|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sat Jun 16, 2007 9:15 pm
THE GRAY DUST
or the PROLOGUE of the story of FATHER ASMADAI RIFFAEL
as recorded by M HERMEY
on the xvii june
anno domini mmvii
...a moment of peace
He had been burying a victim of an obscure genetic disease when the world had shattered and the dead had begun to walk in the holy city. Convinced that Judgment Day had come, Father Asmadai Riffael had fled from Rome and Italy. Through the strange cycle of days that sometimes became nights at noon, he had made his way to the place that he had known as Uberomania and begun to lay the foundations for a mission there, among the mix of heathens and Christians. It was the sole event in his life he was absolutely sure of.
Now he sat on a half-constructed wall, eating a small loaf of black bread and pretending that he was reading the book of Job. He was truly looking at a garden, the only vanity he permitted himself. He had planted roses in it, alongside carrots and potatoes. Roses were once Maria’s favorite flower... or was it lilies?
It bothered him that he couldn’t remember. He had planted both, with a little pinch of her ashes. He always kept them with him. He had said the funeral rites over the seedlings and watched them grow, thriving on the gray dust that was everywhere.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Aug 27, 2008 2:39 pm
Asmadai, meet...Quote: "It seems odd that life should go on after all that's happened, but it does. Estrelas seems to be a particularly vibrant example of this."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Aug 27, 2008 2:40 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Aug 27, 2008 2:43 pm
SeriouslyQuote: "I'm pretending this never happened."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Aug 31, 2008 8:15 pm
Coffee Over ConversationQuote: "This I suppose I can't pretend didn't happen, since I can barely see well enough to tell you about. Einar is quite... irritating confusing interesting?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Aug 31, 2008 8:25 pm
all that remainspart one audio supplement
It was the kind of September morning that no other month could touch. He could see the leaves turning outside the window, and feel the oncoming autumn's crisp bite in the air; in short, it was the kind of day where Asmadai threw open all the windows and then just sat at his desk to read. He hadn't yet chosen today's book, but he felt pretty sure that today was a day for poetry.
Decision made, he reached out to the shelf above his desk, intending to pick up the volume of Frost, second towards the end of the shelf. He never touched the book at the very end. Not for any real reason, he thought firmly. It... he just didn't.
For a moment, he thought he saw auburn hair glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window. Asmadai thought he heard Maria's giggle. It shocked him, and he knocked the book of poetry and that book on the very end of the shelf to the floor, where a packet of ashes and a small piece of paper, folded neatly in half, fell out.
Was he going crazy? No, he decided. It was just... time. "Time's fractured," he said to himself as he knelt to gather up the books and memorabilia. A strange warmth suffused his fingers as he tucked the ashes into the spine of the bible from which they had fallen. "I'm not insane," he reassured himself as he picked up the note and made to tuck it back into the book as well.
Something caught his eye, though. He unfolded the note, finally, and read it.
"Words are weapons,
yet you eat them alive.
They'll feast on your corpse instead."
It wasn't Maria's writing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Aug 31, 2008 11:01 pm
all that remainspart two "maria's lullaby" audio supplement
"Dai-ai," said the fourteen-year-old in somber black, "We're leaving tonight, aren't we?"
Eighteen-year-old Asmadai looked over his shoulder and gave his sister a pinched smile. "Yes." He stood in the doorway, the top of his head just brushing the extraordinarily low frame. Six feet tall, now, and almost done growing- still, he had outgrown their father two years back. Maria sat at the piano, kicking her heels and raising up basso notes from the belly of the beast.
She sighed. "It's unfair."
"What's unfair, Maria?" A faint note of amusement entered his voice. Of course he knew, they had had this conversation so many times over the past month he thought he could accurately argue both sides of it.
Her answer was different this time. "They're not going with us. They get to go to Paris." And both of them knew who they were; the other three. Juliet, Raphael, and Elanora- the other three siblings, who were going to go stay with a relative in France. It actually wasn't quite Paris, but it was close enough to irritate Maria, who wanted to travel the world.
Clearly, he was expected to commiserate. He couldn't quite gather up enough irritated feeling to do it, though, and instead smiled goofily and sat next to his sister at the piano bench. The door remained ajar, letting rain roll into the front hall now that he wasn't in the way anymore. Maria shrieked when he hugged her. "Asmadai, you're all wet! Cut it out!"
He laughed, but let her go anyway. Really it didn't matter what happened to this old house; all that was left inside were useless things, like the upright piano, and then the two eldest children. "Sorry." With aplomb, he played a few bars of Maria's favorite song on the piano, wincing where it was out of tune and muttering comically when her auburn curls got in the way. The game- which, though it had no spoken name or rules, was well-known to both of them- continued, escalating until the girl sent Asmadai sprawling to the floor. "I give! I give!"
"Penalty is..." She thought about it for a moment, chewing on her lower lip as she sat on Asmadai's chest. Her giggle was bright and infectious; even her victim felt inclined to grin at her. "Three chocolate-covered cherries! The cordial kind." With a considering look, she continued, "Or you could play my song. For real this time, both hands and everything. Please?"
There wasn't a piano at their grandmother's house.
For perhaps three seconds, he considered saying no and getting her the candies. Then he felt horrible and shoved her (gently, though; he didn't want to hurt his sister) off his chest. "Maria's song it is." He settled into his place at the piano, lifting one elbow so she could sit with him. "I'm sure I'll find some place to play it for you at Grandmother's house," he assured her, though he didn't know how long he would be there. Certainly he didn't plan to leave her for a while- not until he knew she was settled in and happy.
He didn't know Maria would never be that happy again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Oct 31, 2008 7:49 pm
all that remainspart three "neither wind nor wake" audio supplement
It seemed like it had been so long since he had stood in this room- the entrance hall to the Riffael house in Rome. But the country estate where he had lived from age eighteen to twenty-two had, according to his research, become inhabited with people who were definitely not his grandmother or any other part of his family. So imagine his shock when he learned they were back at this house? And that... nothing had changed? His parents lived, as did all of his siblings, and his grandmother was still dying...
Nothing had changed, except Maria remained dead, one of the few who hadn't returned to life after time had shattered.
He was glad Wraith had allowed him to go alone. The priest couldn't take this with a straight face normally- with another from LOTUS near him, he didn't know what he would have done. Probably had a hysterical laughing fit. It just struck him as utterly ridiculous that... Grandmother was here. And Maria was not. Father continued to be a comatose, overweight, half-dead nothing, and Maria's ashes sat in an urn on the mantelpiece.
"Oh, Asmadai," said Juliet, her long blond hair swinging as she sashayed over from the wall. She pouted when his eyes stayed firmly on the urn. Her voice was a little more subdued when she said, "We're glad you're home. We thought you would never come back from that horrible place."
With a sigh, he glanced at her. "What horrible place?"
"Why, Uberomania. Really, Asma! We called and called. Grandmother's almost dead, you know."
Since Asmadai hadn't brought his phone with him to Uberomania and certainly not to LOTUS, he hadn't known. "Could I speak to her, Juliet?" After all, in his pocket was the note. The one he had been told Maria had written, the one who had not been written in Maria's handwriting unless his little sister had suddenly started writing like a girl from the turn of the century, all curves and loops. Her handwriting had been harsh, spiky, and sloppy. With a pout, Juliet directed him upstairs.
The first Suzette looked like she was dying; her cheeks were sunken, her dark eyes seemed flat, and the long gray hair felt greasy when he bent over to kiss the top of her head like a good grandson. She laughed as he took a seat and stared at her. "You read the note, then," she rasped, still-perfect teeth glinting in the dim half-light.
He nodded, clenching his hands in his cassock. "Why?" His voice was level, betraying none of the sudden upswell of violent anger. The woman didn't even bother to deny that she had murdered her own grandchild, which he thought just explained why Maria had always been so... angry around this woman.
"Maria was the devil," Suzette crackled, her voice full of strange popping sounds. "Wandering out of the house at all hours, doing who-knows-what, red-haired to boot! She was the spawn of the devil himself, boy, a true witch, boy. You know what the Good Lord said about witches, priest, eh? Confess thyself, don't you know it?"
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Leviticus. Maria wasn't a witch, she was a normal little girl," he argued, rising out of his chair and gesturing angrily. "A good girl!"
The dying woman laughed. "A little girl, you say, but she was eighteen when she died, hardly little anymore. That two-bit whore," she spat, pointing one claw-like hand at Asmadai, "would have dragged you straight down to Hell and laughed while she did it! Red curls! Sign of a witch if there ever was one."
His hands balled up into fists. If there had ever been a time when he wanted to hit a woman, it would have been now- and it was an old, helpless woman at that. Oh, but he wanted to. "Tell me," he said, controlling himself enough that he could sit tensely in the armchair by the bed.
"Tell you what," said Suzette. "How she screamed and begged God for her life? How she kept pleading even while I strangled her?" She paused, putting one nail against a withered cheek. "Or should I tell you about how she kept whispering after you, calling for you to save her?"
Another pregnant pause. Asmadai whispered his sister's name.
"I told her, you know. That you would think she killed herself. And that you weren't gonna become some English teacher like you planned, that we'd make a fine priest out of you. As close as you two were, you'd like to find the Devil and think him your sister, boy, and then you would have had more devil-spawn and I would've had to kill 'em again, all in the service of the Lord. He agreed, you know." The dying woman looked out the window at the slowly-setting sun. "She cried," she related to her grandson. "I didn't think witches could cry, but she did. She didn't even flinch when I safety-pinned that note to her, but then, you didn't know we actually put it in her skin, right? They never told you that... Well, the priest would have told you if you'd come back. We thought you would have. But you never did, so it stayed secret a lot longer than it should have..." The old hag's breathing picked up, the crackling sounds becoming louder. "Well, now you know."
He got up and left the room when Suzette stopped breathing. At the end of the street where he'd grown up, he broke into a run and didn't stop until he reached the hotel again...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Nov 10, 2008 6:55 pm
all that remainspart four "coffee shop" audio supplement
"Hey," said the girl at the counter. Her English was poor, not because she didn't speak it as her first tongue, but because she wanted it to be. Or so he assumed, since she had no accent and the only words or polite flourishes lost were the ones that were often given out of nicety towards another person. "Y'gonna order?"
Shocked out of his reverie, Asmadai looked up at the young woman. What he saw instinctively repelled him; drooping eyes of two different shades of green accentuated by white and black powder, garish plum colored lips, and a mohawk that she evidently hadn't bothered to spike that morning but was still dyed in several shades of gold, rose, and violet. A scarf in calm teal shades was twined about her throat. She had a scoop-neck sweater in the same plum color as her lipstick (save with dark stripes) layered under a white tank top with a bright, unbelievably red, iconographic strawberry. Her upper lip curled at the look of his face and she said, "Yeah, what?"
He shook himself. It wasn't his place to judge the appearances of others; he was just a priest, not a god. "Yes," he said, closing the book on his fingers so as not to lose his place. "Ah, one large cafe latte with an extra shot, please, miss." Hitting a couple buttons that made an antique, strange noise like crunching metal or an old type writer, the girl rang him up. With an unfamiliar fascination, he watched the paper reciept slide up into view over the edge of the register. The barista's name, he observed, was Asimov M. Asimov M? He wondered for a moment what the initial stood for.
"3.25 euro," she said, stepping away while he reached for his wallet and dug out exact change. Setting the proper coins on the counter, where they made a loud clattering noise, he watched as Asimov filled a small filter with ground espresso and tamped it down. Though he'd never worked in a coffee shop, he knew well enough how it worked; she fit the filter into a slot and slipped the cup under it with the ease of long practice. With the touch of a button, the espresso machine began to hum, but she'd already moved on to picking up a small pitcher full of milk. He would have watched longer, but the barista returned and finished ringing him up first, handing over the reciept and smirking. "Sit down, old man. I'll bring it out when it's done."
So he returned to the table he had been sitting at before and continued to read the book he had borrowed from his old room. Though he had not a single thought of actually keeping it, Asmadai treasured the thing for the memories of talking over its contents with Maria, his younger sister.
With a loud clack, the barista set down Asmadai's cup of espresso, then took the other seat. Folding her hands in front of her (he could clearly see now that she bit her fingernails, but they were painted black- maybe in an attempt to break the habit?) she leaned back and watched him. "You're a priest," she said, amused. "N'wonder you can wander around like that. Janos'd ******** anyone else up." He ignored her, turning a page in the book and picked up the latte she'd put down. It was comfortably warm- not too hot, but no where near cold.
He would have gone on that way, but then she leaned forward and splayed her hands on the surface of the table. Each hand had at least three rings on it, he noticed, but most of them appeared to be cheap imitation metals. She didn't seem to mind the perusal, saying, "You're kinda a rare bird, aren't you?" Startled, he dropped his book, successfully losing his page. "Hey, it's not like I'm saying you're some kinda anti-Janos traitor. It's just, priests don't leave the Vatican much."
"Ah," he said weakly, closing the book and setting it on the table. "What is it you want?"
In perfect, fluent Italian that made her horrible English seem like a bad nightmare, she said quickly, "You are a priest, but you are here in Rome. Why? So many of us worship Janos now. You and others of your class are about useless. Only the dead need you, and there are not that many of them, if you know what I mean. Well, my boss is supposedly to die in twenty four hours from yesterday, about this time. What I mean to say, is..."
He paused for a moment to think, then said, "What do you mean to say, Asimov?"
"What happens when you die," he repeated in English, a little stunned. "Me, as in, what happens when a priest dies, child? Or what happens when a person dies?"
She looked ashamed for a moment, or at least embarrassed before she continued, still in Italian. "I do not really know, but I am just concerned. What will happen when I die? If I die? Do you think we can die, when there is a god alive on earth?"
Since she seemed so determined to have this conversation in Italian, Asmadai said in that language, "I know for a fact that we can still die." He could not keep the distaste, and yes, hatred, from his voice at the thought of his grandmother, but a child had asked for his help as a priest and of course Asmadai had to give it. "Nor did all the dead come back. As for when you die, it depends on you. You can either accept the gift given to you by Christ, so you may go to Heaven, or you may refuse the gift, and go to Hell... Of course, that is in no way set in stone.."
"It depends on me," she echoed in English, fascinated. "Ma, Signor, non credo in dio."
He almost laughed then. If she did not believe in God, why would she ask a priest for help, even for such an obviously ecclesiastical thing as understanding death? "Is that important, Asimov? God believes in you."
She did laugh, throwing her head back, but the look on her face wasn't mirth or joy, it was sadness. "I? God believes in me? You're funny, signor."
They stopped talking for a moment at a strange gagging sound. It was natural, though, that they should cease there: Asimov had nothing more to say. Asmadai didn't know how else to console the child, if consolation was what she needed; somehow, he doubted she'd asked him such a question for reassurance. "Betcha tha's m' boss," she said, slurring her words, and it occured to Asmadai that maybe she didn't talk like that simply for the amusement, but because people tended to let down their guard around those who are seen as stupid. Asimov was probably the kind of girl who liked to learn things.
"I know you're intelligent," he said as he stood up to go check on the girl's boss. "You don't have to talk like that, child."
She gave him an incredulous look. "Sure I do. It's fun." Stepping lightly, she crossed the shop to a door marked 'office' and peered inside for a moment. Then she slipped inside, leaving the door open a crack while electronic dial tones echoed through the empty shop. She spoke for a moment in her perfect Italian, sounding calm or even relaxed, before returning to sit in her seat again. Sirens wailed nearby as Asimov looked up at Asmadai. "One should always watch out for one's dependents," she said, "Especially when they aren't around to defend themselves any longer. You've got troubles, too. I would address them."
Another pause while she seemed to gather her thoughts. "And me, personally, Mister?"
"My name is Asmadai," he interruppted. "If you wouldn't mind."
For a moment, she seemed shocked. Then she recovered, saying, "And me, personally, Father Asmadai? I'd give whoever it was a good one. Perhaps a fist to the face."
He paused, staring a bit at her. "If I were you," he said carefully, "I would allow my hair to go back to its natural color, and grow the rest of it out."
With a laugh, Asimov waved him off. "I will not apologize for being awesome. Now, you, you need to /get/ awesome, and fast. But first, I'd get the hell out of here. Priests, even in Roma, aren't really that well looked upon."
He nodded. It saddened him, a little, that he couldn't stay and talk longer. But she had a point, and it was definitely a good one, so Asmadai slipped out the back door she pointed out to him like a fugitive, though he had done nothing wrong.
Her advice was good, though, and he would act on it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2009 4:17 pm
all that remainspart five audio supplement
The witching hour, such as it was, found Asmadai carefully treading a familiar patch of sidewalk near the center of Rome. He couldn't sleep; how could he even dream of it? The man he sought, the priest who had taken Suzette's confession for fifty-seven years, wasn't in the city. Couldn't be found at all, even though he'd gone to the Vatican- where it was easy to find a cloister where they knew of him, of course, he had worked at the Castel for some time once and always lived within the Holy See.
As he approached the Forum Romanum, a reddish sparkling caught his gaze. He stopped and glanced after it. Nothing. Shaking his head, he continued walking. Odd apparitions, things that he remembered- a tinkling laugh that seemed almost mocking, her whispery voice, a feeling like she'd been here but he had just missed her...
He had never really grieved. Rationally, it could just be grief. His sister- he missed her, and the familiar surroundings were reminding him of her. Thus, these... delusions. A grieving mind, that's right...
There she was.
"Maria," he said. There she stood- he supposed she must be standing- her flame-red hair shimmering in the light of the streetlamp. She glimmered in the light, reached one hand out to him. Like she was calling. Then she flickered, her face fading out of view even as she did. "No!" He ran forward, ignoring the strange look he got from a pair of young people.
Asmadai acknowledged he might be going mad. But she had been right there! He could swear to it. Running closer to the Forum, the hallucinations became more solid. He could hear her clearly now-
"Dai!" He stopped.
She seemed almost solid, he thought, but his hand passed through her when he reached out. Her skin was too pale; her outline seemed fuzzy, and her feet faded out of sight. But she looked real, and she was there, and he decided that if he was going insane then it wasn't so bad.
It was like a drink of water after years in the desert, manna after forty years of wandering. "Maria," he said, "Maria." She smiled, reaching out; he could feel her fingertips on his cheek. "You're..." Not alive. Something completely different- a ghost, maybe. But what and where... "Why would you haunt the Forum?"
"You," she breathed. "I'm haunting... It's a-" Her voice vanished, though she continued to speak.
Anxiously, he interrupted. "Maria?"
"-secret, okay? Don't tell-" Fade. Strengthed; she repeated it, her voice sweet. It was like she had never left. "I'm staying with you."
It was different. He was so glad to see her again, but it didn't seem the same.
Perhaps it was the set of bruises around the base of her throat. "Maria, you're the same as always, aren't you?"
"Go home," she said. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"
Home, to LOTUS- he didn't believe she'd be there the whole time. But it made sense, since he had to return in the morning and dawn was coming. He walked back slowly, afraid she would vanish with the sun, or perhaps as he left. But she followed, even after sunrise, until she faded into a shadow when he could no longer see the Roman Forum...
when he was out of the sight of Janus.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2009 4:18 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2009 4:19 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2009 4:20 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jun 14, 2009 6:51 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jun 15, 2009 8:16 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
