Journals of the Realm: 06/25/08 Update

shards two © 2008 J.C. Montgomery

As some of you may know, I have been doing a little writing. I have been dabbling with Flash Fiction and Poetry for a while, but now I'm venturing into novel or novella territory. The story will center around a group of Wraiths -- two races of Wraiths to be exact. I have posted other chapters, but as they are basically the middle I have removed them and will from now on only post each chapter, or excerpt thereof, in order.

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Journals of the Realm: Shards of Hope

Chapter 1 - Tracked

Softly caressing her skin, it never crossed his mind to ask why it was so cool to the touch. Staring into her clear, grey eyes, he soon forgot what he was doing, or why he was even doing it. His thoughts swirled into mist and were banished into nothingness. All that remained was an overwhelming need to make her his. Grasping her roughly, he pulled her shoulders toward him, stopping when her face was only inches from his own.

Knowing he was completely under her control, she inhaled. Slowly, and quite literally, she took his breath away. Stroking his pale skin, it occurred to her that it was now as cool as her own. Mmm, she thought pleasantly, how I do love a cool snack on such a hot afternoon. Now my dear, let us see if you taste as good as you look. As Esmirée leaned in to drink deeply of his essence, she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the act that was about to follow. Even though she was hungry, she would not allow herself to feed quickly. She was aware that her next meal may be days away and she wanted to enjoy every bit of what her prey had to offer.

Shuddering in pleasure, she leaned back into the satin pillows, shamelessly allowed euphoria to overwhelm her senses. Rolling her tongue across her flushed lips, she savored the remaining flavors of her latest kill. It was moments like these when she couldn’t help but muse upon the diversity of human kind. They are so much like fine wines, she thought, each with distinctive characteristics of texture and taste.

It’s said there are four aspects of taste: sweet, sour, bitter, and salty. But these are human terms, and are much too limited in meaning. Esmirée preferred the Japanese concept of umami, which encompasses all the senses; each meal then being highly sensorial in nature rather than merely ‘enjoyable’. Looking at the once handsome man laying still beside her, she felt a strong irony. How he had hungered for her. She barely stifled a laugh. Oh my sweet, if you’d only known.

Standing in the doorway, apparently undetected by the she Wraith, Gaelan took a moment to take in the scene. How easy it would be, he thought, to just walk away and leave her to her pleasure, but orders are orders. He closed his eyes in protest, shaking his head trying to loosen a thought that would not go away; the one reminding him what happens when direct orders are disobeyed.

It was then he noticed that her posture had changed telling him she was aware of his presence.

-- I don’t think I’ve ever seen any other Wraith feed the way you do.

-- That’s because they only ever think of one thing: satiating their hunger. I, on the other hand, see it as more than simply fulfilling a biological need.

Shutting the door behind him, Gaelan crossed the room and stood next to Esmirée’s bed.

-- Hmm. I see you didn’t waste any time taking that one off the market.

-- Like you’re one to talk. I seem to rememb…What is it Gaelan? Something’s wrong. What are you trying to hide?

Looking down at his sister, Gaelan hesitated in revealing what he knew. Their R & R in Cairo was about to come to an end; sooner than either had anticipated. He’d received word from ProTech that MercCo had finally tracked them down and was spoiling for a fight. Esmi was one to answer any challenge, especially when it came to MercCo, but they had strict orders to stay out of sight, and more importantly, out of trouble. Looking at this sister basking in the afterglow of her latest kill, he realized that she had already disobeyed one directive and it wouldn’t be long before the second would be disregarded as well.

Grasping the corpse by the forearm, he lifted it with ease and set it down on the floor at the end of the bed. He sat next her, debating what, and how much, he should disclose.

-- You’re delaying the inevitable G. I’m going to find out sooner or later.

-- I know. It’s just that…

-- Come on now, you didn’t actually believe Commander Bell would let it go that easy did you?

-- How in the hell?

-- This is a very close knit district. Word spreads quickly when heavily armed outsiders start setting up a perimeter around their community.

Giving her brother an amused look, she rose and started dressing. As she headed for the bathroom, she was forced to step over the desiccated body of Fadil Allam.

-- Please be a dear and do something about Fadil.

-- Allam? By the gods that made us Esmi, what were you thinking!? Devlin is gonna crap his pants on this one Sis. You just couldn’t settle on some no-name enforcer that no one would miss. Oh no. You have to go and take out one of the most prominent underworld figures in all of Cairo.

-- He had it coming G. It was Fadil that ordered the hit on Azizi. If you remember, I made a promise to his mother. And I always keep my word.

Yes, admitted Gaelan silently, you do.

-- I just wish you could obey orders as well as you keep your promises.

-- Orders are for slaves and soldiers G. And I am neither. You and Dev seem to have a hard time remembering that.

Esmi returned and noted the concern on her brother’s face.

-- Look, we can leave him. It’s not like anyone is going to come looking for him here, and we’re not coming back…are we?

-- No.

-- How many G? How many units did Bell send?

-- Ten.

-- Human?

-- All, but one.

-- Who?

-- Dev isn’t sure. I mean it’s only a rumor really…but….

-- Dammit G, don’t make me take it from you.

Gaelan began to feel a pressure forcing his mind in on itself, twisting his thoughts and causing his ears to pop.

-- Stop it Esmi.

Sweat began to appear on Gaelan’s temples as the pain from her onslaught continued.

-- Enough, enough! Seriously Sis. You can be such a pain in the ass.

-- Well?

-- We think it’s Katil. But we aren’t sure. As far as anyone knows, he’s still not contracted, and MercCo refuses to work with freelancers. All we know is that he’s here, and no one knows why.

Esmi released Gaelan from the mind lock and began loading her holsters. She hated carrying conventional weaponry, but seeing as there were 50 heavily armed Merc’s between them and the river meant having to prepare accordingly.

-- Anything else I should know before we head out? You know how much I hate surprises.

-- Can’t really think of any right now. Oh, except for one.

-- Yeah?

-- DUCK!!

Just as Esmi hit the floor, both windows to her room imploded, covering her and Gaelan in wood and plaster.

Anxious little bastards, she thought as she rolled onto her back while simultaneously pulling out her Kimbers. Gaelan was already up and laying cover fire when she started toward the window closest to her.

-- Where in the hell do you think you’re going?

-- You really don’t think they’d let us walk out the front door do you?

Just then a concussion grenade landed between them, rolling to a stop at Gaelan’s feet.

-- Well then, the windows it is.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Gaelan fired another volley before he and Esmi dove head first through the blown out windows. The surprised look on the squad’s faces as they rolled up onto their feet confirmed Esmi’s assumption.

-- This might be more fun than I thought.

Gaelan sighed as he dove for cover while picking off those who hadn’t reacted quickly enough to he and Esmi’s sudden appearance in front of them.

-- You know sis, I really think we need to work on your definition of ‘fun’.

All text and illustrations © 2008 J.C. Montgomery

The Book of Weaving

"It's called a book."

"A what?"

"A book silly. See? This is the binding, and when you open it," Shaltara says gleefully "you find these rectangular sheets made of cellulose. They're called pages."

Shaltara closes the cover and carefully traces her finger along the spine, hesitating occasionally when they come across the raised letters that once were gilded and legible.

"What does it do?"

Sighing, Shaltara tussles her little brother's hair with one hand while simultaneously ushering him out her bedroom door with the other.

"It doesn't 'do' anything."

Normally, Bentiri is a delightful boy, and not much trouble to his older sister, but Shaltara doesn't want to deal with his never ending interrogations; not when she has an afternoon to herself, and a mystery to solve.

Earlier in the day, she had gone to the local trade fair looking for some vintage clothing. While digging through a crate of late 20th century clothing, her hand had brushed up against something hard. Curious, she pushed her arms in deeper. Her hands soon found the object. Gently, she brought it to the surface. Looking over to the merchant, she wondered if he realized what he had overlooked when packing the bin. She opened the book carefully, and read from a random page:

I went to the funeral today. No one saw me though. Not even our parents. I wasn't supposed to go, but how could I stay away? After all, I'm the reason they were there. Sara. My beautiful, dearest, sweetest love. Do you forgive me? Can you? I didn't mean to do it. I swear. But it was our only hope. He promised me it would work…and I believed him.

Intrigued, she quickly scans the remaining pages. Catching phrases here and there, she discovers she is holding an ancient journal; someone's private diary. Questions begin peppering her thoughts. Who is Sara? What Funeral? What did he do? Who is he?

"How much?" She asked, lofting her discovery up high enough for the thrift merchant to see.

"That? Oh, I dunno," he says scratching his beard, "Tell you what. I couldn't help but notice you drooling over those blue jeans. How about we forget the haggling and you pay full price. I'll give you the pants and that…that…whatever it is."

Shaltara bit her tongue, trying not to cry out in glee when she realized the man had no idea what he had in his possession. It was all she could do to maintain her composure as she handed him an entire month's worth of allowance credits.

Settling on her bed, she turns the book over, trying to make out the title. Unable to discern the writing, she holds it under the lamp next to her bed. Slowly, she begins to make out the embossing on the cover. Barely visible are the letters spelling out a title:

Michael and Sara. Forever.

What an odd title for a journal, she thought. However, she was more curious about the contents, and decided that she would figure out its meaning later. Right now she has too many questions that must be answered before dinner.

I hung back and stood in the shade of an overgrown elm, watching the others as they took turns speaking and placing tokens of remembrance on the coffin. The day wasn't anything like what I'd expected. It was beautiful. It just didn't seem right. But, then again, neither does death – especially for one so young. I watch as the coffin is slowly lowered into the ground, permanently separating two hearts. Well, at least physically.

I close my eyes and picture her. Sara. My love.

"Darn it! Look at these pages. The writing is all smeared! And look at all these weird spots. Just like the others, as if someone had spilled something. It's left the paper wrinkled and impossible to read."

Upset, but undeterred, she resumes reading where the writing becomes legible again.

…Why talk about death? Why talk about anything except the future I am making for ourselves? Isn't that what really matters? What do I remember best? I remember her kisses. And how I would always get lost in them. How each time I would disappear into her breath as it caressed my cheek while her tongue sought communion with my own. Soon, our hands became explorers, working their way past the jungle of our clothing, seeking out our most secret treasures. Many times it was all we could do to get out of them quickly enough before…

Blushing, Shaltara stopped reading. She realized that this was no ordinary journal: it was a mystery and a love story -- written by a ghost who now haunts her afternoon, daring her to discover his long forgotten secret. Skipping past this most personal part of the story, she continued.

Our friends and family did their best to keep us apart and from falling in love, but it was hopeless. We wanted our love to last forever, but we both knew our time here was limited. How foolish we must have appeared to others that first day when we went to see the Storyweaver. It was his idea to make this journal: knowing it would be read long after we are gone. That someone, somewhere in the future, will read our story, and allow us to live again; even if it is only within their imagination.

Without warning, a flash of light lit up Shaltara's room. It was immediately followed by a loud rumble that seemed to encompass the entire house. Startled, she closed the journal and went to her bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of another lightening strike.

It was then that she noticed the young couple partially obscured beneath the large willow in the yard obviously seeking shelter from the tempest. Curiously though, they weren't wearing any protective clothing. In fact, she couldn't figure out what they were wearing. Their clothing seemed so dated, and yet strangely familiar. Another flash of light suddenly filled the yard, and again, thunder instantly responded. Gripping the journal tightly in her hands, she rushed out of her room and down the stairs. Opening the front door she called out to the couple, beckoning them to come inside where it was safe.

"Who in the world are you yelling at?" Says Bentiri, looking around his sister in order to get a better view of the yard.

"Those people, the ones over…."

Shaltara was shocked to see that there is no one there. How could they have vanished so quickly? She walked out onto the porch and scanned the street in both directions. She saw no one.

"Gee Sis. Are you alright? You look awful. I'm gonna go get mom."

"No! No. Really, I'm okay. Must be this weird weather." She put her arm around Bentiri's shoulders as they walked back into the house together.

"So. Is that book thingy really interesting?"

"Yeah, except it's not really a book, it's a journal."

"A what? Come on Shally. I'm beginning to think you're making this up because you don't want me to know what you wasted all your credits on. You know what Dad said the last time you did that."

Did she ever. As she grew older, her allowance had gotten more generous while her spending habits became more eccentric. This trend was not one that made her parents very happy.

"Oh Benti, it really is a book…of sorts. You'll learn all about them in school next year, I promise."
Bentiri acted as if he was about to ask another question, but thought better of it. The look on her face told him to drop it, so he did. Plus, he figured that he would wait until dinner. With just the right timing, he could bring up the subject of her latest find, ensuring another lively lecture. Mom was making green beans again, and he needed the diversion.

As he turned to go upstairs, he caught a glimpse of his sister standing by the window, clutching the book tightly to her chest and staring out into the yard. He decided that books didn't seem like very good things if they made his sister act even more strange than usual. Shaking his head he continued up the stairs, thinking he should probably get to work on practicing his patented green bean removal move.

Shaltara eventually got tired of trying to figure out who those people were and how they had disappeared so quickly. Curiosity about the story was getting the better of her; she needed to finish it. She sat down in the chair closest to the window, and opened the journal to the last page.

The Storyweaver promised me it would happen; that it would all come true. He said our sacrifice would guarantee that our love would live forever. And I believed him. Our story, written in blood, tears, and with love, would ensure that Sara and I would never be parted. Not in this life – or the next. The younger we were the better, he said. If our lives had been too long, we would not have had enough blood between us to offer for the Weaving. But as it turned out, it was just enough. Or so I thought. She never told me of her growing weakness, and I never admitted to mine. As we lay there, our bodies drained and our book nearly done, I knew – I knew then that our sacrifice had been too great. As I write this last line and look over at her lifeless body, I see what our greed has cost us…but it is worth it…he promised…and I believed him.

Closing the book, Shaltara looked out the window toward the old willow. Standing there as before, were the young man and woman. She began to rise and start toward the door, but then stopped short when she realized why their clothing looked so familiar. While digging through that bin at the trade fair, she had come across those very same items in the box where she had found the journal. Looking at them again, they smiled at her. This time though, they did not vanish. They walked slowly, hand in hand, toward the street. Before they reached it, Shaltara softly whispered the title of the book, "Michael and Sara. Forever." As if they had heard each turned back toward the house and waved before disappearing into the rain.

The Storyweaver promised it would happen. He promised it would all come true. And we believed him.

Queen of the Game

Prompted by a 72 hour Short Story Contest over at RedBubble in honor of the Queen's birthday. (Hence the theme: Queen)

I am also going to consider this inspired by one of the three prompts this week over at Writer's Island as I feel that sibling rivalry sometimes stems from the sense of being "Overshadowed".

Sibling rivalry by *Mon-artifice on deviantART
©2008 *Mon-artifice

Queen of the Game

The noise was deafening, but I couldn’t hear it. My sight was filled with movement, yet the stillness of her was all I could see. There was always one like her, standing, waiting for the world to be served up on a platter of adoration and awe. And it usually was. Her charisma consisted of more than just beauty. It was a palpable energy that drew others to her, even from a distance. She never wanted for anything: attention, money, or men.

We always came together, but separated shortly after arriving. With her, I was less than a shadow. I was a dark speck that people flicked out of their eye the moment she came into view. The night always began the same, she would head in one direction and I the other. Like taking sides in a game, each of us faced off across the crowd and began picking out who’d we like to play with most.

I felt him before I saw him. As he approached, I realized he had made a mistake. He was looking at me as if he knew me. I turned around, sure that he was actually staring at someone else. There was no one there.

“Hey there.”

“Uh, hello.”

“Are you okay? You look a bit…distressed.” Stunned was more like it. He was unbelievably handsome and had a smile that was nearly fatal as evidenced by my inability to breathe. I was positive that if I raised my fingers to my throat, there would be no pulse.

“No. I...I’m fine, really.”

“I couldn’t help but notice you when you came in. Not sure if I’d seen you here before, but somehow, you look so…familiar. Jeez, that sounds like a line doesn’t it, and a real weak one at that.”

I must be dreaming. Or he was one helluva liar. He lost a bet. That’s it. It has to be. I begin scanning the room seeking out proof for my theory.

“You’re supposed to be meeting someone aren’t you? I’m sorry I thought…”

I nearly yanked his arm out of its socket in order to keep him from walking away.

“No! No. Really. I’m sorry. It’s just that…crap…how do I explain this without sounding like a complete fool?”

Grinning, he took my hand from his arm and held it in his. He softly drew circles with this thumb while never taking his eyes from mine.

“Just tell me. I promise not to laugh.”

“When I arrived, did you see who I was with?”

“Yes. Who didn’t?”

Ah, that’s it then. Not able to make his way through the hovering throng on the opposite side of the room, he thought he would work a different angle in order to get to what he really wanted. It wouldn’t be the first time some guy had tried to use me this way. It had happened so often that I was almost used to it. Eventually it became part of the game. Not wanting to spend the whole night standing at the bar looking desperate, I would allow them to buy me drinks and tell me those insignificant stories that people share whenever they are forced to make small talk. It would generally last as long as it took for them to realize that I wasn’t going to introduce them to her. If they wanted any of her honey, they were going to have to earn it.

But this time was different; at least, I wanted it to be different. I pulled my hand away.

“I see.”

He actually had the balls to look upset.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Cheeky bastard. I nearly raised my hand to slap him but stopped myself. Instead I finished my drink started to leave.

“You think I’m talking to you to get to her, don’t you?”

My eyes betrayed me. They were bone dry when they looked away, but somehow found a way to squeeze a drop of hurt into each corner by the time I looked back and up into his face.

“You’re wrong. I know her type all too well. Way too much effort with nothing to show for it but a few good memories and a depleted bank account.”

Taking my hand again, he pulled me closer. His free arm found its way past my waist and to the small of my back. Leaning in close, he whispered into my ear words I thought I’d never hear from a man like him, at least not when he was sober.

“Why don’t we go somewhere quieter? There’s a coffee house not far from here. We can get a couple of lattes and get to know each other better. Whaddya say?”

Looking over to the other side of the room, I could see she was well on her way to having another successful evening. There was no need to tell her that I was leaving, or worry how she would be getting home. I knew she could take care of herself.


Noticing my glance, he shook his head. “I don’t know how you can stay friends with someone like that.”

Offering me his arm, I took it and allowed him to lead me toward the door. I couldn’t help but notice her still standing there, with the drones buzzing, but never landing. I wondered how long it would take them to learn that she was merely a figment of their imagination; approachable yet untouchable. Somehow I thought these will-less souls knew this, but were so entranced by the honey they were willing to be stung in order to savor its sweetness.

“Oh, she’s not my friend,” I said absentmindedly, “She’s my sister.”

I found her eyes from across the room and threw her a knowing wink. Smiling, I think of how that night, for once, I got to be queen of the game.

Distant Foreplay

This was my entry for the Blue Room competition titled ‘Foreplay’.
Four words must be included: Tattoo, Black, Coffee, Chains
(Please note the above is an adult's only site)

This piece also fits this week's Writers Island prompts: Faithful and Fantasy

Distant Foreplay

“I’m not asking you to trust him; I’m asking you to trust me.”

Looking into his eyes, I could see him working through his emotions. Finally he met my gaze and smiled. I knew then I had his trust. Little did he know by the end of the day, it would be betrayed.

It was a three hour flight to Seattle, which gave me just enough time nearly to talk myself out of what I had been planning for months. What was I thinking? What is it about this man I have known for so long, but have never met? Taking a sip of black coffee, I let its bitterness play on my tongue as I stared out the window. Searching the clouds, I hoped to find some logic shining through to illuminate the way, giving me a reason why I should continue on this path of deception.

Passion is blind I decided. It cares little if you have already promised yourself to another. The truth was I wanted him, more than I have ever wanted anyone or anything. Months of private e-mails and secretive phone calls brought me to the point of spending most of my days in pain, aching for more than his voice in my ear and my own clumsy attempts to bring myself a pleasure I had never known before.

I had to see him. It was all I could do not to reach my hand under the blanket on my lap and touch myself as I thought of his fingers on my skin, his breath on my body, and his taste in my mouth. Stifling a soft moan, I closed my eyes and thought of him. It was no longer enough using my imagination while recalling a picture he had sent me when we first met.

He had obviously been caught unawares when the photo was taken. Squatting next to his mountain bike, he was attempting to fix a problem with the chain. He was wearing bike shorts and little else. The day had been hot and he had taken off his shirt before attempting to make repairs. Sweat glistened on his skin, highlighting the fact he had the toned body of an athlete. Clearly visible on his shoulder was a stunning tattoo. What wasn’t so evident was what it depicted, or the words underneath.

Smiling to myself, I realized that after all these months, I would finally discover what had been previously unknown; the tattoo, his scent, and how those muscles felt under my hands, kneading them tightly as I came again and again. The ache in my stomach slowly moved downward as did my hand. Looking beside me, I was relieved that for once the flight was not overbooked and I had an empty seat as a companion.

On any other occasion I would have finished what I started. But the seatbelt light above shone brightly telling me our descent was in process and we would be landing shortly. Pulling my hand back up into my lap, I sighed knowing that soon, I would be experiencing the release I so longed for; that after all these months of distant foreplay, I would finally have the answer to my question. Is forbidden fruit truly that much sweeter and worth the bittersweet aftertaste of guilt which would inevitably follow?

Looking back out the window, I could see the clouds had cleared, and a vast blue sky lay before me, never-ending and beautiful. It was then I realized what I had so often missed. I had finally figured out the words written underneath the tattoo I had made love to a thousand times in my mind. “Carpe Diem” it said. Seize the day. And so I will, I told myself, and so I will.

Shameless Self Promotion

Okay. Yep. I admit it.

I have an ego.

Check me out.

Wow. Never thought I would resort to this....but hey. If I don't, who will.

Eye of the Beholder

Inspired by my own life, well kind of
(only slightly mind you, as this is a complete work of fiction)
Also inspired by Cafe Writing: Option Three (words chosen will be in bold)
and Writer's Island prompts: Triumph and Survivor

Looking for a cool place in the shade, I found a bench near the water. It was then I noticed the swan slowly drifting my way. How beautiful it was. White feathers contrasted against the dark water, its head bowed in contemplation epitomizing a serene grace I envied. How simple life seemed, sitting here in the light of day, enjoying the weather and the lake. But it wasn’t. Not after last night, not after those things I said in haze of drunken bravery.

I just had to brag about it, didn’t I? Sober, it would not have been a course of action normally taken, but I had crossed the line nonetheless, thanks to my inability to decline a free drink. My mind wandered through my words and actions, and not once did I find a single one to redeem me. I am doomed. Why did I do it? How could I have made such a scene?

I’ve lost a friend, I know it. How could she ever forgive me? Sitting there watching the swan gently gliding in and out of the shadows near shore, I began to feel as if I was being watched. Turning, I see her walking toward me. That’s great, just great. Well, let’s get it over with.

Standing, I turn towards her hoping to see in her eyes what kind of mood she is in, but with the sun shining behind her, it was impossible to see her face.

“Mike.”

“Hey Jenny.”

It must have been obvious from my discomfort that I was suffering. Maybe that is why she took pity on me and decided to let me off the hook.

“I have a confession to make.”

“You…you do?”

“I don’t know how to say this except to just say it plainly…you were set up.”

“What?”

“I deliberately got you drunk knowing you would do what you did.”

I could only look at her in shock. I was too numb to feel anything else.

“Why?”

“Because I knew sober, you would be a gentleman about it, and well, that’s not what I needed.”

“What…you needed?”

“Look, after the surgery and chemo my ego took quite a blow. I hated to admit it, but I no longer felt…sexy. Needless to say my dating life basically became non-existent. I mean, what guy in his right mind would want to be with me?”

The look on her face spoke volumes. I immediately understood, because before last week, I was one of those guys.

“I needed a boost Mike. I had to know if someone, anyone, would think of me as, well, in that ‘way’ again. I needed to know that it was possible to get past the fact that I don’t have a right breast. You did that for me. Bragging as you did last night, about our night together, helped my self-esteem more than you could ever know.”

Tears had gathered at the corners of her eyes, and without thinking I pulled her to me and held her until her shoulders stopped shaking.

“Jenny, hon, you have to know, I don’t regret what I did, only how I did it.”

“But, what about…”

“I’ve been an ass about everything. Up until that night, I did think differently about you. I hated myself for it – I really did. But I too needed something. I had to know that I was better than that. And I used you to prove it.”

At this point I began to feel like I did last night, brave, but this morning it was a different type of intoxication fueling its delivery.

“Yes I bragged about you last night and mostly because of the booze. But if you remember, I wasn’t drunk the night we spent together.”

“No, you weren’t”

“I used you too Jenny. I used you to prove to myself that I wasn’t the pitiful, shallow man you see before you now. Just like I used the alcohol last night to give me the courage to brag about how nice I was to sleep with a breast cancer survivor out of pity, and how I “lucked” out because of how good you were in bed. When instead, I should have told the truth, that I really am lucky, because this wonderfully talented, beautiful woman gave me one of the best nights of my life, and how I would consider myself honored if she would consent to going out with me again, so I can show her the real, honest me.”

We stood there, both of us in stunned silence. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Still feeling a bit off from the hangover and the recent revelations, I returned to the bench by the lake. Breathing deeply, I hoped the fresh air would calm my racing emotions. I hadn’t noticed that Jenny followed until she sat down beside me and took my hand.

“Mike. I…I don’t know what to say. I had no idea.”

“How could you. I haven’t exactly been a good friend to you these last few months.”

“You weren’t the only one you know, who pulled away from me. Many women in my support group said the same thing happened to them. Some friends stayed, some left and then returned, some were never heard from again. Cancer changes people.”

Seeing I was still confused, she continued.

“We never think of losing friends or family until we are older; because that is when it should happen. But to watch someone you love, who is in the prime of their life, or has yet to live it fully, get cancer – well, it brings home the reality that death can happen to anyone, anywhere, and at anytime. Suddenly mortality is forcing a stare down and those people who fade out of your life are the ones who blink first. It doesn’t make them bad people. A little weaker in character perhaps, but then again, we all make mistakes. It’s not the end of the world. Especially if you can move on and become a better person because of it.”

Looking at me the way she did, made me feel even worse: as a person and a friend. I could see that she once believed I possessed a stronger character, and I had let her down.

“It killed me to think I was so weak to let something like that get to me. I…I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I had no right to take advantage of you last night. What can I say, I was desperate. I wanted my sex life back. And I mistakenly thought that getting a “reputation” was the way to do it. If someone like you could sleep with a woman like me and feel it was good enough to brag about, then maybe…geez…I can’t believe what I’m saying. You must think I’m some kind of perverted weirdo.”

Damn my head hurt. I just wasn’t sure if it was from the booze or the absurdity of the situation. Grabbing my hands in hers, she gave me the most incredulous look.

“Did you really mean what you said earlier…about going out with me again?”

Without even thinking, I pulled her into my lap and kissed her, although it wasn’t my best effort considering the pounding in my head, and now the one in my chest. Needing to catch my breath, I released her, but only just enough so she was nestled comfortably against my chest.

“I feel like shit.”

“Hmmm, you know, in my mind, when I picture a man talking dirty to me, I don’t quite see him doing it so….literally.”

“Then I suggest you don’t spend an entire week’s paycheck getting him snockered the night before.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d had the good sense to stop drinking after the first five rounds. My god, how much liquid fortification does it take to get a man to brag about his sex life?”

Holding her in my arms like that, looking into those bright blue eyes, I knew I had met my match. To hell with my perceptions and preconceived notions of beauty, this was a woman who could hold her own, and my heart.

At that point I did what any man would do to win an argument with a beautiful woman in his lap. I pulled her in close and softly whispered in her ear some of those dirty words I’m sure she originally had in mind. I guess they were the right ones, as she had no idea I’d gotten up and had carried her to the edge of the lake. Damn, she looks good wet.

Sunday Scribblings No. 106: Fearless

Part III of The Coming Storm inspired by Sunday Scribblings #106: Fearless

Part I
Part II

***

Standing there in his warrior's aegis, Morgan watched as the rest of the crew frenetically work to make sure every canon was properly loaded and aimed. The enemy warships were still too far way to require maneuvering into firing position, so there was ample time for the ritual. Looking around him, he spotted an area that was perfect for his needs.

As he knelt, he closed his eyes and reached into his prayer pouch. After a few moments, he let fall the items that he had retrieved, allowing each one to drop slowly. In this way he was assured that nothing fell outside the circle of reckoning.

Looking down, he concentrated on the items and the pattern they had formed after coming to rest. Divination was considered a dark art and strongly discouraged by the clergy. But old beliefs were hard to dispel in someone like Morgan, whose world revolved around the tangible such as the animal totems and fire stones laying before him. He never could understand men like his brother Marcus who placed all their faith in something that could not be seen, touched, or heard.

He did not hear the man approach, but he knew he was there, standing just behind him. Morgan collected his totems and turned to face the priest.

“You know I have forbidden this. If the men saw…”

“They are too busy with their preparations and their fear to take notice. Besides, I chose this place precisely because I would not be seen or bothered.”

“I saw you.”

"That is because you made pains to do so. Look around you. Here we are in conversation and still no one notices. You worry for nothing.”

“How dare…”

Morgan shook him off with a wave of his hand. He had no time for this.

“I place my soul into the hands of another, at least what little soul I have left. I do not fear you, those ships, or your god.”

“There must be something, I can sense it. What is it Morgan? What is that one thing, which makes you tremble; that shakes you to your very core? Every man has a dark fear aching in his belly. You are no different. Why else would you dare defy me and consult the totems?”

Glaring at the man, Morgan unsheathed his sword and in one swift well practiced motion, placed the tip of it against the soft skin between the priest’s jaw and neck. To the man’s credit, he never flinched.

“Just as you, I have a faith that allows me to accept my fate willingly whatever it may be. Unlike you, I do not cower behind vows which subjugate a man’s true nature.”

Just as quickly as his sword had been exposed, it returned to its place beside Morgan’s hip.

“Take care never to question me or my courage again.”

Morgan’s eyes burned with passion. There was no doubt in the priest’s mind that this man indeed feared little if anything. Slowly, he raised his hand to touch the place where the sword had been moments before. He felt something damp. It was then he knew that blood had been drawn, his blood.

Their eyes locked again. This time, something different passed between them. Not an understanding, as there never could be between men of their kind, but a new found respect. Each had discovered, and reluctantly acknowledged, that they were men of unflinching faith, and were prepared to face death rather than renounce it. In that regard they were identical. Morgan gave the priest a barely perceptible nod before taking his leave to join the rest of the crew.

Watching his brother stride into the throng of men on deck, Marcus wondered how it had ever come to this. How could they be of the same blood, yet so different in nature? Bowing his head, he gave up a silent prayer for Morgan’s protection. He had made a promise, which he intended to honor, even if it meant having to follow his brother into the mouth of hell to do it.

Marcus was just about to return to his cabin when the first cannonball struck. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was Morgan bending over him shouting orders and holding his hand. As darkness enveloped him, Marcus could hear a voice whispering in his ear.

“Don’t give up. Don’t you dare give up! Damn you brother, why? Why you and not me? It should have been me.”

The Coming Storm II

Part II inspired by Word Beads for April 6.
Words to incorporate: Insurance, Circumflex, Insure, Aphasia, Fervor

The Coming Storm II
Part I

Morgan turned away from the bow. As he walked back toward his cabin, he noticed a figure standing apart from the rest. Apparently the rough seas did not affect him as it had the others. In fact, his demeanor appeared to be one of indifference. Intrigued, Morgan threw him a sideways glance as he passed. He need not have taken so much care. It was obvious that this man was physically there, but his eyes betrayed another emotion. It was a look Morgan knew well.

*****

It was his first kill, and he was pleased at how effortless it had been. Of course careful planning had more to do with it than luck. To insure himself against the possibility of a struggle, he had placed a small amount of fast acting poison on his blade. Following his mark into the local brothel, he was able to surprise the man while in the fervor of unbuttoning his trousers. As he was one never to undertake any endeavor unless he had an adequate amount of insurance, he had dropped a few gold coins into the pocket of the girl’s pimp. Morgan was confident that there would be no trouble, and no witnesses. The potency of the poison was evident as the man suffered immediate aphasia. This was an unforeseen, but welcome benefit. Not only had the poison rendered his victim immobile; it prevented him from being able to cry out.

Having come from behind, Morgan had his arms circumflexed around the man’s body in order to hold him in a more secure position. Thus it was not until laying him down, that he noticed the man’s eyes. It was a look he will never forget; one of complete shock and utter incomprehension. It was this same look he saw now, on the face of the young man standing beside him.

Morgan suddenly became aware that the men at the railing were shouting. Sensing that something was not right, he turned to give his attention to what was going on behind him. It was then he saw what had mesmerized the bystander and terrorized the rest of the crew. Looming on the horizon were the sails of warships, the number of which was incalculable.

The storm had arrived. Morgan smiled to himself as he headed below to retrieve his leather armor. Finally, he thought, the battle begins. Let it. Perhaps this is the day my soul will be released from its prison. Perhaps this is the day I finally find peace.

Saturday Free For All #2: The Gamble

Inspired by Saturday Free For All at Jane's Inspirations
In addition to the picture prompt, incorporate the words:
Avail, Chaotic, Eschew, and Frantic

Also fits for this week's Writer's Island prompt: The Gamble

Photo by Swimster94 @ Photobucket

The Gamble

Frantic she raced down the pier, each step resonating as her weight landed upon the wooden planks. Chaotic thoughts crossed her mind as she struggled to deal with the unevenness of the walkway, fearing that at any moment she would catch an edge and fall. She must not fall, she must not fail; not today, not now.

Normally she eschewed such behavior, as she felt those who rushed from one place to another in a frenzied fashion were people who obviously didn’t know how to manage their time or resources in a proper manner. But there was no other choice left to her as she had only gotten the call a half hour ago. Told she had only forty-five minutes to reach her destination, she had little time to worry about conducting herself in a respectable fashion.

As the end of the pier came in to view, relief slowly made its way through her anxious limbs and allowed her to take in the surroundings. She had never been this far out into the harbor. Availing herself of the freshness of the air, she inhaled deeply, quickly replacing the oxygen she had expended due to her recent exertion.

Please, please she thought, let me be on time. He said he would be waiting here and I was not to be late, not even one minute, or there would be consequences. Closing her eyes tightly, she attempted to shake off the awful picture that had instantly appeared in her mind. Opening them, she noticed a lone figure standing at the railing beneath the light post. Where did he come from? Hadn’t she just been looking in that direction? Stress, she thought to herself. The strain must be playing tricks on me. As she approached, he turned, giving her a look of smug satisfaction.

“Ah, Miss Andrews, I am glad to see that you had no problem following my instructions.”

“Did I have any choice?”

“Well technically, yes. But somehow I knew that you would opt to do the right thing.”

“Where is he? Is he safe?”

“All in due time my dear. First I believe you have something for me.”

Reaching both hands into their respective pockets, she weighed her options. In one hand was an envelope holding the items he required before relinquishing that which she was prepared to pay dearly for. In the other, the smooth coolness of a Kimber 1911. Handed down to her by her father, it was a gun she was intimately familiar with, and prepared to use.

“Now, now Miss Andrews. I shouldn’t have to remind you that I do not have the item with me. You must understand that a man in my position has to take every precaution. After I receive payment, I will return to the Aquarium in order to use their pay phone. Then, and only then, will my colleague return to you that which is rightfully yours.”

How could he have known? His hand disappeared into his jacket. Winking at her, he pulled out a cell phone.

“As I said, a call is expected from me shortly. No words need be spoken. Caller ID will see to that. It’s your choice. I call now, from here, and it’s all over. Everyone loses. Give me what I ask for, and life goes on as if none of this…ugliness ever happened.”

Feeling defeated, she handed over the envelope, and hoped that this stranger was a man of his word. Andy’s life depended on it.

“How soon?”

“Go home. By the time you arrive, he will be there, waiting for you.”

Tears of hope filled her eyes as she watched him walk away. Somehow she knew this was not the end of it, but for now this was all she had, a promise; an assurance that she would see him again – alive. Returning the way she came, she again felt the need to run. But this time she did not care if she fell, for she knew in her heart she had not failed.

Arriving home, she heard a familiar sound. Opening the door she became immediately aware that she was about to be tackled by an eighty pound mass of black fur and a wet tongue. Knowing it was useless to try and stop him, she allowed herself to be knocked to the floor and overwhelmed in wet, slobbery kisses.

"Come on now, stop it. Get off of me you silly mutt. Yeah Andy, I know, I know. I missed you too."

3WW #79

This weeks words are: Glass, Question, Token


Courtesy of Photobucket, picture by josephconti

Recognition

Initially she had refused to come. However it quickly became apparent that there was no way to reason him out of his decision. Thus she had agreed to attend, promising to stay by his side, guiding him through the night, helping him shed his shyness around these strangers. But the evening had not gone as planned, and he soon found himself sitting alone and feeling sorry for himself. Setting his glass of bourbon on the table, he began to question his motives…and hers.

Having buried his head deep into his hands, he was oblivious to the woman carefully coming up behind him. Not until he heard the rustle of her skirt did he realize he was no longer alone. Hesitant fingers gently covered his. Leaning back into the chair he tilted his head so he could see her better.

Their eyes met: hers in apology, his in painful acknowledgement.

“I told you it wouldn’t work.”

“We had to try.”

Getting up from the chair, he noticed a shadow in the doorway. Stepping into the light was an older woman, her eyes glistening with the tears she had been holding back since the moment He and Gwen had arrived. Gary could only stare back in confusion.

“Gary?”

“Yes?”

Behind him Gwen was shaking her head furiously, trying to get the woman stop from doing what she had been waiting to do all night.

“I…I…”

Gary turned to Gwen hoping for some support, imploring her with his eyes to help him understand. His tortured look was more than the woman could stand. She fled the room, her choked sobs barely audible as she returned to the gathering below.

“Who…”

Before he could finish his question, Gwen touched her fingers to his lips. This was no token gesture made in pity, it was obviously made in love. Instinctively he reached for her waist. Leaning in toward her, he could see that she too was on the verge of tears. Gently, slowly, she moved her hand along his jaw and reached up to brush away a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of place. It was then he noticed that that she wasn’t looking at him, but at his scar.

“Is it that hideous?”

“No! I was just noticing how well it’s healing.”

Even though they had only met weeks earlier, he knew she was telling the truth. One look into her eyes told him everything.

“You aren’t going to tell me are you?”

She looked away hoping he couldn’t see the hurt in her face.

“Can’t you see how hard this is on all of us?”

“Hey. I’m the one with amnesia, remember?”

As soon as the word left his mouth he realized the irony of what he’d just said. Expecting to get another stony look, he saw a smile begin to grow at the corners of her mouth. They both burst out laughing, each releasing the tension that had built up between them.

Taking him by the hand, she led him out of the room and toward the stairs.

“You sure you want to go through with this?”

“I have to. I need to.”

“Together?”

Again, his wife’s eyes told him all he needed to know. Holding tightly onto the hand of his present, he descended the stairs to face his past.

3WW #78

This weeks three words: Money, Tangled, Understood

Simple Things

“Five, ten, twenty….”

One after another, each bill, representing hours of hard work left my finger tips and landed softly onto the counter. My nervousness showed as my fingers tangled toward the end of the stack nearly causing me to have to gather up the loosely stacked pile of money and start over.

The clerk gave me a reassuring smile letting me know that she understood my discomfort. Knowing she sympathized only slightly lessened the pain of handing over the last of my savings. Good. This meant I now had power for at least another month. Food? Well, there was enough macaroni & cheese and tuna to last the week.

I looked toward heaven, giving thanks that I was paid weekly. Between my base pay and tips, I was able to stay one step ahead of homelessness – barely. As it was, I was eating less, wearing jackets around the apartment, and continually dusting cobwebs off a car I no longer drove. I couldn’t afford the gas. I thought about selling it, but didn't. If things don’t turn around soon, it may be my next place of residence. Trying to keep my sense of humor, I began wondering how you put in a change of address for such a thing.

Old Address:
Jane Q. Public
123 Main St., #4
My Town, USA 11111

New Address:
Faceless Statistic
Corner of Park & Main
Any Town, USA 00000

Sighing, I let myself into the apartment. Pulling my jacket tighter, I headed to the thermostat. I hesitated as I raised my hand to turn the knob. Oh what the hell I thought as I turned it all the way to the right. Throwing off my jacket, I danced into the kitchen to boil some water. If this was my last month here, then I was going to make the best of it. Turning on the only lamp I could still afford to use, I settled onto the couch with a warm bowl of Kraft. Closing my eyes, I sat there and savored the moment. Not until then did I understand the importance of the simple things in life, like food and shelter. And not until then did I realize how sad it was, that facing the possibility of losing everything finally makes you appreciate having anything.

Sunday Scribblings No. 101: Experiment

The prompt this week is: "The Experiment" OR "Experimental

Tentatively, she reached for the gun. Lying there, it was innocuous, a collection of metal and plastic. Not until she felt the weight of it in her hand did she realize the seriousness of the situation. She placed it immediately in her holster, acting as confidently as she could under the circumstances. It took all of her resolve to turn and look the General in his face without showing fear.

“You know why you’re here?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are aware of the consequences for not following orders.”

“Yes sir.”

"Take your place then.”

She turned back and walked toward the crowd that had gathered near the entrance to the compound. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. She was among friends now, and felt safe behind the shelter of their bodies. Small in stature, it was easy to become lost in a crowd. Usually she would be annoyed at the prospect of anonymity, but here, in this place, she welcomed it.

While they waited for the gates to open, she went over the previous day’s events, trying to figure out why she ever agreed to participate. It came down to one thing. She was here today to perform an experiment. The failure or success of which would determine if she could face any kind of adversity and overcome it. She consoled herself with the idea that just being there proved she was strong enough to face her fears. However it was not enough. She had to finish what she'd started.

She didn’t have to look up to know that the other platoon had arrived. The body language of those around her told her all she needed to know. Gently, she pushed her way to the front to see for herself why the atmosphere had changed so suddenly. What she saw nearly brought her to her knees.

It was obvious that this was not their first mission. Their attire and attitude told her that they were not the recreational players she was told to expect. As she looked them over she couldn’t help but notice their weaponry. As she scanned each marker*, it became all too clear; she had been set up. This was no ordinary squad of paintballers and this was not going to be your run of the mill PSG**.

She looked down at her Mission Card and sighed. This is going to be a long, hard, painful experiment.

* Marker: Paintball gun

**PSG: Paintball Scenario Game

Caught In The Current: Part III

This is the third installment of a story I began with prompts from Writer's Island, Cafe Writing, and Sunday Scribblings. After receiving such positive feedback, I have written Part III as prompted by Two for Tuesdays. The two words integrated into the story are: missed and enough.

I am providing links in case you are visiting here for the first time, and wish to catch up.

Caught In The Current by J.C. Montgomery
Part I
Part II

Part III

I lay there remembering, and hurting. The pain that began in my heart was now lodged firmly in my throat, constricting my breathing and making it difficult to swallow. I struggled, but it was no use. It all came down to one thing: I missed her.

The pain of her absence, which had been haunting me all these months, had finally brought me to my knees and was slowly killing me, one memory at a time. My mind folded in upon itself in supplication to the truth.

“Enough!” I cried. “Enough.”

Again, a warmth against my cheek. A gentle whisper on my ear.

“Steve? It’s me. Wake up.”

“No.”

“Open your eyes.

“You’re not real.”

“I am.”

“You’re dead.”

Silence. Relief swept over me. A dream. It had to have been a dream.

“Open your eyes.”

Slowly, the mist cleared. Turning my body against the brightness of the windows, I found myself looking into the darkness of my soul.

“But…you…you’re…”

As I lay there wrestling with what was left of my sanity, the phantom in my dreams smiled, and reached over to gently place her hand on my face.

“Dead. Yes, I know.”

3WW #75

This Weeks Words are: Apology, Consider Distant

Well Played by J.C. Montgomery

“No apology is necessary, really.”

“But…”

Her words trailed off as she realized that he was slowly coming to accept what had just occurred. The mixture of emotions showing in his eyes told her everything. He was having difficulty in dealing with this turn of events. It was obviously a scenario which he had never considered possible.

There was no use in delaying the inevitable. It was over. And there was nothing either of them could change or take back in order to alter the outcome. Looking into her eyes once more, he saw something, something he had not noticed earlier.

Suddenly, a thought, once distant and untenable, rushed at him so quickly he was nearly knocked off his chair.

“Oh my god. How could I have been so blind?”

“It’s not that you were blind, you were simply too distracted by your own arrogance.”

“But…”

“But what? You really didn’t think I would be such an easy conquest did you?”

Her smile unnerved him. She was gloating. He struggled to understand. How did this happen? He had always been the one in control, but now it was in someone else's hands - and it confused him.

“For such an accomplished player, you should have known better than to be taken in by such a simple ploy.”

By allowing him to believe her weak, she had out maneuvered him. His obsession with adding yet another trophy to his collection blinded him to the fact that perhaps he was the one being ‘played’. He shifted in his chair nervously. Looking down into his hands, he began to scrutinize every move, going over every detail in his mind. He replayed it all, slowly and deliberately, seeking desperately to figure out where he went wrong.

It was all so clear, and yet he missed it completely.

“Checkmate?”

“Checkmate.”

Sunday Scribblings No. 99: Passion

Sunday Scribblings Number Ninety-nine
It's a cold, blustery February day and I am inspired to inject a little excitement. The prompt for this week is: Passion.

I've decided to continue a story I started here. I think I am beginning to like this genre. A lot.

*****

Instantly I was aware of everything.

The gun in my hand, the shocked faces of the courtroom, Kyle coming toward me, reaching, grabbing; it all happened so quickly. A heaviness surrounded me. I tried desperately to struggle free, but it was useless. The sounds around me became muffled and distant. I was drowning, sinking deep into darkness. I reached out to Kyle hoping he could catch me before I fell. The last thing I remember was hearing a woman’s voice telling me it was going to be okay and to let go. So I did, and soon found relief in the black void of unconsciousness.

As I came to, I felt a soft whisper against my cheek. Its caress reminded me of a summer breeze, its warmth and gentleness soothing. A voice reached out to me, taking my hand. It led me back into my mind where a memory was stored. I tried to keep it from coming. No, it can’t be. Please, please don’t do this.

“No. Please...No!”

I began shaking my head violently from side to side, fighting, struggling - screaming into the nothingness, begging to be spared. More voices and a tingling sensation in my arm; another warmth, but this time one that generated from within my body. Fear faded into oblivion. And then it happened. I remembered.

It is so clear, so vivid. This memory I had hidden away so carefully. Here it was, and I had no choice but to allow it entry back into my world. It was of her.

She is looking at me; lovingly, longingly. Passion and pain become one as the life I thought I had buried that day in the snow comes back into focus. It is more than I can bear. My mind stumbles seeking its way amid the confusion of seeing something that I know no longer exists. I am caught in time, between a rock of the past and the hard place of the present. Love has brought me here and its ardor holds me fast, forcing me to relive a moment I wish to God I had never experienced in the first place. I look away, trying to find some piece of reality to grasp onto and pull myself to safety.

“Steve? Steve!”

I turn towards the voice, and watch helplessly as the life I tried so hard to forget, rushes toward me with open arms. Her momentum knocks us both to the ground, and as she lands on top of me, I feel my breath leave my body. She has taken it, utterly and completely. I roll over with her in my arms and try to steal it back. I never could, although not from a lack of trying. I was never one to give up easily.

An unbearable tightness grips my heart. How can something this beautiful be so painful? And how can I live with the fact that I am the one responsible for its destruction?

That is when I realize the truth: I can’t.

Yet again, two become one

Inspired by:
(1) Writer's Island: Prompt No. 22 (Time Travel)
(2) Cafe Writing- February Project: Option Three (Pick at least three of the following eight words, and write a paragraph, scene, flash-fic, essay, blog entry or poem using them. It’s fine to change tenses, or pluralize if you want to, but please bold the words you choose: astonished, conclusion, drown, gilded, hands, magnify, snow, time)

Caught In The Current by J.C. Montgomery

“And in conclusion, I again draw the jury’s attention to….”

Time slows, and nearly comes to a stop, as I sit here drowning in the meandering drone of my esteemed colleague. He is attempting to magnify the flimsy amount of evidence sitting before the bench. It's a useless tactic. I know it, the judge knows it, and from the looks evident upon the jury’s faces, they know it. The only one who doesn’t is Kyle. Maybe he does, but he just doesn’t seem to care. This is his moment to shine, and he is failing miserably. The gilded glow of his rhetoric slowly dulling with each sentence, the emphatic gesture of his hands distancing himself from his credibility. Eventually the attention of the jury, and my own, diminish into nothingness.

My thoughts wander back to winter, remembering the events that brought me here to this moment. As they come into focus, I am astonished by their clarity. Why is it that I can recall every second, every minute, as if it were carefully recorded and stored in digital crispness; available to rewind and review whenever I am weak enough to let down my guard, allowing myself a moment to remember.

It is snowing. Even though my watch tells me it’s near midnight, the amount of available light allows me to see the door to the cabin clearly. It must be the reflected moonlight off the snow which causes this disconcerting effect; that and the feel of cool steel against the palm of my hand. There is a muffled, rhythmic sound emanating from the building twenty feet in front of me. It guides my thoughts and redirects my attention to the task at hand; the one borne long ago when I found out about this place - this reason for her newfound happiness.

“Soon,” I say to myself. “Soon, it will all be over.”

Standing there, in the cold and in pain, I feel like a time traveler, caught in the confluence and swirling eddies of the past, present, and future. I am trapped, unable to swim towards safety, my thoughts constantly struggling against the current of emotion which is continually trying to suck me under. I lean against the car gasping for breath, and hoping for reason to throw me a life line. I can’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. But I am, and there is no turning back. Suddenly the cabin door opens, spilling golden light onto the cold blueness of the snow. A silhouette appears and I hear a familiar voice call my name.

“Steve. Steve!”

As I come to my senses, I look up and realize where I am. My eyes blink quickly in an attempt to refocus them into seeing what is before me.

The courtroom is silent and staring intently. Finally, it seems, Kyle has gotten their attention; but he hasn’t. I do. I am standing, yet I don’t remember getting up from my chair. In my hand is something hard and smooth. Looking down I see that I'm holding a gun; the gun.

O my God, what have I done?