peddling as perfume nowadays, and chuckled. This continued until dawn gave way to stronger rays, signaling it was time to start the devil's work.
Fanning his book of notes wide, he sniffed at the fluted strips of paper, tasting the build of top, middle and base notes. Adding and subtracting various scents for the common goal, he rifled through his notes looking for the one scent that would tie his perfume together. Like the days that bled into months before, his shoulders sunk in failure. Though his nose was keen and mind fresh, these nasal missteps were the equivalent of writer's block. Greatness cannot be rushed. He said it mentally in such a grand way that he almost believed it, a wry smirk belying his unrepentant jovial self. Taking a break, he opened up the sky window to refresh his nose while he read the mail in an sterile way. A few purchases were made of his leather accord heavy scents and he made a mental note for the next project. The nose never slept which explained why Uncle Serge and Roja Dove looked like well kept and groomed crypt keepers. He needed a vacation before fatigue set into his face permanently, perhaps Enchanted Rock. Autopilot took him to his kitchen where he poured out favored gin and topped it off with diet tonic before garnishing with lime. Fewer calories meant more alcohol could and should be consumed.
As he reclined to rest his overworked senses, he closed his eyes, tastebuds taking over to parse the various herbs used in this British gin. It was a new brand in a sensible clear bottle fashioned in the shape of a skull. He could almost smell roses in the bouquet which would make for a very non-traditional addition. It was so improper and not British that he opened up his eyes in disbelief. Rose. Rose was believed to have been created when Aphrodite's tears for her lover Adonis mixed with his blood to grow the time-honored floral. While that devotion made for dramatic storytelling, Rasmus scoffed but stopped as inspiration struck him. He would add Turkish Rose harvested at peak during an auspicious holiday, and that would complete the perfume. Mid-stride to his perfume bench he looked back at the bottle and saw that the garish iridescence of the glass had been drained to crystalline clarity and its skull shape morphed into that of a full lipped, heavy lidded siren of perfectly coiled hair. And she spoke. It was like drowning and your vision hyper focuses on the beacon of freedom so you swim towards it but the voices are harrying you. Except this time, the dulcet tones pulsed out slowly like poplar bud absolute languishing in its creamy buttery dungeon.
"While my tears will perfect and finalize your perfume, I can enrich your silver-spooned life. I am Aphrodite and I have Chosen you. Should you say yes, be ready. I no longer need doves to perfume the Roman streets with the heady scent of rose."
Stunned with a head muffled with cotton and water, and attributing it to everything under the sun, Rasmus continued his trajectory and finished up his perfume with the missing ingredient. By the time he went back for a second glass, he found his newly purchased bottle of gin completely drained with wicked rose in its place.
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 1:07 pm
At first, Asher just thought it was the weed talking.
They had two days in a row off, and he'd just finished on a major delivery -- one that had netted him a tall stack of cash from a man in a very nice suit. He hadn't known what was in the package, and he hadn't exactly cared, either. They paid him to take it from here to there, and while he knew there was something quasi-illegal about it, he knew that the people he worked for were thieves and worse, Asher'd never had a problem with that.
He didn't ask questions, he didn't cause trouble, and he didn't indulge in existential crises about the questionable morality of his work. That's why they came to him.
Instead he took his tall stack of cash and carefully set a portion of it aside. Asher was good enough with money to know that, while he couldn't deposit this cash without getting into some trouble with the IRS, it wasn't smart to spend it all, either. Just peel off what you need -- a few large bills for rent, a couple middling sized one for food, and then a touch more, for recreation.
It was really good weed. They sat on the couch working their way through both it and a double pack of Spicy Chili Doritos, sprawled comfortably into the cushions, cartoons turned to a low, mindless drone on the television. They were only half-watching anyway, half talking about stupid s**t they'd seen in the daily madness of their lives. A van that had sideswiped Mike. A lost girl from Ukraine who spoke barely any English and stopped Alan on a street corner uptown, half the city away from where she needed to be -- got on a train in the wrong direction. A rat carrying an entire slice of pizza down the stairs into the subway. The usual.
It made Asher smile, absently, eyes half narrowed as he watched the television, chin up and arms akimbo. He half-listened without really contributing, too mellow in the moment to have anything important to add.
And he thought it was just the weed talking, when Finn lowered his sword and ignored the Land of Ooo to focus out of the television instead.
"Not that it seems like a bad Sunday, but is this really how you want to spend your life?" His tone was amused, more mild than the usual panicked voice acting the show had to offer. It made Asher blink, tipping his head: listening, but with both eyebrows raised like he still didn't really believe this would happen.
"A courier, in this modern day, is something I can get behind, but I think there are other ways you could further my goals." Finn paused -- shook his head -- and the white hood he wore transformed into a bronze, winged cap. The blade in his hand changed as well, into a cartoon Caduceus that matched his brand new winged gladiator sandals. In the realm of the cartoon, the young god opted for imagery that had served him well for thousands of years: a golden-curled young man with a bit of an impish smile and a cocky attitude.
"I am Hermes, you may have heard of me, and I'm here to give you a better opportunity. I have Chosen you, and if you accept my blessing, it'll mean a brand new life." Idly, he cocked his cap, and as he did, Asher shoot a disbelieving look around the room. Alan was going on about the Ukrainan girl again, in language that made Liz roll her eyes, and none of them seemed to notice what was going on in their cartoons. Asher started to say something, but was silenced by a quiet tut tut from the god on the screen.
"Don't forget about this, kid. Someone'll be by in in the next week to recruit you possibly, and you'll say yes, because who hasn't always wanted a bit of magic in his life?"
This time, Asher's tongue freed itself; he raised a hand to point to the screen, eyes flashing onto Mike, "Did you see that?"
But before he'd even finished speaking the thought aloud, Hermes was gone. All that was left to see was a boy and his dog and amused glances from his friends.
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 1:27 pm
Being sent home on yet another suspension was nothing new for Eden. His parents wouldn't be around to do anything about it anyways, and it wasn't like they ever cared when it did happen. He slipped the paper that required a parent's signature in the garbage as he slid into the empty house. By this point, the school just gave this to him for formal purposes, but he knew the the administrators talked about it. Trouble maker, where were his parents? Who had raised him? Why was he still allowed into the public school?
He slid the brightly decorated backpack on to the ground and flopped on the couch, starting up his favorite shows. It was just mindless noise really, so he didn't feel alone in the apartment. He watched numblessly for a bit before getting bored and heading into his room.
He always heard it from the guys at his school, but the amount of colors in his room seemed like something a girl would be interested in. The clothes that littered the floor were both masculine and feminine and were the abandoned creations of his when he didn't think they flowed the way he wanted. A sewing machine, the only gift he had ever received from his parents and the only item he had ever asked for was placed in a neat orderly desk. It's probably why he treasured it so. He slid the arm bands off, followed by his vest and then shirt, opting to work in his tank top rather then risk the stylish sleeves getting hooked under the needle. A laptop sat opened next to the machine, with a young pretty model decorated in skaterish style, something that Eden wanted to emulate into his own.
He clicked the play for his itunes on the laptop, and went about gathering the fabric colors he wanted. The music was a soft low ballad, most likely in korean, but was followed by the thrumming loudness of shinedown and then replaced by a orchestra of instruments. He had been so deep into his work, that when he had heard the voice, he actually thought it was his mother, making a rare visit home. He prepared himself for her displeasure of his room, or the fact that he was even home on a school day but it never came.
"I appreciate your talent more then she would." The music had stopped, and there was no one around, making Eden blink. The only think able to have sound would've been the laptop so...
"Ah see. You have such an eye for color." The model he had been trying to copy had shifted, into something he wasn't sure. Prettier, almost hurtfully so. Talking. TALKING TO HIM.
"You have such a magic about you. It is why I have chosen you." The model's laugh was wispy and alluring, and Eden rubbed his eyes, because obviously this was madness and maybe it was some sort of virus.
"Good looks, Good fashion sense. If you want, I would give you the magic to make it real." The model reached out her hand, as if offering, "For I am Aphrodite, the goddess of Love and Beauty. Things you desire and things you possess..." She brought her other hand up, "Would be yours, if you accept my blessing." She let her hands fall.
"Do not forget this, when they come to find you. It would be a shame, to see a jewel be deserted in the sands." Eden blinked again, and the model had been the same as when he started. he blinked again and the music was on something low and classy, and he was sure...he was sure he could hear a small laugh echo in the room as he finished the piece he was working on. Never noticing the small rose design that had been placed on the corner of the outfit.
Word Count: 647
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 1:39 pm
The man was too tall to be the one that Lincoln was looking for.
He was also too thin. Unhealthily thin, with a thatch of straw colored hair that looked like wheat next to his pasty colored face and sunken gray-green eyes. Lincoln had been watching him for some time, expecting him to meet with someone who was the one that he was trying to locate, but to no avail. All the man had done so far was take two shots from the bar and down them with a round of hacking coughs that sounded like a chainsaw.
It was annoying, really. He'd been on this particular case for two weeks now, with little result, and the less results that Lincoln had, the less funds he had for bills that kept stacking as a result. Trying to make a living out of something that was, for the most part, nothing, was not an easy task, and while it was a career path that Lincoln had not intended to take, but had worked within what he had to go off of.
He rustled the magazine in his hands, but something about the picture on the page he was reading seemed to shift. Lincoln's eyes flickered towards it, a slight frown on his face; he could have sworn that it had moved, but that would have been ridiculous.
Except - that it did. A strong jawed man with a scar across a cheek was smirking at him from his picture, a grin spreading across his face. And the caption beneath the picture, which was nothing but a photographer's credit, was rearranging itself, letters mixing back and forth, the words melting away like candle wax.
Lincoln gripped the magazine a little more tightly, maintaining his rigid composure for the sake of those around him, but he felt his chest tighten a little. Around him, everyone else was reading books or the newspaper, sipping soda or downing alcohol, the late afternoon sun filtering in hazily through the bar window.
The caption under the picture had spelled something out now:
My name is Ares. And I have Chosen you.
Lincoln stared. For a moment, he considered simply tossing the magazine in the trash and walking out, but he couldn't quite seem to pull his focus away, try as he might, the peculiar occurrence drawing him in in spite of his wariness and confusion.
If you accept me and my blessing, I will give you a renewed life, one with more gifts than you could ever imagine.
Lincoln did not understand, and was not entirely sure that he wanted to. His mouth opened and then shut again, a look of grim suspicion overtaking the wariness - but before he could say or do anything to figure out what had happened, it was gone. The picture was frozen into a superciliously smiling politician once more, and the caption beneath read:
Courtesy of Sera Photography.
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 2:01 pm
Mal hated the dead kids. He hated having to have their parents identify them, he hated having to deal with bright, impassioned young lives cut short. Which of them might have gone on to save lives or change the world?
He waved the attendant off as he escorted the bereaved parent out. The ME and he were old friends; he knew she wouldn't mind if he finished his paperwork in her office. She was one of those no-more-paper types, and he was still old fashioned enough to prefer the print outs in hand when he filled out forms, so her office was virtually empty.
The work was grinding. Grueling. And sometimes he wondered if destroying a parent's hope by telling them their child really was dead was worth it. Why not leave it open? Hope was important. Some part of him always warred with the rules on cases like these.
He used the monotony of the paperwork to bury the voice; did so so well that he paid no attention to the passage of time.
It was his own mistake.
He surfaced slowly, like breaching heavy water, to the non-sound of the morgue in silence. Silence, except for a tap tap tap-ing. If Mal were inclined to flights of fancy, he would have wondered if he was in a Poe tale. Dark, empty morgue, something tapping? Poe-- or Stephen King.
He left the paperwork and listened. At each doorway he stopped, head cocked, listening for the tap tap tap to continue. After the second, he had his gun out, tilted at the angle to keep him least likely to die before he could get it up to a firing angle.
Tap tap tap.
Tap tap tap.
He came around the last corner carefully, spine against the jamb. By now the tapping was dragging on his nerves more than he was even curious about it. He just wanted the creeping tap tap taping to stop.
Mal stared at the room. It was a cold room, narrow, with sixteen small rectangular doors set in a wall, minimal space between them. There was no ornamentation here, only tile and linoleum, a sink and a drain in the floor. Nothing to make that tap tap tapping.
And it was quiet now, even if it was the kind of quiet that made Mal's nerves tighten, inch by inch as the seconds dragged on like hours, until his hands were tight around his gun.
Tap tap tap.
He was sweating as he took a step into the room. He would have to put an ear to each door, and he would. What if someone was alive in there, had been in there for-- hours? Days? Horrifying thought.
It was the third door of the third row that he finally pulled open. It was eye level to him; unnerving in the extreme to pull the door open and have a corpse's face at level with your own. And it was a corpse; this was the poor b*****d who had fried himself, an accidental death but in no way anything a detective needed to investigate.
Except the body moved. The head turned toward him and coughed in his face; Mal grimaced at the puff of stale old air.
"I am Zeus," came the voice, deep and booming all out of proportion to the fact that it was coming from a body that was shedding charred bits from the turn of head. "I have Chosen you, Mal. Someone will come by to recruit you in the next week, and if you want to help those people you worry for, you'll accept. Who doesn't want to help those who can't?"
Another cough in his face made Mal rear back; the rolling shelf snapped back inside and the door popped shut behind it with a hearty thump. It left Mal alone with the stale smell of old charring in his nose and sweat drying on his skin, and the words whirling a little in his head.
If you want to help...
He put in his notice before he was recruited. Who wouldn't say yes to an opportunity like that?
(word count: 68 cool
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 2:39 pm
The twilight hour always found Gretta sitting at the broad, scuffed oak table that had been in the family for as long as she could remember - and certainly beyond that. It was almost custom for her to sit alone in the cozy kitchen (away from where the guests took their meals), hot cup of tea at her elbow, a plate of lemon cookies (too many lemon cookies) just next to it, and a crossword book spread out before her.
It was almost enough to keep the nagging loneliness at bay. Almost.
Oh, how her heart ached to find someone to share this near-perfect life with. Gretta yearned for a family; a significant other, a few kids. Maybe a dog or two. After all, Gretta was never happier than she was when she was looking after the well-being and happiness of others.
The steam that curled skyward from her chamomile tea had her attention - something to focus on while she was completely lost in her thoughts. She wasn't one to ever feel sorry for herself, generally speaking. Life was just fine, really, all things considered. Her business was comfortably successful, and Gretta was lucky enough to be doing something that she loved dearly. She had good friends and great staff; the woman was truly blessed.
She just couldn't shake the feeling of wanting and needing something more. Not more money, more success, more business.
Something else.
Something bigger than herself. Something that was greater than she was.
Shaking herself from her thoughts, Gretta took a sip of her rapidly-cooling tea and leaned back in her chair. It creaked beneath her weight and she gave a low grunt of annoyance as she rose to her slippered feet. Dashing the tea into the sink, Gretta crammed a cookie into her mouth and leaned against the countertop with her arms crossed over her chest. She hated feeling sorry for herself - it went against everything she believed in, everything she stood for.
Mutinously, Gretta snarfed down another cookie as she dampened a dishtowel so that she could clean the well-used tabletop that she'd just vacated. So deep she was in her thoughts that Gretta didn't notice a young woman standing in the doorway to the dining room until she was done cleaning the table (and the chairs for good measure).
"Oh, my, I'm so sorry dear. I didn't see you standing there and," Gretta paused, a curious look drifting across her face, "I don't think... well, dear, check-in is at nine in the morning and I'm afraid I don't have a room available right now."
The young woman chuckled and her voice had an almost ethereal quality when she spoke in soft, dulcet tones.
"I am Hera, and I have Chosen you. If you accept my blessing, someone will come by within the next week to recruit you, and you will say yes, because it will mean magic in your life."
She paused, and for a moment Gretta could have sworn that her fair skin was almost glowing.
"Something more, Gretta."
Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, Gretta rubbed very briefly before lowering her hands. She stared at where Hera had stood for almost an eternity before making her way to bed. She slept well that night, and the next morning Gretta made plans to take some time away from the Inn.
She didn't know what was in store for her, and Gretta certainly wasn't sure if it was something that she would be interested in - but the call of something more was far too enticing for Gretta to turn away from.
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 2:55 pm
Growling a little under her breath, Theo sighed as she finished prepping the buckets of chopped up fish and vitamins that were meant as a meal for the aquarium residents. Carefully heading for the sink, she stripped off bloodied gloves, tossing them into the biohazard can before turning the tap on and thoroughly scrubbing her arms up to the elbow.
“Oh yeah,” she muttered, wondering where the feeding crew had got to. “This is the glamorous life of a marine biologist. This sort of grunt work is exactly why I signed up.”
Another few minutes spent waiting and Theo finally gave up. The feeders knew their job. She didn’t have to stick around. And since her shift for the day was technically up, she figured she might as well wander the aquarium and try to relax. She didn’t want to be around people though. Or at least, not the sort of people currently stumbling blithely through the giant tanks of water. The sort of ignorant human sludge who thought banging their hands on the tank glass was funny. The sort who grumbled and groaned because Why aren’t the fish doing anything, Sharon? Oh, I don’t know, Michael, give the glass another tap!
It was infuriating. And the way they acted at the dolphin and sting ray pools was even worse. Throwing their trash in the water, trying to feed the animals bits of cold, greasy fries. A louder growl burst from Theo at the turn her thoughts had taken. No, she didn’t want to deal with people right now. Not when she’d gotten nothing but rejection letters in answer to her attempts to join a tagging expedition. Not when people weren’t letting her do her bit to try and save all of the amazing things under the ******** heading unconsciously to the shark exhibit, Theo heaved a sigh of almost contentment as she took the the people mover into the practically empty room. Here, she could sit in blessed coolness and feel as if she was underwater, doing nothing more than staring up at the gracefully swimming fish. This sort of thing was better than the normal tanks, she thought. Above, a nurse shark swam by and Theo reached up, standing on tiptoe to brush her fingertips against the glass.
“Hey Murray. Glad to see you still swimming.”
Smiling, she headed for a bench near one of the ever-droning televisions that did nothing but spout shark facts. With a sigh, she sank down and took over the bench, laying on her back, eyes focusing somewhere beyond the glass and artificial habitat.
“The nurse and lemon sharks on display here are two of the more docile shark species alive today. So docile that we can actually include younger sharks in the petting pools above.”
A snort from Theo as she half listened and then began to imagine some of those awful people trying to pet a shark and losing fingers. It made for a pleasing enough mental image.
“Docile? That’s what they’re calling sharks now? Docile?” a strong, male voice came out of the television, sounding highly affronted. Shooting into a sitting position, Theo stared at the TV. The normal recording was a pleasantly bland female voice. As she stared, a ruggedly handsome male face replaced Missus Bland, flickering in and out of focus. Theo had the impression of tan skin, black hair and flashing eyes. Then, the face was gone, but the voice persisted, coming out of Missus Bland’s mouth.
“This is where you’ve beached yourself, little Theodosia? Almost as much of a crime as calling one of the most perfect apex predators in my realm docile. You’re better than this, Theodosia. We both know it.”
The female presenter’s face took on a stern expression as the masculine voice continued, “I am Poseidon, Theodosia. I have Chosen you. Accept my blessing and speak to the one who will be coming for you within the next week. Remember this. Say yes when they ask and magic such as you’ve only dreamed of can be yours. You won’t need a tagging expedition to make a difference for the creatures you’ve chosen to champion. Say yes, Theodosia.”
And just like that, the masculine voice faded, leaving the woman onscreen to drone on about predator and prey and inviting people to see the next feeding show. Theo sat, wide-eyed, not really listening. The voice and words had struck a deep chord and as she staggered to her feet, she saw Murray the shark swim by and breathed out a single word.
“Yes.”
Word Count: 766
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 3:02 pm
It had been a slow day in the prison: the kind spent sitting in front of banks of monitors in the observation deck, each silent feeds of black-and-white portions of hallways, doors, a couple trained on individual cells. One in the Hole, to monitor what unlucky p***k had made the decision to be shoved in there. There was nothing to report -- nothing to do, nothing to investigate. He'd cleared everything up the week prior.
He was nothing if not thorough. He'd rooted out every single bad seed, every single violation, everything that wasn't right, and turned it all in. All of it, every single one.
In the meantime, it meant that Ewan had a lot of downtime, meant that he could hit the snack machines or lounge around in the employee break room, watching crappy soap operas, or just wander around with his headphones in his ears -- which was what he did most of the time. The music he listened to was so loud that it filtered out of his headphones and existed around him in a cloud of rumbling bass.
At this point, he was sitting in the observation deck with his feet up on the console, half-awake, with Cannibal Corpse pounding into his head -- not really watching, not really sleeping, either. Anyone walking in would think he was asleep, until they saw his foot tapping, an unconscious rhythm that was still perfectly on time.
Another hour would pass in this peaceful sort of state -- Ewan could hardly call it "work" -- when he jerked up, feet slamming down off of the console, looking around the room.
Someone had said his name. How he'd heard it over his music was anyone's guess, but he'd heard it -- Ewan.
He paused, thumbing the volume down, listening; dark eyes trained on nothing, full mouth pulled down at the corners. He ran a hand through his hair -- not bothering to admit that he was nervous, and he probably wouldn't have accepted it as truth even if he'd admitted it.
And then again, just a quiet whisper, like it was quieter because the music was off: Ewan.
Bad-temperedly, because it had interrupted his not-quite-work, Ewan sat back in his chair and asked, "What?!"
The voice, when it spoke again, was exactly the kind of death growl he was used to, minus the thundering drums and bass and guitar:
This is Zeus, king of all the gods, and I have Chosen you, Ewan. If you accept my blessing, someone will come by within the next week to recruit you, and you will say yes, because it will mean magic in your life.
There was no response after that, and it left Ewan blinking confusedly, even going so far as to pull his headphones off to look around the room. If this was a prank, someone was going to get cited. Both unnerving and fitting, he thought, to hear a death growl, coming from something that claimed to be Zeus, on its own.
But there wasn't -- just the words lingering in Ewan's head, the promise of a new life, new power -- and the sharp, distinct smell of ozone in the air, like after a lightning strike.
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(word count: 535 words)
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phoenix kiss Vice Captain
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 3:07 pm
The lights in the club pulsed to the beat of the music that poured out of the speakers. Heat rose above the moving bodies on the dance floor in almost visible ripples, but there was cold ice in the liquor and a lightness in the hearts below her. Above them the Technicolor Butterfly fluttered on a breeze made of booze and something she had taken a little bit ago that erased life’s harsh edges and opened her soul up to the caress of the melody. The base beat in her chest, but it was hard to tell now if it was the beat that set the rhythm or if it was her heart that echoed out of the speakers. It didn’t really matter though. Maybe her soul sang for the crowd or maybe it was just in her head, but either way, they were drinking it up like water on parched earth. The base dropped and she swayed, her dark eyes sweeping over the crowd of faceless bodies. She carried them on invisible, rainbow wings, wrapping them in ribbons of color. But there… someone caught her eyes. It was just for a moment… just a flash of a sunny smile and tumbling curls, toned body moving along to the beat, and then the crowd closed around him and it was a sea of indistinct faces again. She gave a mental shrug as she let herself fade back into the music, her fingers swiping across the surface of her tablet to raise the drum levels till her skin shivered, but the moment caught in her brain. It was like a snag in your nail, mostly ignored, but reminding you it was there every time you touched something and threads caught on it. It was just a guy. What did one guy matter? She was surrounded by guys, and if she wanted one, all she had to do was offering him a sweet smile. She didn’t even know him, even if his face seemed familiar. The world settling into a hazy, happy blur again as she performed, even with that nagging feeling. By the end of this set, she was more than ready for the drink that waited for her at the bar, and the DJ dived into the crowd like a fish into water. She swayed and moved with them as she waded through, Taller heads and shoulders blocking her few and hemming her in with a comfortable darkness. Perfume and sweat and alcohol assaulted her nose, but it was normal, expected even. This is what a club was like, in the thick of it. A sudden surge around her and she felt herself thrown against a body, arms closing around her in a way that was more than just to steady her on her feet. She could feel the shift of muscle under her fingers through the thin jersey of a shirt and when she looked up, she caught another of those sunny smiles and eyes that seemed to know her, even if she didn’t know the man that held her now. Did she know him…? But then another surge and the arms were gone. She stood alone, or as much as one could be a crowd, with no sign of the smiling man. He couldn’t have left that fast, not in this press, but there were no bright curls around her, no laughing eyes. The music poured over the crowd in a wave of sound, her set up running through the playlist she had left to hold everyone over while she took a break. She knew this song, had mixed it herself, and knew the girl singing was doing so in Japanese. She remembered being in the little make-shift recording studio and working on the translation with her so the lyrics were right, since she didn’t speak Japanese herself, despite where she got her eyes from. They were in Japanese… but she understood them as though they were sung in english. And the words had changed, though they still lilted to the melody line. I am the eye with which the Universe
Beholds itself, and knows it is divine; Sidney James stood still as the crowd moved like the tide around her, lost in the music. All harmony of instrument or verse,
All prophecy, all medicine, is mine, The voice of the singer changed, growing deeper, more masculine. All light of art or nature; - to my song
Victory and praise in its own right belong. It swelled, blocking out everything else, and in her drug-induced haze, Sid couldn’t seem to fight her way out of it. But… did she even want to? The song was seductive and full of promise. She’d never fought these feelings before… why start now? All she had to do was let go and maybe she’d finally break free… the music would wash away everything and she’d be clean again, shining with light and color the way she was meant to be. I am Apollo. A voice whispered in her ear. Or sang. She couldn’t be sure any more. Everything was blurring together. Was that a flash of the stage lights, or someone smiling at her? You belong to me. Your life is going to change. Someone is coming who will explain. All you have to do… is say Yes.And then, suddenly… the world snapped back into focus and the thrum of the music faded down to its usual chest-thumping level. Sid darted a glance about, but no one was paying the slightest attention to her. No more sunny smiles or tall young men with curling hair. Reality, as harshly edged as ever and only slightly dulled by what was running through her body. What… what was that?It was too easy to pass it off as the drugs she had taken, but something still nagged at her when she considered it. Something had changed, and Sid wasn’t sure just what. * Hymn of Apollo by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 4:00 pm
Word count: 1095 words
"Holy s**t! Dad, there's so much!"
Ellie's eyes glittered as she rushed inside; one hand smearing away the sweat along her temples as the other slid the basket of tomatoes onto the counter next to the bounty of fruits and vegetables plucked from Osmond's garden. The smile that matched the brightness of her eyes waned to a glint when the man turned to her from the sink and frowned deeply.
"Hey, young lady," he said, drying his hands with a towel. "Watch your language."
"Sorry, sorry," the fifteen year old sighed, rolling her eyes. "Holy crap, there's so much." Her eyes flickered up to her father. "How do you do it? I mean, I know you've always had a green thumb, but what you haul in every summer is, like, unbelievable. Is there something special that you do, dad?"
Osmond chuckled and shook his head. "Y'know, every year you ask that question and I say the same thing," he said. "I don't do anything special, it's just how things grow. Direct those questions to nature, not me." He then cocked his chin as the basket she brought in. "Hey, you hungry? I'll make us some sandwiches if you want."
Ellie pushed the basket to him across the counter. "Yea, I'm—what's that word you told me—famished. Yea, I'm famished. Make 'em tall and towering."
"You got it."
When Osmond turned about and began to pull the required items for their meal from the fridge, Ellie dropped her gaze to the fruits and vegetables. In that moment, the mirth she wore segued to a pensive look, almost sorrowful. She leaned forward and rolled the cucumber in front of her, molding her thoughts into something concrete, before looking to Osmond's back.
"Hey, um, dad?" Ellie said, her tone sounding small and faraway.
"Yea?" Osmond glanced at her over his shoulder. "What's up?"
"Mom, um... Mom was talking to me yesterday. She... She said we can't do this anymore."
Osmond had extended an arm to take the basket of tomatoes, but when Ellie said this, his hand stopped mid-movement and he leveled blank eyes at her. "I, wha—" he said, before his stomach dropped and his regret morphed into a short, uncertain laugh.
Yet, when Ellie didn't share his chortle, instead keeping her glassy eyes trained on him beneath a small frown, that's when he registered she was serious. He scratched the back of his neck and pursed his lips, unsure of what to say next.
"Did... Did Mei say why?" he asked, his tone now as small and faraway as his daughter's. "Is it because I asked to see you more often? Or because I bought you that tablet for you birthday? I know she said no to that but—"
Ellie shook her head. "No, no it's not any of that, dad," she said. "Mom said she wants to move. She said she's found a really nice house for us to live in, but it's a few states over and..."
Osmond ran a hand over his face. "s**t..." he muttered.
"I-I tried to talk to her, dad, really!" Ellie cried. "I said maybe you can drive over to pick me up, or when I get my license I can drive to visit you, but she said no. She wasn't having any of that..." She averted her eyes to the cabinets down below. "She said... it is time I let go and... move on. Realize I don't really... need you in my life. But I do, dad, I do, and if mom didn't have custody of me I'd—"
Ellie's voice drifted away and the world went quiet. Osmond's eyes widened to the whites as he became aware of something; something unearthly, intrusive, but benign. Soon, a voice called out to him, and the man's body froze.
"—Osmond Rosalind—"
His hackles stiffened ramrod straight and his eyes darted left and right in bewildered confusion. Ellie's voice came to a stop as she took on her father.
"Dad?" she said to him, concerned. "Dad, are you okay?"
Suddenly, Osmond darted from the kitchen. Ellie jumped at his speed; chasing after him as he rushed from the kitchen, through the foyer, and into the bathroom down the hall.
"Hey, d-dad!" Ellie cried as the door was slammed in her face. She began to knock, and then bang, on the door in desperation. "Dad, are you okay? I-is this about mom? Do you have to take a bad s**t or something? Hey, come on dad, talk to me!"
Osmond shivered. "J-just a moment, sweetheart," he called out to her as steadily as he could, though his right leg jumped with restless abandon from his seat on the toilet. "I'm fine, I'm fine, just got to... Yea, take a s**t. I'm okay."
Ellie backpedaled a step, and then another, and then another with her eyes still trained on the door. "Okay..." she said tentatively. "I'll be in the kitchen, then."
Osmond swallowed thickly and clutched a hand onto his knee as if to prevent his jiggling leg from jumping off his body. The voice called out to him again, insistent this time, and the man leaned back against the toilet and raised a hand to signal he was present and listening.
"Osmond, it is I, Demeter," the goddess said to him. He felt the words pass through him and envelop his chest with ethereal ease. "I come to you now in earnest. I have chosen you, Osmond, for I have recognized your talents. You appreciate growth; not only in your fellow man and children, but in the bounty of nature as well. Accept my blessing, Osmond, and receive a gift to aide in your pursuits. Say yes, and a person will come to you in a week's time to recruit you. It will bring change in your life, a growth, but a growth that you will appreciate. Will you say yes, Osmond?"
Every fiber of his being was screaming in the negative, but he dipped his chin, unable to deny the desire bellied beneath the reluctance. "Yes," he said. "I accept."
Demeter seemed pleased with that response as their presence slipped away like a shadow. Osmond slumped down lower on the toilet and let out a breath as he was left in the company of himself.
When he exited the bathroom, he saw Ellie standing at the end of the corridor, and then her words came flooding back to him. Running a hand through his hair and letting out his umpteenth breath, Osmond said, "Sheesh... This... This couldn't have more awful timing..."
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 4:44 pm
It wasn’t his own bed he’d woken up in that morning and that had been about the most normal part of an exceptionally strange day. She had been getting over the loss of her husband and he had just needed to scratch an itch. He was gone before she woke up, back in his own home, his sanctuary and temple. He made his own hours in his line of work, but he enjoyed what he did and so by choice worked long hours and got by rather well. There was the daily routine, checking the websites, replying to emails, answering the phone to various people wanting to check in on the status of their loved ones (or pets) and in the evening his more personal one to one readings every day of the week. Sometimes he held dinner parties because he enjoyed cooking and when he was bored of people, he played the piano. When he interacted with people it was always in a position of relative authority, they came to him when they were truly desperate and had exhausted all rational choices in their pursuit of closure. That was possibly the nicest feeling out of all of it, knowing that he was needed by people weaker than he was, elevated by their willingness to buy into whatever he told them and given the voice of god as he pronounced forgiveness on their sins.
Still, with the job did come a certain degree of distance, with most of his clients he had to remain mysterious and keep familiarity and frank communication to a minimum, telling them only what they wanted to hear and nothing of his innermost thoughts. This had its downsides and meant that when it came to being treated like a human being he was restricted to the internet (which he disliked for various reasons) or driving quite far away from his home to bars and other less pleasant places for a bit of company. It left him feeling unfulfilled, the way everything seemed to and it all left him torn between whether he preferred the relaxation of solitude and control or the tense unpredictability of free social interaction.
But today was business, last night had been pleasure.
The emails were for the most part the usual fare, people asking for star chart readings, psychic feedback from their loved ones and the typical correspondence with his more long-term clientele (most of whom were old, usually wealthy and rather fond of their charming Jan) but one caught his attention above the others. For one thing, it didn’t have a sender listed at all and was titled simply “You will read this”.
It was correct, he did.
It didn’t look like spam - in fact it would not let itself be deleted at all, the delete button completely missing from his inbox - and it addressed him by his name. Not the names he used here in Florida with his clients, not the names he used online. It addressed him as Lawrence and that fact alone was enough to make him freeze up like a deer in the headlights.
The message was simple, it said -
“Lawrence, You have been Chosen. I am Hermes and if you accept my blessing then your life will change forever. Someone will arrive within the next week to recruit you should you say yes.”
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much, it was obviously just a virus, something meddling with his computer. Suddenly rather irate he shut it down, intending to have the entire laptop looked at later on and right now in no mood to be dealing with frustrations in his routine.
But even with the computer closed and set aside, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why Hermes? Why a greek deity? It was a name most frequently encountered in post offices and mail couriers in the modern day, hardly the first choice of a hacker or someone online, individuals who usually sought out gravitas and fame. With no small degree of exasperation he realised it was almost certainly a side effect of the time he spent on conspiracy and supernatural forums researching his target audience which attracted no end of idiots and nutjobs. It was probably someone’s ill-fated attempt at an ARG. He was not in the mood for games. This rattled he wasn’t really in the mood for any silliness at all and when shaken he had quite the temper.
The phone rang, and he picked up, sitting down in his large comfortable couch, stroking Houdini (one of his many cats) which had chosen the opportunity to settle there. To his further irritation it wasn’t anyone he recognised (and it should have been, this was not his business phone), in fact, it wasn’t anyone at all, just silence for a few long crackling moments. When he moved to hang up, they spoke, a smiling voice stating. “You will say yes.”
He froze again. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped, clenching his hands with a jangle of his many bangles.
“Hermes. Like you were told in the email.”
“Where did you get my number?”
And now the television was echoing the voice on the phone, without lag or delay, without the usual interference of transmission.
“Funny isn’t it? I’m telling you your future for a change. Yes or No Lawrence.”
He should have said no. He really should have said no. It was never wise to agree to anything. But he’d been here a while and he hadn’t found what he was looking for, another country, another life, another self. It hadn’t solved his problems, but maybe it had led him to this.
He exhaled in exasperation, at himself, at his life, at the decisions which had brought him to this utterly absurd moment.
“Fine.”
“Yes or No.” the voice repeated, evidently not about to be beaten at a game of control by him.
“Yes.” he said sulkily, and the line went dead.
He hung up and rubbed his temples. Houdini, oblivious to his master’s plight, sleepily kneaded his chest and got black hairs all over his fancy silk shirt.
1021 words
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 5:13 pm
The Nag's Head was in rare form this evening, packed full of people and rowdy conversation, the alcohol flowing like, well, wine. And Rob was in the thick of it, which was precisely where he liked to be. He held court at his preferred spot, at the corner of the bar, a veritable barricade of empty beer glasses in front of him. This was his favorite bar in the entire city -- it was more a pub, really, almost a proper English pub, and that was why he liked it. It filled a hole in his soul, the hole that had been carved out when his family had relocated from London for work. Everything he'd done since arriving in the States had become an act to mask the ache in his heart for his home. The only time he felt honest was when he was well lubricated with booze and playing the punk, like he was now.
Downing the last of his beer, he slammed the empty glass on the bar and grinned at the bartender, a really cute bird he'd been flirting with for ages. He didn't care that he was getting nowhere with her, he was only doing it for sport anyway. "Oi! Another round, love!" The bartender, hearing him over the din of the crowded bar, grinned back and nodded to indicate she'd be with him in a minute. Pushing a couple of stray blond dreadlocks off his face, Rob turned to listen to the discussion going on next to him, barely audible over the raucous barflies filling the rest of the place. He didn't know what they were talking about, but it didn't matter to him. He would find his own tuppence to add.
He was just about to barge in on the conversation when a pint glass appeared in front of him, filled with a dark brew. "Cheers, love," he said reflexively as he took the glass.
"Cheers yourself, love," a voice that wasn't the bartender's replied. In fact, the voice was clearly male. When did they hire another bartender? And a smartarse to boot? Looking up, he found himself staring into a youthful yet bearded face. "You're just my type, too," the man added, dark eyes twinkling.
"Now hang on a minute…" The room started swimming and Rob steadied himself against the bar. He didn't usually feel the effects of beer like this. He took a sip from the glass the man had handed him; the liquor had a heady aroma and a rich, fruity undertone he'd never experienced in a beer before. Almost like a lambic, but much more intense, much stronger. It was amazing.
Looking up again, he found the young man's face close to his, close enough to smell wine on his breath as he spoke. "I am Dionysus, and I have Chosen you, Robin. No, not for anything like that, that's Aphrodite's area. I have my own blessing to offer you. If you accept, it will change you forever. And couldn't you do with a little change?" The young man chuckled, and Rob realized there were leaves in the guy's long dark hair, like a wreath. "Sometime in the next week, someone will be by to recruit you. And you'll say yes, won't you? It will mean magic and so much more in your life." Raising his drinking cup, he touched Rob's glass. "Cheers."
Rob, wide-eyed, nodded. He didn't know what else to do, so he tipped the glass and drank deeply. When he set the now-empty glass on the bar, the young man was gone. "Cheers, mate," he said under his breath.
(word count: 606)
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 5:31 pm
He had been sitting in church. It was a place he would have expected God to speak to him, and he was open to hearing. But there was a difference between God and a god.
The lesson was good. He didn't remember every sermon he had ever attended. But he didn't remember every meal he had ever eaten. Still, the weekly messages sustained him. He was happy in this community, or as happy as he got, which amounted to a warm feeling permeating the constant gloom. The churches he had attended in childhood weren't loaded with fire and brimstone, exactly, but a tirade of politics and statistics. The youth, the atheists, satan lurking in music and fantasy novels with a side dish of depth in scripture, which meant marinating on the meaning of a greek word (etymology) and how it applied to abortion, and the roles of Men and Women. With all the greek, maybe he should have been less surprised now. Even if his current church talked more importantly of kindness, of our personal responsibility to the community. To our neighbours. Our brothers and sisters. This, he longed to hear. Threads of connection instead of division. Whenever he had searched scriptures for condemnation, to wrench the ever-weary battle of sin and temptation out of him, he had instead found messages of forgiveness. Peace. Mercy. Grace. It was this he had looked for in a church.
He knew the pastor and her husband. They were earnest. A little high-strung (they had the gift of leadership, and she liked things just so) but still put aside time in the blur of administration and schedules for someone who needed them.
So in the middle of her sermon, holding the paper program and writing notes while Claire recited, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness, RODNEY MICHAELS," he straightened up with a start.
Claire was looking directly at him. He was in the very back. Sometimes their eyes met, but he knew that was a speaking technique. Make eye contact with members of the crowd, look towards the back (where he was), but this was more than a casual scan.
Worse, he expected a laugh from the rest of the congregation, recognising that she was...kidding with him, a little, but everyone else was quiet. He didn't think they'd even noticed.
"Me?" he whispered.
"Yes, you. RODNEY MICHAELS. Will you answer my call?"
He swallowed, "God?"
"HEPHAESTUS. If you accept my gifts, I will send you one of my messengers. You will leave your current life. You will see wonders. You have been Chosen. ACCEPT, RODNEY MICHAELS."
Rodney looked around again. Claire was still looking at him. Was he hallucinating? The only thing he'd taken was his allergy medication. Was he being tested? Was it demons? Was he mad? Still, he was supposed to be open, wasn't he? Open for the word of God, to listen. But...this hadn't been what he expected.
"I'm listening," he said quietly, "I accept. What...what do you want me to...?"
But just like that, everything seemed to blur back into focus. The sermon snapped back at a later verse. Claire was looking somewhere else. And Rodney was left wondering what had happened, what he'd done, and...what was going to happen to him.
(550 words)
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 6:09 pm
Heavy boots thudded on the pavement outside the old, grungy apartment complex Whittaker had tracked his target to. This one was particularly erratic - after a week of research and two of tracking, the only thing he had begun to know for certain was how absolutely uncertain this man was. He had skipped out on his court date for drug trafficking some three months ago and seemed to do a great job of bouncing between home after home. With no real job and no real residence, he probably thought he was invincible.
Whittaker had decided, in a moment of pure irritation, to simply wait him out until he returned to his girlfriend’s place. Well, his second girlfriend if the burly blonde had been reading the signs right.
With no hesitation, the man ascended the stairs and brought himself to the front door of apartment B5. It was painted red but peeling at the edges, exposing the cheap wood beneath the years of water damage. Maybe it was his imagination, but he was sure he could smell the mold in the air. His fist hit so hard on the door he thought he might splinter it just from the combination of his own strength and the decay it had already experienced. Who even managed to get this shithole to pass code these days?
“Who’s there?”
It took everything in Whitt’s power not to just shoulder the door open when he heard the lock, but he managed to retain his composure as he held up a toolbox to the bloodshot eyes peering through the crack.
“Maintenance.”
It was almost pitiful how easily people with drug-addled brains were willing to believe such a simple concept, especially when they had never even called anyone for maintenance. The door swung wide and the woman, a mousy girl with tan skin and hair that probably hadn’t been washed in weeks, offered him a lopsided smile. The teeth that her lips revealed were half rotted and varying shades of several unfortunate colors - he did his best to let his eyes slip past them without insult. She wasn’t his target, after all, and he didn’t care if she wanted to turn her brain into a pile of mush.
His target was the man sprawled out on the couch with the glazed look in his eye, staring at a tv commercial as if it were imparting the knowledge of God. He took a few steps forward and sat his toolbox on the corner table lightly, doing his best not to make any sudden noises or movements that would alert the sack of bones draped across the mouth-eaten cushions. This would be much easier if he could slap on the handcuffs and just toss him over his shoulder before the man had time to even process what was happening. Behind him somewhere, he could hear the woman talking about making dinner or a snack or some other arbitrary nonsense, so he offered a shrug of acknowledgement. Once her bare feet were smacking across the linoleum he could turn his complete attention on what he was here to do.
“Tomas Whittaker”
The man’s bronzy fingers had just closed around the cool metal of his handcuffs when he heard his name spoken clearly from the cracked lips of the man. Smoky, jade eyes snapped up in alarm, leveling on the pale creature and finding with some level of surprise that the cool blues were staring back him with an unlikely amount of clarity. Gone was the dazed look Mr. Jones had turned on the television set and now, instead, he offered something more akin to knowledge and.. pride.
“I’m sorry, I think you must be mistaken,” he began, shaking his head so that he felt the bun bobbing at the crown of his head.
“I do not think that I am, Whittaker. I am Ares, and I have Chosen you. I know you.”
Whittaker opened his mouth to protest, though all he managed for the moment was a slight raise of his brows. Had this meth head just gone completely off of his rocker? The tall man straightened and looked down at the creature that still lay on his back, one leg hanging off of the couch so that his foot grazed the floor and his neck - well, his neck was twisted at what looked to be an oddly uncomfortable angle. Coupled with the deep, thick baritone that rumbled through his chest, something about him seemed suddenly at odds.
He fell silent instead of speaking and the smile that spread Mr. Jones’ lips was certainly not an expression any brain fried man would have been able to compose. It was triumph and knowing that echoed in those red-rimmed eyes, not haziness and delusion. He had watched this man for weeks - watched him stumble through plazas, vomit in trash bins, and even piss into a park fountain in broad daylight.
“If you accept my blessing, someone will come by within the next week to recruit you, and you will say yes, because it will mean magic in your life.”
The next words fell from the man’s lips but echoed so forcefully through Whittaker’s skull that he nearly winced, overcome with something that was definitely not true to a human’s weakened shell. The wicked smile widened and the bounty hunter thought he imagined a deep, pleased laugh throughout the room even though the lips were pursed and nearly closed. Something in him, something less rational than he prided himself in being, had already accepted whatever other worldly presence had chosen to visit him in the middle of a drug den. That laughter was the knowledge of his acceptance, of a silent agreement Whittaker’s soul made without him.
In moments he had rounded the couch arm to dig his fingers into the oily shirt draped across the fragile man’s chest, finding him smaller and weaker than the bagginess even suggested. It took no effort at all to haul him off of the seats and stare deep into those knowing eyes, looking for any sign that this was just the world’s best illusionist. Certainly if he were a master at head games he would have seen Whittaker coming miles away, would he not?
“This had better be no trick. Martin Jones is still going to rot in a cell tonight.”
This time he saw the lips part in mirth, heard the husky laugh even as that something began to drain from the blue eyes.
“I’m counting on that.”
The moment that Martin came to was a startling one - his voice was much sharper and higher-pitched, even for all that it slurred around his lazy tongue. None of the hazy man’s words even sounded like intelligent speech and the hands that rose to try and push his own away could have been a child’s for all the strength that they carried. It was one more detail, one small note scribbled at the bottom of the page that said something otherworldly had just chosen a drug dealer as a vessel for its word.
Annoyed, he slapped the handcuffs onto the man’s frail wrist and all but drug him from the apartment, letting his feet scramble uselessly behind them as they went.
The universe liked jokes more than Whitt did, apparently.
[Words: 1212]
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Posted: Sun Jul 10, 2016 8:12 pm
Caleb McCloud Who the ******** takes vacation in Kabul? Honestly. For one, sketchy-a** millionaire tycoons, along with their sad and desperate mistresses who are too vapid to fully realize her surroundings, only giving the dangers of the country an afterthought. That tiny afterthought of precaution is what Caleb McCloud was doing here, providing armed security and extending his tour in Afghanistan back an extra week thanks to this nonsense. He had been in Afghanistan for three months, continuously assigned to various contract work from the private military headquarters stateside and was desperate to get back. He loved the work, the excitement, the action, but his buddies had all taken on new contracts elsewhere and the crew he was left with now were a bunch of jackasses too full of their self-entitled sense of seniority to give him any damn respect. ******** them, and ******** this twenty-two year old mistress who would not stop Snapchatting her every goddamn move. At least she was asleep now, next to him in the back of the Humvee as the driver rode back to base. She was passed out cold after a night of drinking, but her phone was still blowing up with text messages. It was buzzing and vibrating around in her lap until finally it fell to the floor of the car. Caleb checked out both windows for any signs before reaching down to grab it, but he couldn’t help but take a peek at whatever bullshit people were texting her. “Hello Caleb.” Well, s**t. That’s not what he was expecting. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, positive that he must be seeing things. He needed to stay alert. That was his job, after all. “You are not hallucinating. I am Ares, god of war. And I have chosen you, Caleb, to receive my blessings.” Yup. He was definitely hallucinating now. s**t. He can’t be losing his mind, can he? He moved his hands further from his gun. “You are unhappy here, but I can offer a change. If you accept my blessing, someone will come by within the next week to recruit you, and you will say yes, because it will mean magic in your life.” Whether he was hallucinating or not, this voice – Ares, or some hacker, whatever – was speaking directly to him, directly to his soul, playing him. The message brought him such hope for his future, how could he possibly turn it down? He didn’t need to verbalize his acceptance, not yet, but every part of him had internally accepted it. He tried to open the phone so he can send a text message back – but alas, locked out. Damn these passcodes. He returned to the lock screen to re-read the messages, but they were gone, replaced with drunk texts full of gibberish. He placed the phone back down on the seat beside him and looked out the window, lost in thought. Was it an all an illusion? Some trick of mind? His internal desires manifesting in hallucination to help him realize his next objectives? Or was it real? Only one thing was truly apparent: a change was coming his way, one way or the other. ((Word Count: 525))
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