The rain dripped off my hood. Three days of this was enough to give anyone a bad attitude, and it seemed every face in the city had a scowl glued on. I turned the corner and walked up the street. Water flowed out of a drainage ditch and washed between my toes. After this amount of downfall, there was probably nothing dangerous in it. Probably.
The apartment was on the third floor. I could see the balcony as I entered the stairwell. The shaky wooden steps squished as I climbed, and I could tell that this building was one of the sub-standard apartment buildings that had been thrown up after the fire. Build them cheap and fast and rent them out. No wonder so many of them ended up burning down or collapsing. It never mattered to the owners, they just cleared out the bodies and six stories of rubble and rebuilt.
I rapped on the door and heard a voice answer from within. The door cracked a fingerswidth and a dull, grey eyeball presented itself through the opening. The old woman's voice crackled as she spoke, “Yes?”
“Are you Caecillia Quarta?” I asked, keeping my voice level, almost friendly.
“I am. Are you…” I kicked the door open hard. It smashed her back and I rushed through.
She had been thrown against the wall, into what little light came through the window. She was a small woman, maybe late sixties, with a tangled mass of grey hair that almost matched the color of her eyes and skin. Fear covered her face, and she raised her hands against me. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Please, no," she croaked.
I took three strides forward, knocking over a small table piled with clay and glass pots. They hit the floor, the tinkling of their shattering mixed with the sound of the raindrops outside. I could see her fingertips starting to glow with that golden light I had seen so many times before.
My gladius pierced her chest, sliced through her heart and pinned her to the wall. I grabbed the hilt with both hands and leaned into it with my whole body. Her grey, bony hands clutched the blade and threatened to pull it out, but I could see the strength leaving her, her grey eyes getting darker.
Her arms dropped to her side. I counted to ten before pulling the blade back out. I had to brace my foot against the wall in order to remove it. It slid from her body with a wet sucking sound and she collapsed to the floor with a muffled thump.
Running footsteps ascended the stairs, and I turned to see Norbanus at the doorway. That was when I first noticed that I had quite messily kicked the door off its hinges. He pulled back his hood and whistled softly. “Nice job on the door, Boss.”
I grunted and took a look around while I wiped the blood off my gladius and sheathed it. It looked like every other witchhouse I’d seen - tidy, full of shelves with neatly labeled pots and boxes and bags, clean except for the blood oozing from the old woman on the floor.
“It all needs to be purified.” I brushed past him entering the stairwell again.
“What about the other people who live here?” Norbanus threw the questions at my back. I stopped with my foot on the first stair. I could hear the shuffle of the urbanae out front, waiting for orders. My backup had arrived, finally. Too late to help, as usual.
I sometimes…when you've been doing this for so long, you forget that the world is filled with normal, ordinary people, and sometimes they get in the way.
“Have the urbanae knock on everyone’s doors. Make them leave immediately. Give them no time to gather belongings, but make sure they get *everyone* out.” I took a deep breath.
“Then torch the whole building.”
I plodded down the stairs. I forget, sometimes, why I do this. Norbanus helps me remember, the poor, foolish kid. He might even think I still have a soul, but I gave that up a long time ago to become what I am now.
I am Gaius Sergius Marcellus, and I am a witch-hunter for Rome
Monday, November 18, 2019
Writings: Witness
“Look familiar,” I asked, pushing the mug shot across the bar in front of me.
The barkeep looked at the photo, her hands wiping down a glass with a towel. The bar itself was nothing special, a largish room with a couple of pool tables in the corner, booths and tables, dim lighting. A corner stage was raised inches off the floor, and a couple of guys in jeans and t-shirts were assembling a drum kit. A blonde woman sat at the far end of the bar, steadfastly ignoring the guy in the cowboy boots who was trying to talk to her. The bar, stretched along one wall, was a solid piece of dark, oiled wood.
It was one of those places that cater to the blue-collar crowd. Beer, country music, pool. A place of peace and friendship, a refuge from the strain of a hard day’s work and the stress of a home life of barely getting by. I’m sure the barkeep knew the names of everyone who’d come in here more than twice. Good people, mostly solid members of society who just want to work, drive their trucks, and provide for their families. People like that tend to keep to themselves when strangers come by.
Which usually makes my job harder than it should be.
“No,” she replied, her eyes barely flicking over the mug shot before turning back to wiping the glass.
I took a pull on my beer. The walls were covered with pictures, images of the barkeep with several famous musicians. Even someone uncultured like me recognized many of them. Each photo showed the barkeep, usually smiling, the musician’s arm around her shoulder. Each one was signed, dated, neatly framed, and bolted to the wall.
She looked almost the same in each photo – hair a constant light blond, sparkling blue eyes, the older photos had fewer wrinkles. There was always someone on the other side of the musician. A man, about the same age as the barkeep with a square jaw and a neutral expression. He projected a certain solidity. Someone you could trust.
The recent photos only had the barkeep and the musician. The man wasn’t in them.
I pointed to one of the photos – one with a famous country star with a beard that reached to his belt - with the beer bottle. “Who’s that in the pics? With you and all the people?”
She didn’t look at me, but answered, her hands still occupied with wiping down that glass. “Roy, my husband. We bought this place – lordy – musta been thirty years ago. We ran it together.”
“What happened to him?”
“Killed crossing the street out front a couple of years ago. Hit and run. Cops say it was probably a drunk driver.” She kept cleaning that same damned glass, not looking up, her voice barely loud enough to hear over the honky-tonk song coming from the jukebox.
“That sucks,” I mumbled. I stool, tossed a couple of bills on the bar. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you see this guy.” I picked up the photo and turned to go.
“What did he do?” I looked back, saw her staring at me with those blue eyes. The same eyes as in the earlier photos, but lacking that sparkle, lacking that smile.
“He jumped bail. He was arrested for getting drunk and running over an eight-year old kid.”
I waited, silently, meeting her gaze.
“Lemme see that photo again,” she said. “I think I might recognize him.”
The barkeep looked at the photo, her hands wiping down a glass with a towel. The bar itself was nothing special, a largish room with a couple of pool tables in the corner, booths and tables, dim lighting. A corner stage was raised inches off the floor, and a couple of guys in jeans and t-shirts were assembling a drum kit. A blonde woman sat at the far end of the bar, steadfastly ignoring the guy in the cowboy boots who was trying to talk to her. The bar, stretched along one wall, was a solid piece of dark, oiled wood.
It was one of those places that cater to the blue-collar crowd. Beer, country music, pool. A place of peace and friendship, a refuge from the strain of a hard day’s work and the stress of a home life of barely getting by. I’m sure the barkeep knew the names of everyone who’d come in here more than twice. Good people, mostly solid members of society who just want to work, drive their trucks, and provide for their families. People like that tend to keep to themselves when strangers come by.
Which usually makes my job harder than it should be.
“No,” she replied, her eyes barely flicking over the mug shot before turning back to wiping the glass.
I took a pull on my beer. The walls were covered with pictures, images of the barkeep with several famous musicians. Even someone uncultured like me recognized many of them. Each photo showed the barkeep, usually smiling, the musician’s arm around her shoulder. Each one was signed, dated, neatly framed, and bolted to the wall.
She looked almost the same in each photo – hair a constant light blond, sparkling blue eyes, the older photos had fewer wrinkles. There was always someone on the other side of the musician. A man, about the same age as the barkeep with a square jaw and a neutral expression. He projected a certain solidity. Someone you could trust.
The recent photos only had the barkeep and the musician. The man wasn’t in them.
I pointed to one of the photos – one with a famous country star with a beard that reached to his belt - with the beer bottle. “Who’s that in the pics? With you and all the people?”
She didn’t look at me, but answered, her hands still occupied with wiping down that glass. “Roy, my husband. We bought this place – lordy – musta been thirty years ago. We ran it together.”
“What happened to him?”
“Killed crossing the street out front a couple of years ago. Hit and run. Cops say it was probably a drunk driver.” She kept cleaning that same damned glass, not looking up, her voice barely loud enough to hear over the honky-tonk song coming from the jukebox.
“That sucks,” I mumbled. I stool, tossed a couple of bills on the bar. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you see this guy.” I picked up the photo and turned to go.
“What did he do?” I looked back, saw her staring at me with those blue eyes. The same eyes as in the earlier photos, but lacking that sparkle, lacking that smile.
“He jumped bail. He was arrested for getting drunk and running over an eight-year old kid.”
I waited, silently, meeting her gaze.
“Lemme see that photo again,” she said. “I think I might recognize him.”
Writings: Afterwards
The city burned, fire lighting up the night sky. Two pinpricks of blinding light, the heart of a star recreated on earth, destroyed the night. The electronic filters crashed down on my scope, cutting the glare and saving my vision from the actinic blasts. It wasn't long until the compensators kicked in, allowing me to see the twin mushroom clouds drifting slowly upwards.
“How big?” my spotter asked in a quiet voice. I counted the seconds until the thunder reached us. We were several klicks from the ruins of what was downtown Saint Louis, well out of the blast zone.
“Couple of firecrackers – maybe ten kay-tees each. All they’re doing is making the rubble bounce.” I adjusted the sight, zooming in to the fires the air-blasts had started. “It’s doubtful that the SSU or the ACPS leadership still exists. After fifteen years of this, they’re probably radioactive dust just like every other government. Automated systems on one of the orbital platforms decided to have some fun and let loose, I’d guess. They built those things to last. You don’t remember that, do ya, Punk? Moon shots, rockets, space stations?”
I pulled the rifle back, and sat down with my back to the concrete wall. Punk broke out a couple of small plastic cylinders and tossed me one. I popped the top, and stuck my right thigh with the end of the tube, feeling the needle piercing my pants and injecting the icy nanites into my bloodstream.
“Sarge, you know I wasn’t born but a few years before the wars started. Never had a chance to learn about all that NASA crap.” Punk punched his own thigh with his injector and placed the empty back in his pack.
Nanites – that’s what we had named it. One of the greenies called it that years ago and the name stuck. No one really knew what the aliens put into the injectors, but it worked. Kept us alive as we humped through the radzones. No one knew how. No one really cared how.
No one knew anything about the aliens. They told us nothing more than they thought we needed to know, and all we knew was that they offered us survival. Life, of a type.
“Kids, nowdays. Don’t know nothing.”
My left temple started buzzing. The way Punk stiffened showed he was getting the same message. A summons – from our Alien Overlords, or whoever the hell they are. I relaxed, closed my eyes, and waited for the download.
The data package popped into my brain, unfolding, dumping info, maps, orders. All of a sudden, I *knew* all this. Five normals, two male, three female, ages 12 to 56 had been located in the rubble of what used to be Clayton. Punk and I were to find them, retrieve them, and bring them back to base. There, they would be processed, detoxed, healed, and shipped out in those silent, metallic disks to wherever the Overlords took them. If any were suitable, and the Overlords approved, we’d ask them to become Rangers, like us.
We’d never leave this planet. The Overlords said that the changes they made to us to become Rangers meant that we were unsuitable to live anywhere else. But they said that the ones they took off planet would be given a chance at life. Having seen their green goo bring someone who was melting from the radiation inside him back to health in just under a day convinced me they knew what they were doing. Wherever they were taking these people, it had to be a better place than we’d made this planet.
Punk stood up, checked his rifle, and smiled at me. “Get up, old man!” He smiled. “Time to earn our pay.”
We headed into the ruins of Saint Louis.
“How big?” my spotter asked in a quiet voice. I counted the seconds until the thunder reached us. We were several klicks from the ruins of what was downtown Saint Louis, well out of the blast zone.
“Couple of firecrackers – maybe ten kay-tees each. All they’re doing is making the rubble bounce.” I adjusted the sight, zooming in to the fires the air-blasts had started. “It’s doubtful that the SSU or the ACPS leadership still exists. After fifteen years of this, they’re probably radioactive dust just like every other government. Automated systems on one of the orbital platforms decided to have some fun and let loose, I’d guess. They built those things to last. You don’t remember that, do ya, Punk? Moon shots, rockets, space stations?”
I pulled the rifle back, and sat down with my back to the concrete wall. Punk broke out a couple of small plastic cylinders and tossed me one. I popped the top, and stuck my right thigh with the end of the tube, feeling the needle piercing my pants and injecting the icy nanites into my bloodstream.
“Sarge, you know I wasn’t born but a few years before the wars started. Never had a chance to learn about all that NASA crap.” Punk punched his own thigh with his injector and placed the empty back in his pack.
Nanites – that’s what we had named it. One of the greenies called it that years ago and the name stuck. No one really knew what the aliens put into the injectors, but it worked. Kept us alive as we humped through the radzones. No one knew how. No one really cared how.
No one knew anything about the aliens. They told us nothing more than they thought we needed to know, and all we knew was that they offered us survival. Life, of a type.
“Kids, nowdays. Don’t know nothing.”
My left temple started buzzing. The way Punk stiffened showed he was getting the same message. A summons – from our Alien Overlords, or whoever the hell they are. I relaxed, closed my eyes, and waited for the download.
The data package popped into my brain, unfolding, dumping info, maps, orders. All of a sudden, I *knew* all this. Five normals, two male, three female, ages 12 to 56 had been located in the rubble of what used to be Clayton. Punk and I were to find them, retrieve them, and bring them back to base. There, they would be processed, detoxed, healed, and shipped out in those silent, metallic disks to wherever the Overlords took them. If any were suitable, and the Overlords approved, we’d ask them to become Rangers, like us.
We’d never leave this planet. The Overlords said that the changes they made to us to become Rangers meant that we were unsuitable to live anywhere else. But they said that the ones they took off planet would be given a chance at life. Having seen their green goo bring someone who was melting from the radiation inside him back to health in just under a day convinced me they knew what they were doing. Wherever they were taking these people, it had to be a better place than we’d made this planet.
Punk stood up, checked his rifle, and smiled at me. “Get up, old man!” He smiled. “Time to earn our pay.”
We headed into the ruins of Saint Louis.
Writings: The Apartment
“She’s where?” I screamed into the bluetooth. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier!”
I flew across the office, slamming myself into the chair and reached for the mouse. Click…Surveillance…Location…Security Cameras…There! I clicked the ‘Live Feed’ link and watched the video start. There she was. Her and Uncle and those friends of hers, just coming out of the elevator, turning towards the apartment door. Dammit!
The explanation was rushed, breathless, apologetic in my ear. “We lost her in the parking garage. They slipped out the back. We found her SUV in front of the apartment building. They were already going inside.”
“Well, go after them! Make sure she does not enter that apartment! End call!” The phone made a friendly chirp in my ear. Frak! Frak! Frak! Why did that girl have to be so bull-headed? Why couldn’t she listen to reason?
“Phone – call Erica.” The voice dialer picked it up, and I waited. On the security feed I could see her swap her firearm into her left hand. With her right, she pulled out her phone, looked at it and cursed. She held it to her ear.
“Yes,” she snapped as she answered. “I’m kinda busy here.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re doing it again, little sister. Going somewhere you aren’t ready to go. Stop, now, and turn back. I have this handled.”
They stopped at the door to the apartment. I watched her look back at her friends. Uncle gave her a questioning look, then reached across the rifle he held and pulled back the bolt, chambering a round. Did any of them understand just how useless those popguns would be when they went through that door?
She turned back to the phone, her voice clipped, low, cold. “We’re here, and we’re doing this, brother. I’m not a child anymore, and you aren't head of the family, yet.”
My mind raced. I had to make her stop, pause long enough for the team to catch up to them. “You don’t know what you’re walking into, Erica. If you must do this, please wait ten minutes. I can have a contubernium of armed men there to help. If you have to do it, I’ll help. Please. This is bigger than you, bigger than your friends, bigger than Uncle. You need those men. You need *me* to…”
I watched on the feed her face contort into a snarl as she cut me off. “I don’t *need* anyone, and that includes you!” she hissed into the phone, her rage masking the fact that she knew, now, that she was lying. I’d never offered to help her like this, never said ‘please’ to her. She knew I was serious, but she couldn't stop. To do so would shatter her independence. She couldn't accept my help.
And so, she was going to walk through that door.
“We’re doing this, and you won’t stop us.” She stabbed the phone with her thumb, dropped it into her pocked, and switched her pistol into her right hand again. It looked so big in her hands. So formidable. So useless.
I ran out of the office door, brutally shouldering aside my aide. I barely noticed her fall to the floor, her armful of papers exploding across the polished marble floor. I only had one thought in my mind. If I ran fast enough, if I was lucky enough, I could get there in time.
Before the thing I had locked inside that apartment killed them all.
I flew across the office, slamming myself into the chair and reached for the mouse. Click…Surveillance…Location…Security Cameras…There! I clicked the ‘Live Feed’ link and watched the video start. There she was. Her and Uncle and those friends of hers, just coming out of the elevator, turning towards the apartment door. Dammit!
The explanation was rushed, breathless, apologetic in my ear. “We lost her in the parking garage. They slipped out the back. We found her SUV in front of the apartment building. They were already going inside.”
“Well, go after them! Make sure she does not enter that apartment! End call!” The phone made a friendly chirp in my ear. Frak! Frak! Frak! Why did that girl have to be so bull-headed? Why couldn’t she listen to reason?
“Phone – call Erica.” The voice dialer picked it up, and I waited. On the security feed I could see her swap her firearm into her left hand. With her right, she pulled out her phone, looked at it and cursed. She held it to her ear.
“Yes,” she snapped as she answered. “I’m kinda busy here.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re doing it again, little sister. Going somewhere you aren’t ready to go. Stop, now, and turn back. I have this handled.”
They stopped at the door to the apartment. I watched her look back at her friends. Uncle gave her a questioning look, then reached across the rifle he held and pulled back the bolt, chambering a round. Did any of them understand just how useless those popguns would be when they went through that door?
She turned back to the phone, her voice clipped, low, cold. “We’re here, and we’re doing this, brother. I’m not a child anymore, and you aren't head of the family, yet.”
My mind raced. I had to make her stop, pause long enough for the team to catch up to them. “You don’t know what you’re walking into, Erica. If you must do this, please wait ten minutes. I can have a contubernium of armed men there to help. If you have to do it, I’ll help. Please. This is bigger than you, bigger than your friends, bigger than Uncle. You need those men. You need *me* to…”
I watched on the feed her face contort into a snarl as she cut me off. “I don’t *need* anyone, and that includes you!” she hissed into the phone, her rage masking the fact that she knew, now, that she was lying. I’d never offered to help her like this, never said ‘please’ to her. She knew I was serious, but she couldn't stop. To do so would shatter her independence. She couldn't accept my help.
And so, she was going to walk through that door.
“We’re doing this, and you won’t stop us.” She stabbed the phone with her thumb, dropped it into her pocked, and switched her pistol into her right hand again. It looked so big in her hands. So formidable. So useless.
I ran out of the office door, brutally shouldering aside my aide. I barely noticed her fall to the floor, her armful of papers exploding across the polished marble floor. I only had one thought in my mind. If I ran fast enough, if I was lucky enough, I could get there in time.
Before the thing I had locked inside that apartment killed them all.
Saturday, November 16, 2019
Writings: Strange Attractor
1.
"So, do you play?"
I looked up and saw her staring at me. She had draped herself over the guitar after finishing her song, waiting for me to answer.
"Hey," she said, "I'm up here," pointing to her eyes and grinning.
I had actually been looking at the guitar, admiring it. This wasn't an I-picked-up-something-cheap-on-a-whim. It was older, used, well maintained. It certainly sounded good.
"I used too," I answered. "I haven't for a while. Life changes and makes it so you can't do all the things you want. It's a Seagull, isn't it? Mine's hanging back in my apartment." I felt my mouth smile. Her grin was infectious.
She sat back and pulled the guitar into her, her fingers plucking the strings a few times in a seemingly random manner while she contemplated twisting a tuner. The dark wood of the guitar reflected in her eyes for a moment. I'd seen eyes that color before, once. She brushed her hair out of the way with a flick of her thin, strong wrist. The tuner remained unchanged.
"Yep. Got it in used in Toronto a while back. Still rock solid," she said while reaching down for her beer. "Know what I think?" The bottle had been sitting next to her open case, a few bills and a handful of change were scattered over the battered red felt. The bar we were at was a cheap one down the road from the college. It catered to broke students and those who ran with them. It was a cheap beer, and she finished the last couple of swallows.
"What?"
"You need to buy me a beer." She handed me the empty bottle and went back to playing. Her voice penetrating the gabble of the crowd as I made my way to the bar. "You, your so far away, never coming home..."
Jack looked over at me as I stepped to the bar. I waved to the bartender, pointed to the empty bottle then, held up two fingers. He nodded.
"Like what you saw?" asked Jack, leaning back, elbows on the bar behind him.
"Yeah. It's the same model I have, just a darker wood. The one Erica gave me." It had been hanging on the wall for years, now. Unplayed, yet I had keep it with me. A touchstone to a simpler time. The bartender plonked the beers in front of me and walked away.
"I'm not talking about the guitar," he snorted. "You taking her home?"
"No." I shot him an irritated look. "She's not my type." That sounded weak even to me. I turned to make my way back to the corner stage.
"Yeah," he said to my back. "We'll see."
"...You, one step at a time, never in a rush..." she sang.
I followed her voice through the crowd.
2.
"Milkshake, um... vanilla. Shot of vodka, please." She handed the menu back to the waiter.
"And you?" the waiter asked, turning towards me.
"Just coffee. Black." He walked off, leaving us practically alone in the diner. I checked my watch. 2am. Well, I didn't have anything to do the next day. Nothing important, anyway.
"Not many people wear those," she said and taking a sip of her water. Her eyes were half-closed, but I could tell she was staring at me between her lids.
"What?"
"Your watch. Everyone has one of these, you know." She wiggled her cellphone at me. It was a tiny thing, one of those old flip-phones like I had back in the early part of the century. "Watches are for squares. Or people who are just being pretentious. What is it? A Rolex?"
"No, it's a Timex. From the 60s. Got it from my father." I waggled my wrist at her, so she could see it. "Not even a battery. I don't do pretentious."
"But you do take girls out for drinks when you just met them, don't you"
"Not often, no. Less often that Jack thinks I do, at any rate. Actually, I just wanted to get in good with your guitar." Her guitar sat in the chair next to her, in a battered case that could have been black, or brown, or maybe even blue when it was new. It was covered with stickers of states and cities. "You get a decal from Saint Louis, yet?"
"Not yet, first time I've been here. Haven't seen anything more than the bar, the hostel I'm staying at, and this place." A milkshake appeared in front of her. The glass twinkling with condensate. She grinned and plunged a straw through the whipped cream and into the shake proper. Then she took a slow, deep taste of it. A warm "mmmmm" escaped from around her straw. "You should try this." She slid the tall glass across the formica at me. I pushed it back, untasted.
"Had it before. Thanks, no. I'm driving, remember?"
"Loosen up. Just a sip." Again, the shake made its way towards me. I gently, yet firmly pushed it back, smiling at her.
She looked at me across the fluffy mound of cream. "You don't compromise." I glanced out the windows and watched the neon lights flash across a couple of cars driving by. Reflections from the puddles of rain added to the colorful air.
"Not unless I have to." The coffee was hot and rich and extra black. The smell washed the vodka/ice cream aroma away. She tilted her head to the side a fraction. I looked at her through the steam of coffee. "When are you leaving?"
"Trying to get rid of me that quickly? Already decided I'm not your type?" Her smile became a deviant grin wrapped around her straw.
"I just wanted to know how long I have to show you around the city. Can't find the good parts without a native guide." The coffee at this place wasn't the best in town, but it was always tasted the same. There's something about consistency.
"Making assumptions now, are you?" She drummed on the table with her thumbs and sang, "Well you took me to the movies, you took me to the dance. You took me to your warehouse tied up in the back of your van."
"I don't dance," I said and took another sip of the coffee.
Her eyes opened wide. "Why am I not surprised?" She held her shake up and raised her voice. "Can I get this to go?"
---
3.
"I live in reflection of a dream..." The melody drifted into my ears as I regained consciousness.
I've always hated the buzz of modern alarm clocks. The last thing I need is to be kicked out of my sleep by a screech that could wake the dead. So, I always wake to music, started low, then growing louder until I turn it off. I reached my arm out of the covers and pushed the off button. I didn't even need to open my eyes for that.
The music kept playing.
I opened one eye, staring death at the alarm clock. It wasn't on. The music wasn't coming from it. It was coming from behind me, with a texture and richness that the clock's anemic speaker couldn't produce. I slowly rolled over and opened the other eye.
"Does she still remember times like these..." The music stopped. She looked at me with those shining eyes and grinned. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she said. "How you feeling?"
She was sitting lotus-style on the other half of the bed, the paleness of her skin complimented by the dark wood of my guitar cradled in her arms. Probably the first time it had been off the wall since Jack and I moved into this apartment. "I dusted it off and tuned it. It looked like it needed some lovin'. Feels like it hadn't been played for years. Shame, really. Why did you stop?"
How do you explain something like that to someone like her? I don't think you can put it in any terms that someone of her type could understand. I croaked out an answer, anyway. "Life changes. Things happen." Really? That's the best I could do? Well, how was I to explain how my creativity just and left me. Sometimes, I think I miss it. Other times, I realize the cost to get it back.
"Gotta have a better reason than that. Here, you play." She pushed the guitar at me, holding it in her delicate hands. The dark wood looked better than it had in a long time, but maybe that was because I hadn't really looked at it in a while. It reminded me of things gone, and things I could never have.
"Right. You realize I'm still half asleep?" A yawn took over my face for a moment. "See?"
She tinkered out a couple of chords then started to play again. "Fine. Just lay there, sleepyhead." Her voice filled the room. I closed my eyes and let her sing to me. Just to me...
"So," she said while the last notes faded. "Who is she?"
"Who?" I sat up, fighting the sudden urge to climb out of bed and escape her interrogation.
"The girl who gave you this, of course." She patted the guitar. "There's gotta be such a story in there."
"Coffee first, then we talk. I have a caffeine dependency that needs to be fulfilled." I rolled out of bed, and headed to the shower. "Afterwards, what say we have a little fun?"
---
"So, do you play?"
I looked up and saw her staring at me. She had draped herself over the guitar after finishing her song, waiting for me to answer.
"Hey," she said, "I'm up here," pointing to her eyes and grinning.
I had actually been looking at the guitar, admiring it. This wasn't an I-picked-up-something-cheap-on-a-whim. It was older, used, well maintained. It certainly sounded good.
"I used too," I answered. "I haven't for a while. Life changes and makes it so you can't do all the things you want. It's a Seagull, isn't it? Mine's hanging back in my apartment." I felt my mouth smile. Her grin was infectious.
She sat back and pulled the guitar into her, her fingers plucking the strings a few times in a seemingly random manner while she contemplated twisting a tuner. The dark wood of the guitar reflected in her eyes for a moment. I'd seen eyes that color before, once. She brushed her hair out of the way with a flick of her thin, strong wrist. The tuner remained unchanged.
"Yep. Got it in used in Toronto a while back. Still rock solid," she said while reaching down for her beer. "Know what I think?" The bottle had been sitting next to her open case, a few bills and a handful of change were scattered over the battered red felt. The bar we were at was a cheap one down the road from the college. It catered to broke students and those who ran with them. It was a cheap beer, and she finished the last couple of swallows.
"What?"
"You need to buy me a beer." She handed me the empty bottle and went back to playing. Her voice penetrating the gabble of the crowd as I made my way to the bar. "You, your so far away, never coming home..."
Jack looked over at me as I stepped to the bar. I waved to the bartender, pointed to the empty bottle then, held up two fingers. He nodded.
"Like what you saw?" asked Jack, leaning back, elbows on the bar behind him.
"Yeah. It's the same model I have, just a darker wood. The one Erica gave me." It had been hanging on the wall for years, now. Unplayed, yet I had keep it with me. A touchstone to a simpler time. The bartender plonked the beers in front of me and walked away.
"I'm not talking about the guitar," he snorted. "You taking her home?"
"No." I shot him an irritated look. "She's not my type." That sounded weak even to me. I turned to make my way back to the corner stage.
"Yeah," he said to my back. "We'll see."
"...You, one step at a time, never in a rush..." she sang.
I followed her voice through the crowd.
2.
"Milkshake, um... vanilla. Shot of vodka, please." She handed the menu back to the waiter.
"And you?" the waiter asked, turning towards me.
"Just coffee. Black." He walked off, leaving us practically alone in the diner. I checked my watch. 2am. Well, I didn't have anything to do the next day. Nothing important, anyway.
"Not many people wear those," she said and taking a sip of her water. Her eyes were half-closed, but I could tell she was staring at me between her lids.
"What?"
"Your watch. Everyone has one of these, you know." She wiggled her cellphone at me. It was a tiny thing, one of those old flip-phones like I had back in the early part of the century. "Watches are for squares. Or people who are just being pretentious. What is it? A Rolex?"
"No, it's a Timex. From the 60s. Got it from my father." I waggled my wrist at her, so she could see it. "Not even a battery. I don't do pretentious."
"But you do take girls out for drinks when you just met them, don't you"
"Not often, no. Less often that Jack thinks I do, at any rate. Actually, I just wanted to get in good with your guitar." Her guitar sat in the chair next to her, in a battered case that could have been black, or brown, or maybe even blue when it was new. It was covered with stickers of states and cities. "You get a decal from Saint Louis, yet?"
"Not yet, first time I've been here. Haven't seen anything more than the bar, the hostel I'm staying at, and this place." A milkshake appeared in front of her. The glass twinkling with condensate. She grinned and plunged a straw through the whipped cream and into the shake proper. Then she took a slow, deep taste of it. A warm "mmmmm" escaped from around her straw. "You should try this." She slid the tall glass across the formica at me. I pushed it back, untasted.
"Had it before. Thanks, no. I'm driving, remember?"
"Loosen up. Just a sip." Again, the shake made its way towards me. I gently, yet firmly pushed it back, smiling at her.
She looked at me across the fluffy mound of cream. "You don't compromise." I glanced out the windows and watched the neon lights flash across a couple of cars driving by. Reflections from the puddles of rain added to the colorful air.
"Not unless I have to." The coffee was hot and rich and extra black. The smell washed the vodka/ice cream aroma away. She tilted her head to the side a fraction. I looked at her through the steam of coffee. "When are you leaving?"
"Trying to get rid of me that quickly? Already decided I'm not your type?" Her smile became a deviant grin wrapped around her straw.
"I just wanted to know how long I have to show you around the city. Can't find the good parts without a native guide." The coffee at this place wasn't the best in town, but it was always tasted the same. There's something about consistency.
"Making assumptions now, are you?" She drummed on the table with her thumbs and sang, "Well you took me to the movies, you took me to the dance. You took me to your warehouse tied up in the back of your van."
"I don't dance," I said and took another sip of the coffee.
Her eyes opened wide. "Why am I not surprised?" She held her shake up and raised her voice. "Can I get this to go?"
---
3.
"I live in reflection of a dream..." The melody drifted into my ears as I regained consciousness.
I've always hated the buzz of modern alarm clocks. The last thing I need is to be kicked out of my sleep by a screech that could wake the dead. So, I always wake to music, started low, then growing louder until I turn it off. I reached my arm out of the covers and pushed the off button. I didn't even need to open my eyes for that.
The music kept playing.
I opened one eye, staring death at the alarm clock. It wasn't on. The music wasn't coming from it. It was coming from behind me, with a texture and richness that the clock's anemic speaker couldn't produce. I slowly rolled over and opened the other eye.
"Does she still remember times like these..." The music stopped. She looked at me with those shining eyes and grinned. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she said. "How you feeling?"
She was sitting lotus-style on the other half of the bed, the paleness of her skin complimented by the dark wood of my guitar cradled in her arms. Probably the first time it had been off the wall since Jack and I moved into this apartment. "I dusted it off and tuned it. It looked like it needed some lovin'. Feels like it hadn't been played for years. Shame, really. Why did you stop?"
How do you explain something like that to someone like her? I don't think you can put it in any terms that someone of her type could understand. I croaked out an answer, anyway. "Life changes. Things happen." Really? That's the best I could do? Well, how was I to explain how my creativity just and left me. Sometimes, I think I miss it. Other times, I realize the cost to get it back.
"Gotta have a better reason than that. Here, you play." She pushed the guitar at me, holding it in her delicate hands. The dark wood looked better than it had in a long time, but maybe that was because I hadn't really looked at it in a while. It reminded me of things gone, and things I could never have.
"Right. You realize I'm still half asleep?" A yawn took over my face for a moment. "See?"
She tinkered out a couple of chords then started to play again. "Fine. Just lay there, sleepyhead." Her voice filled the room. I closed my eyes and let her sing to me. Just to me...
"So," she said while the last notes faded. "Who is she?"
"Who?" I sat up, fighting the sudden urge to climb out of bed and escape her interrogation.
"The girl who gave you this, of course." She patted the guitar. "There's gotta be such a story in there."
"Coffee first, then we talk. I have a caffeine dependency that needs to be fulfilled." I rolled out of bed, and headed to the shower. "Afterwards, what say we have a little fun?"
---
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Showcase: Post Apocalyptic Mystery Gang
I was thinking of putting together a scenario of Scooby-Doo gang vs zombies.So, I broke out the set of Hasslefree minis I had of the Post-Apoc Gang, and got to work.
I also has a spare Rhino around and threw that in.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Killjoys in 28mm - Step 4: Face the Facts
I hate painting faces.
I especially hate painting eyes.
I'm also not very good at it. I usually have to go back again and again and again to get things right. It's frustrating.
So frustrating that I can't even tell you how I do it.
I will point out a place that has some very good advice; advice that I try to follow.
These guys know what they are doing. You should just read all of the posts on Reaper's website. Each time I read one, I become a slightly better painter.
Anyway, the Killjoys are coming along, finally. With faced done, I can now start on the
easy part - the rest of the miniature.
I especially hate painting eyes.
I'm also not very good at it. I usually have to go back again and again and again to get things right. It's frustrating.
So frustrating that I can't even tell you how I do it.
I will point out a place that has some very good advice; advice that I try to follow.
These guys know what they are doing. You should just read all of the posts on Reaper's website. Each time I read one, I become a slightly better painter.
Anyway, the Killjoys are coming along, finally. With faced done, I can now start on the
easy part - the rest of the miniature.
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