Casting Call

I know I teased about a casting call for an upcoming project on facebook, so here's some more juicy details for all the inquiring actors and camera crew.

The project is called "Genie in a Blender," and it will be a webseries. There will be a series of short arcs, and each episode within that arc will be between 5-10 minutes. It is very much a tongue-in-cheek comedy, though the characters have surprising depth. Of course, I may be biased in saying that; I'm writing it.

This will be a creative collaboration between me and the great Paulo, which is not our first adventure together, but certainly our most epic.

In terms of roles that are needed, we have an open position for the main protagonist, and the main antagonist, along with many extra roles. We could also use people for camera, sound, and all the other odd jobs including prop and costume building. If you are interested, you can contact Steve and me on our personal facebook pages if you know us personally. If you don't, but you life in the Maryland area, you can also contact us at waywardcaptainarts@gmail.com. Auditions are open to all, and we will need a one-minute or so monologue. This can be done preferably in person, but we can't get our schedules to mesh, sending a video is fine. Feel free to ask any questions! We're excited about the project and eager to share.

For those of you that are curious about what the script will be like, here is an excerpt below. Steve is working on formatting my scrawl into proper script format, because I can't get out of my prose mindset. Nonetheless, here is a taste of Genie in a Blender, in all its ridiculous glory.

Flea market, morning. Tables across stage, Justin Case enters right, begins perusing among the customers. Center table merchant calls over low chatter.

“Mystical wares from across the sea! Enchanted electronics!”

Justin wanders over skeptically. Table is full of kitchen appliances.

“Mystical? This is a toaster.”

“Not just any toaster, this one can ward off evil spirits. The metal has been infused with holy water! No more malevolent spirits on your morning bagels.”

“I don't think I've ever had malevolent bagels.”

“Where do you think food poisoning comes from?”

“People don't get food poisoning from bagels.”

“I see you have no problem with evil spirits, then. Well, what about this?”

“A blender?”

“Enchanted blender, a blessed blender, even! You've heard of the tale of Aladdin, right? This blender holds within it a powerful djinn. Most people use blenders for milkshakes, but you could create miracles!”

“Right. And that coffee maker?”

“Single serve cups. Can also make tea and hot chocolate.”

“That's it?”

“It also has a timer!”

Justin looks around skeptically. “Look, I need a normal blender. You got any of those?”

“Just the genie machine. Thirty bucks. Take it or leave it.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five? It has a genie in it. And he doesn't appreciate tight-wads. Thirty.”

“Fine, fine. But you're full of shit, old man.”

Justin pays. Merchant grins. “Come back when you want another small home electric!”

“Crackpot.” Justin exits with blender

Scene

Small apt. Kitchen to stage left, couch and TV center, houseplant to right beside door leading offstage.

Justin enters, carrying blender and muttering. “If this thing doesn't work, I'm calling the asylum for that old dude.”

Plugs in blender, pours in ice and liquid. Turn on, and sparks fly. Smoke billows from the top. Justin steps back coughing, fanning at the smoke.

“Son of a bitch!”

Genie stands up from behind kitchen counter. Skin has a gold tint, wearing jewelry, 'hammer pants', and no shirt. “Actually, technically, I was born of wind, sand, and dreams. But if your dreams are kind of a bitch, then I suppose it would be close enough.”

Justin jumps back, grabbing toaster and wielding it like a weapon. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in my house?”

Genie climbs up on counter and sits cross-legged. “What does it look like? I'm the genie of the blender.”

Justin pauses, stares. Does not lower toaster. “You're shitting me, right? Where are the hidden cameras? Ha ha ha, we've all had a good laugh at this poor bastard's expense.” Looks around, as if searching for cameras.

“What, do I not look like how you expect? I thought this was rather stereotypical.” Pouts, and stands on counter. Pulls off hammer pants (tear-away style) to reveal jeans underneath. Takes off gaudy jewelry and sits again, comfortably. Bare feet. “Better?”

Justin does not look better. “You're shitting me.”

Genie, calmly. “No. I am the genie of the blender. Listen, kid, times are changing. No one has oil lamps any longer. And have you seen the modern light bulb? Miniscule! I am not staying in that thing for all eternity. Blenders have lots of room to stretch out, I get electric, it's perfect. Now are you going to stand there like an idiot waiting to beam me with an non-blessed toaster, or are you going to make me a smoothie?”

Justin lowers toaster. “Wait, so are you, like...a wish-granting genie?”

Sarcastic. “No, I'm a plate-twirling genie. What other kind of genies are there? Though, come to think of it, a plate-twirling genie would be pretty sweet.” Pulls a plate from the cabinet, still sitting on counter, studies it a moment, then shrugs and throws it to the back of the stage, where it hits the wall and breaks. “Eh, maybe not. I'd like to sign up to the video game testing genie, but that wasn't in my contract.”

“What? Video games?”

“Yeah, I could kick your ass in Mario Kart. But, I also cheat. Comes with the all-powerful, magical gig. So, what do you want?”

“Can I wish for anything?”

“Ehh, more or less.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if you, say, wish for limitless wishes, I would laugh in your face. No cheating. Unlike how I play Mario Kart. And I can't fully control human emotions, but I can be suggestive. How do you think George W. Bush won the election?”

“Wait, you did that?”

“Ol' Dub-ya likes his milkshakes, you know. The kitchen for the Oval Office is bitchin'.”

“Could you make my kitchen look like that?”

“Bend the laws of space to make your kitchen three times the size of your entire apartment? Sure. But the gourmet chefs are an extra wish.”

Small Updates

So, the roommate and I are finally moved into our apartment, and our life is no longer in boxes. This means (hopefully) I'll be able to write again, and update this again. I have stuff to edit, stories to submit, and fingers to cross with a few contests I entered into. Until then, more unpacking and settling in.

Delays.

Yes, yes, I know, more excuses. Working two jobs, getting the new apartment together, finding time for food and sleep. To be honest I was surprised I was able to update as often as I did. I have been writing, but it's been nothing completed, or it's all been challenges for Umbagog. Until I get things settled in the apartment, it's going to have to be time for a temporary hiatus. Hopefully mid-February I'll be able to do regular updates again. At least writing once a week.

DD # 13: Venice is Sinking excerpt

Here's another excerpt from an unfinished project, this one from a few years ago. This is the beginning of Venice is Sinking, which explores a character who goes by the nickname of Jinx. After the death of his parents, he went into a tailspin. Already dealing with a few mental problems, he turns to his impulses and becomes a sort of terrorist without a cause, creating destruction (though rarely killing) just to make himself feel something. While taking a 'vacation' to Europe to let things cool down at home, he meets a terrorist working for a familiar organization. That was about as far as I got so far, but Jinx's following revelations after working with Azize are still floating around the back of my head. Without further ado, here is Venice is Sinking.

Of all places to start—a church.

Even he knew it was absolutely ridiculous, having abandoned his religion years ago, and even his parents had barely been clinging to the last strings of God and the whole system, concentrating more on their family. But yet, here he knelt in the rows of pews, hands clasped in front of him, eyes down. He had counted the wood grains between his wrists, knew every whorl and twist and imperfection. In the three hours he had been there, he had imagined every prayer and desecration performed in his spot, every confession, every man that had copped a feel of his partner while the priests droned on, every child crawling from her seat to inspect the dust beneath the benches, every old man falling asleep only to be nudged awake again by his crone of a wife, and every wide-eyed and loving sheep to God’s herd, soaking in every word of heaven and hellfire.

He…had not prayed.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure that he remembered how. Oh, he could remember all the verses and hymns, he could remember every psalm. The verses had fascinated him as a child, poetic and forceful, but they were only words, and words were of no use to him now.

Hazel eyes still fixed on his hands, the knuckles white from the force of his desire. He didn’t notice right away that one of the priests came to sit beside him. The older man said nothing, merely watching the newcomer and the tension in his shoulders. The lost stranger was still a kid, probably just out of his teens, his jacket discarded and folded neatly beside him, droplets of water pooling on it still from where the snow had melted. Already the moisture had dripped free of his red-gold hair, spotting the fabric on his shoulders and back.

“What troubles you so, my son?”

He couldn’t answer that. Or, rather, he didn’t know the words to say it. The empty, vacant words of love, hope, fire, and brimstone. His eyes were dry, even as he finally tipped his forehead against his fingers, his neck stiff. It was the first time he had really moved since he had come into the cathedral. From his new angle, he could see out the aisle, to the rosy hues cast by the sun through the high stained-glass windows. It was growing late. No doubt they would want to settle his woes before evening mass, lest he disturb the ceremony, and bring something viral and unwanted to this place.

“I am…very alone, Father,” he answered at last, closing his eyes. His shoulders sagged, his body leaning against the old wood now like a puppet with cut strings.

“You are never alone. God is always with you, if you believe in Him.”

It was such a simple answer. And it was not the right one, more words of God and love and companionship and Hell. He heard a faint buzzing from his jacket, and cocked his head just enough to see where his phone had vibrated nearly from his pocket in quiet desperation. The screen had a familiar number, the name Kamin above it. He must have heard at last, coming out of work and searching for his friend, his brother.

“I’m sorry, Father. I have to go.” Was that his weak voice? Were those his hands pushing himself away and taking up his things again, stepping out of the small puddle of water he had dripped away? He stepped through the colors cast by the sun, a faint warmth like the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

The priest stood, too, watching him go, watching him replace his coat and keep his phone clutched in one hand, not answering it.

“You seem troubled, Jacob.”

The man never looked over as he was joined by another one of his brethren, folding his hands into his sleeves and watching the wide door swing closed again in the winter wind, snow swirling like angel’s feathers. “Young people should never have to hurt so, and never touch the one that can help them.”

DD # 12 Untitled Zev short, continued

This is another one of those stories that I have no idea what I'm doing, but somehow it turns out. A continuation of this short, if you missed it the first time. Zev, why you so crazy?!

For hours Zev remained silent and still, reveling in the quiet time to think. His phone buzzed. He frowned, eyes still closed, willing the noise to stop. The device vibrated onto the floor, the thud making him grimace. Unable to regain his concentration, he stood to stop the incessant drone at last.

 “What?” he greeted, friendly as a poisoned martini.

“Jesus, Zev, don't you ever answer your goddamned phone? I saw the news. I hope you don't think you're getting paid for those cops you shot, too.”

“I didn't shoot them. It was a different gun,” he pointed out, voice dripping with distaste.

“Right. Well, come collect your payment. It's down at the strip club with one of my boys.”

“I'll be down shortly.” He snapped his phone shut vehemently, glaring at the sleek black plastic. So much for his good mood.

He emptied the last few sips of cold tea into the sink, washed and dried the mug, rinsed the sink, then washed his hands.

For once, he took a direct route to the location, driving his own car through the cluster of city streets. All while he drove,a ll he could think of was that brief quiet in his living room, the comfortable silence in his own mind. He wanted to fall back into that place.

Then there was the strip club. He entered through the back, and as soon as the guard let him through, the heavy throb of music assaulted him. Grimacing in distaste, he passed a pair of girls in silk robes. They watched him, whispering eagerly after he passed. Through another closed door he heard the wet thumps and groans of sex, and just beyond that the small office. Another bouncer opened that door for him as well.

“About damned time,” a man with a crooked nose greeted. He hauled a briefcase onto the desk. “Your pay. Compliments from the boss.”

“I heard his compliments already,” Zev assured with a sneer. He opened the case, checking the amount before he lifted it from the desk. “You can tell him not to call me again.”

The stranger frowned, but nodded. “Right. Well, you can have a drink on the house before you go if you like,” he fumbled, gesturing vaguely towards the source of the pulsing music.

Turning his back on the cringing man, he surprised himself in turning towards the main hall instead of the exit. When was the last time he allowed himself a drink and a moment to relax in public? Not that this was his idea of relaxation—the bright lights illuminating the curves of every gyrating woman, the heavy music for them to grind to, the smell of smoke and liquor and desperation. Nonetheless, he took a seat at the bar, tucking the briefcase beneath the tall stool.

The bartender slid over to him, a pretty young woman wearing normal dress instead of merely lingerie. “Evening, sir,” she greeted pleasantly. “What can I get you?”

“You can get me your shirt! I want to see what's underneath!” another man jeered from Zev's left, cutting him off.

The mercenary grimaced, pressing two fingers to his temple. This was not worth a free drink. “Just a shot of whiskey will suffice,” he said to her quietly.

“I'll make that a double for you,” she assured, and threw her cleaning rag at the lewd man. “And you! I'm cuttin' you off. Pay your tab and tip your dancer before I call the bouncer on you!”

“Come on, now, sweet tits, that was a compliment!” the man insisted, pulling the towel from his face and leaning over the bar. “How the fuck can you work in a place like this with your shirt on?”

Zev waited until the drink was set in front of him. He thanked the young woman, sliding her a hefty tip, but didn't touch the glass. He stood instead, and grabbed the stranger by the back of the head. He pulled him back, then shoved him forward, cracking his head off the hard wood of the long counter. He let the man drop, a few other people scattering to get out of the way of the sudden brawl.

“What the fuck, man?!” the drunkard slurred, clutching at his bleeding face, on his back on the floor and not sure which way was up to even retaliate.

Zev had no such problems. He brought his heel down on the man's chest until he heard a satisfying crack of a rib and a yowl of pain. Though the bouncers were hurrying to break it up, they weren't quick enough to stop the calm mercenary from picking up the heavy briefcase and bringing the corner down on the man's face. The corner punctured his eye, sending a spray of blood and such a horrid scream of pain it made one of the other patrons turn and vomit. He hit the man's face again and again, with such force that the case broke open, money scattering around the bleeding, thrashing, screaming man. Though it was unintentional, it distracted the bouncers, who decided that grabbing handfuls of the money was far more important than restraining the madman. Nothing like blood-soaked hundred dollar bills on the chest of a dying man to provide a smoke-screen. Turning from the carnage, Zev nodded to the terrified bartender, and left out the gaping front door. As he headed back to his car and examined his bloodied hands, he frowned.

Now why had he done that? It wasn't like him to give into such base impulses, not over something as simple as a lewd act towards a woman who was clearly handling herself just fine. Normally he had such good control over his emotional outbursts, and now here he went tantruming like a child again. The whole drive home he contemplated this, and it wasn't until he washed his hands and arms for the third time to make sure they were free of blood that he thought perhaps he should seek some professional help. After all, he did know of a discreet facility that may be able to stabilize him for a time. And if he checked himself in, he would be free to leave as soon as he felt he was ready to do so. That seemed the most productive solution. All he would really need, he was sure, was a few pills to stabilize his neurotransmitters, and after two weeks or so, he could be back into his usual routine. He dried his hands, hearing the voice of a local reporter from the other room.

“—so soon after the shootings downtown, the city was rocked this evening with a brutal murder in a strip club. An unidentified man was beaten to death at the bar. Police think this may be a gang-related incident, as a large amount of stolen money was also found on the scene. They ask any witnesses to please come forward and call the hotline on the screen below—”

Zev paused from rinsing out the sink, twisting to one side so that he could see the glowing screen. He opened one of the kitchen drawers, pulled a revolver from where it rested beside his silverware, and shot a neat hole in the center of the reporter's brow, splintering the glass screen and sending sparks out the back. He twisted back around, turned off the water, and frowned at the smoking gun.

“Yes,” he murmured to himself, flipping open the gun to empty the rest of the rounds into his palm, “I think it is time to seek that rehabilitation clinic.”

DD # 11: Axsis

I was hesitant to put up an excerpt from Axsis' story, because it's so...out there. Told from the perspective of a character who has quite frankly gone insane, here's a tidbit anyway of "A Spider's Tale." It still needs major edits, but ah well.

I was once the leader of great men. A leader among leaders, the right hand man of a powerful warlord. I was once called a demon lord, the devil’s right hand, a barbarian, a murderer. Once, I stood on the summit of the hill that would be the summit of the world, the next great empire after the fall of Rome. I was once thought invincible, once bathed in blood and black leather like a cape of roses. Once, I was alive.

Yesterday I saw my reflection for the first time in two and a half years. By chance alone, in my usual wanderings through dark corridors and toneless halls, there was a small shard of a mirror, bloodstained in the lower right corner, splattered and half-covered by a fallen rock. Perhaps I was the one that had kicked it loose in the mindless pacing when my mind became his, as broken and shattered as the partial reflection staring back at me. Three eyes. Eyes that were once as hard and immobile as stone, dark green-brown turned black by the bare light. The pupils widened to leave only threads of color, a slim splash of white at the rims, shot with cracks of tireless crimson. The third, almost unblinking in my forehead, red and glaring and dead as any of the beasts locked within these ashy stone walls. I shuddered at the sight, pulled back at first into the comfortable, tangled crouch that splayed my three sets of arms. I was still as horrendous as when he had first changed me. From the neck up my skin had paled without the sun, below that all hard black and red, marked in shapeless patterns, two fangs barely touching my lower lip, some snarling beast with a lust for blood.

The same blood that stained the mirror. It reminded me I was hungry.

The rest I had only seen in a flash. A body unclothed and dirtied, all six arms moving in a knot to push myself away, my legs remaining the same, blackened to eight sprawling limbs. None of that mattered, not any longer, especially not now. I was a monstrosity—I knew that. I had known that from the moment I saw the swirl of white light swooping towards me, some blank avenging spirit from the fingertips of a man—a creature—madder than I.

The hunger burned in my chest. He had a new pet.

He. He. He. My master. My owner. My creator. The creature I despise the most, and that I know the best.

The white dragon.

Another shudder made my arms tremble, this self-inflicted by mere memory. It wasn’t yesterday any longer, it was today, and still I crouched by that damned mirror, a rope just out of reach. It wasn’t important. I stepped on it as I passed by at last, forcing my limbs to coordinated movement. It cracked, broke, and cut a thin line along the bottom of my black and hardened foot. Blood trailed behind me. I ignored it. It would only mean that I would need to take more.

Halls upon halls, doors closed and locked and lining the dank and dark passageways. Voices — no — breaths — life, lingered somewhere among the threatening chaos. Suho would be nearby. He would be in his chambers, above us all, away from us all until his summons brought us forth in a flash of blinding light. But only at his call. To do otherwise would be to threaten a sudden foul temper.

That was a chance I would take.

Being the favorite of a madman is no prize. But of late another pair has been taking his attention…it didn’t matter any more.

But those centaurs. Twins, male and female, as disgusting as day. No, as night. As this entrapment. One, the male, defiant and utterly silent, kept in the dungeons below. The other less physically defiant, bent on saving who she can of his new captives, captives I need to survive. Whose blood I need, while she heals and protects. From who? From me, and others more dangerous that skitter through the halls as fleeting shadows.

Who am I to kid myself? This is not my story.

The hunger is growing, avalanching higher and higher, a dark pit in the bottom of my stomach, gnawing at me a bloodlust I couldn’t satisfy on my own. Suho knows this—he knows everything that goes on in his caverns. As much as he knew that I was crawling and hurrying to him, to beg, to suffer if necessary. Anything to cure the ache that threatened to consume. I didn’t want to lose my sanity again—it came and went in bouts of cruelty that reflected his. Not to say I wasn’t cruel before, but then I was cruel and sane, I had control of it, it was for a purpose. For war. This is for survival, to stave off the hungry beast.

And is that truly so different? What was war, compared to famine? All I do is survive each timeless hour that shifts through the dripping stones.

Down here, there is no day and night, only darkness and groaning walls. My eyes are too used to that now. A few torches cough and sputter in sconces rarely cared for, tarnished and leaving a blackened trail of soot down the wall behind them. Only his room is ever bright, that only at his whim. Here now is my home.

What humanity I have left is dying. The sons of the dead would say I had none to begin with.

Axsis. Isn’t it a shame I can remember no more of my name that that? Lord Axsis, Commander Axsis, the Devil’s right hand.

Or, used to be. Would he be a white devil, too?

This is not my story.

The hunger is killing me. I had gotten lost in the halls I never get lost in, the maddening honeycomb of chambers and screams. And they called me a madman?

Better Late Than Never, DD # 10: Vendave

I meant to post this earlier today, but we were shopping for apartment stuff, and I worked in the morning, and then this evening I was distracted by Umbagog chat. I've just joined the community, and it's quite frankly awesome. So I can blame Fable and the others for being late, right?

At any rate, here is an excerpt from my (neverending) novel Vendave. Set in the medieval times, it is a non-fantasy set in a fictional word, and follows a set of characters including the one below. I love this piece, but it is a monster that I've been working on for years and still is not done. One day, Vendave. One day.

The last shovel of dirt fell short of the mound, earth trickling down the side of the fresh grave, rolling back to the toes of his muddied boots. Wolfgang Medvetis sank to his knees in front of it, leaning against the spade with one hand. A simple wooden cross was the only marker, his father’s name meticulously carved into it on the side. Rows and rows of crosses surrounded him, closing in tighter and tighter—and that was only from those who didn’t merely throw the bodies into the woods for the wolves.

Somehow, Cohen Medvetis on the side of a plank of wood seemed only to reflect the fading soldier taken by plague. The man that sat in front of the fire wrapped in a blanket and hiding himself from his last of kin.

“Wolf…” He held up his gloved hand, determined to hide the marks of his dying skin, rotting away beneath the cloth. He didn’t turn to face his son. “When you go, burn this place. Don’t let anyone else step foot in.”

“Who said I was leaving?” he defended, standing just behind his father’s chair, staring down at the thin black hair that barely covered a scar on the back of his head. Battle wounds.

The chuckle in response came dry and weak. “I know you. You’re too restless for the crumbling world.” That hand dropped, gesturing vaguely towards the sword in the corner of the room, sheathed in a black leather scabbard and resting on top of an old chest. Memoirs from a half-forgotten war. “Take what you need, and burn everything else. These are memories only for us.”

Medvetis’ eyes started to water from staring at the simple marker. Splinters had worked their way into his palms, hands still gripping the shovel with white knuckles. He didn’t cry, the dampness blinked away. After all, the man that had died was little like the man that had raised him, or attempted to, after his wife had succumbed to fever when the boy was five. More dirt shifted, easing the mound closer to the earth, as if threatening to uncover the swathed and wilted body beneath, muscles sapped and atrophied. A shell, and nothing more.

“Everything is yours, now, Wolf.” A voice came from behind him, a hand falling on his tense shoulder. “Miller’s daughter had finally gotten her dowry together. Now that the house is yours, you can take her. Settle down. Right?”

With a heavy sigh, Medvetis pushed himself to his feet with the help of the spade. His eyes never left the crooked cross. His fingers had been shaking when he tied the wood together, and now the left edge drooped lower than the right. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

“What?” The other man frowned, looking him over as if he must have been catching some mad sickness next. “Where is it you plan to go? Land is scarce, there won’t be getting any of your own outside of your father’s. Hell, you’re lucky that you even own it. Lord Saddler has everything else in town.”

Medvetis set the shovel over his shoulder, heading back towards the small cottage, a thin trail of smoke still rising from the fire dying in the hearth. “I don’t plan on finding somewhere else to settle.”

“What are you going to do, then? Just wander? You’ll be killed, Wolf. The roads have gone to hell lately with thieves and vagabonds. Your father might have taught you to use a sword, but that doesn’t do any good against gangs and arrows.”

He set the shovel down outside the house, not inviting his companion in, though the other followed him inside anyway. Medvetis didn’t answer, instead shaking the dirt from his boots as he paced across the wooden floor. A traveling pack already waited for him, along with a bow and a full quiver. He picked up his father’s sword and scabbard, looping it onto his belt. Nothing else in the single-room house had been touched, dust settling on the mantle, filtering across the empty windows in the slanted sunlight.

“You’re really leaving.” His voice trailed off, watching the young man shoulder the bag and weaponry.

“You should leave, and move downwind.” Medvetis suggested flatly, taking a long piece of wood from the tabletop—a piece of the cross he had cut too crookedly to use. Placing the end into the hearth, he waited for it to catch fire, watching the yellow flames.

“Wolf…you can’t be serious…”

He didn’t answer, aside from touching the makeshift torch to the table until it lit, then the chair his father had died in. He stepped to the curtains, to the bed, to the scrolls of their records in the open chest, to the wooden walls that still smelled of decay. His companion ran out coughing by the time he dropped the flaming stick onto the floor and closed the door. Smoke billowed out of the windows, and belched from the chimney, painting ghosts above the house. Standing back, Medvetis didn’t move until dusk, when all that was left was still smoldering, piles of ash marking the square plot of land he had always known. By then, he had retrieved his horse from the stables, a proud black Friesian stallion, saddlebags packed, the animal waiting less than patiently.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Medvetis pulled himself up on the horse’s back, looking down at the other man. He smiled, reaching down to clasp his hand. “It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?”

Surprised, he gripped the other’s calloused hand tightly, driving the splinters in a bit deeper. “That’s the first I’ve seen you smile in months, Wolf.”

“Take it as a good omen, then.” He shifted the bow on his back, then let him go, ignoring the stinging in his hands. “And wish me a good journey.”

Belatedly, he smiled in return, reaching over and slapping the horse’s rump. The animal whinnied, then jumped forward, reigned in for an easy canter down the trail.

“Safe journey, Wolf.”

SOPA and PIPA

With thousands of sites in blackout today, I wasn't planning on posting anything on here to join in the protest.

Instead of total radio silence again SOPA, let me use this space to give you this instead, my dear readers: https://www.google.com/landing/takeaction/

End Piracy, Not Liberty. Sign the petition and contact your local Congressman, let them know that you do NOT want SOPA to pass! While this act was made to protect artists, including writers like me, the way they are going about it is 100% wrong. Don't be silent today--let the American government know that corporations can't make these decisions about our freedom.

DD # 9 : Untitled Zev Short

So, I have no idea if this is finished or not, but I started writing using one my characters, and this is where it wrapped up for the moment. It was mostly just trying to delve into his head and his (many) mental problems. Probably another one that reads "like walking through barbed wire, but in a good way." So here's Zev, in all his, er, glory.

It was simply a matter of waiting.

Zev if nothing else had learned patience in his years of working, and now as he lay on the rooftop of a long-abandoned office suite, he closed one eye to peer into the scope of the rifle. It was so tempting for a moment to let this asshole live, to kill someone else and take his head in for the money. Just because he could. The thought made the corner of his mouth twitch in a smile, even as his scope followed the stranger's progress. These people relied on him, paid him for death, and it would be so easy to just...not do the job. To get caught, to kill the wrong person, to tell that person who had hired him to kill them. Chaos all with one word, one action, one gesture. One squeeze of the trigger.

The rifle discharged, the sound deafening in one ear. The world disappeared, replaced by that ringing noise and the sound of screams from the street below. Pedestrians scattered away from the fallen body and the spray of blood that spread out from the stranger's head like some sort of twisted halo. He watched through the scope, waiting for that last echo of sound to die. When his own little world faded, he stood and slowly dismantled the weapon, humming tunelessly to himself.

Heading down the fire escape, he shouldered his bag, the black duffel concealing the weapon. By the time he reached the body, there were police cars with lights flashing, and caution tape blocking off the sidewalk. He skirted the uniformed men, who barely gave him a second glance with all of the people gawking and grimacing at the sight. Photos flashed from the crime scene investigators, and police men looked up to try and determine the trajectory of the bullet. Eventually they would find the roof top, they would dust for fingerprints, search for a weapon, look for any fiber or hair. But the wind was high and he remained unconcerned. Even if they were to find some hint of his existence, there were no records of him. There were advantages of being a ghost.

As he reached the end of the street, he stopped at the corner and reached into his jacket. One click could change the world. From the dark folds of his coat, he pulled out a Glock and aimed back at the crime scene. He emptied the chamber to the sound of renewed screams, running, chaos, and the thud of bodies hitting the concrete. By the time the police officers had drawn their weapons, Zev was gone, around the corner and down into the subway station. He squeezed into the train alongside an attractive young couple. The train was almost empty, and he found a seat, watching them neck and giggle out of the corner of his eye. A few other people sat hunched over papers or nodding their heads to their earbuds. As the train jerked towards the next stop, a man near the back of the car stood, and flipped out a long, nasty-looking switchblade.

“Alright, everybody,” he announced, his voice slurring some with a thick inner city accent, “wallets and purses. Watches and jewelry, and nobody gets hurt.”

One click of a switchblade could change this small world. Zev looked up as the young punk went down the line of the car, holding out both blade and an empty bag to collect from the frustrated passengers. The couple clung to each other, the girl trembling in his arms.

The idiot stopped in front of Zev, waving the knife in front of his nose. “You, too, old man.”

“Old man?” he repeated, looking mildly offended. His debate on letting this boy take his wallet and feel accomplished, or shut his operation down was decided for him. Zev was barely thirty—old man was not a name he was prepared to take lightly.

He shifted the bulky duffel from his lap, and stood.

“Wallet, now!”

Zev took hold of the youngster's wrist, shoving it and the blade aside and twisting it sharply until he heard a satisfying snap and a yowl from the would-be thief. The older man grabbed the back of his head, and cracked his face against one of the metal poles in the middle of the aisle. The robber went down on his back, groaning with a bloodied face and a limp, broken wrist. Zev put a foot on his chest to ensure he wasn't getting back up, and calmly took the stranger's bag, handing it to the young couple.

“If you would be so kind as to give everyone their possessions back,” he said quietly. The girl flashed him a brilliant smile. As the train hissed to a stop, Zev took his bag again, and exited, leaving the thief groaning on the car floor. The police could pick him up later, if they weren't all busy with a handful of bodies.

Three train transfers, two bus stops, and a taxi ride later, Zev at last stepped into his apartment complex. The convoluted route home was entirely unnecessary, but it gave him a sense of security. Any man attempting to tail him would be irrevocably lost, and the idea of some poor sap trying to keep up with him made him smile, only because he knew the frustration to follow. He climbed the stairs, stretching his arms over his head slowly, reveling in the ease of tension in his shoulders. Down the hall, he could hear one of his neighbors fighting. A gay couple, the pair yelled at each other almost every night, only to make up with some noisy tumble that to Zev sounded more like S&M than any more vanilla form of sex. Across the hall, the murmur of a radio came through the closed door, and the mechanical whirr of a toy car. The knob turned as he unlocked his apartment, and a boy of seven or so came out, holding his prize and a small remote control. The child blinked up at his neighbor, and smiled.

“Sir, Mama wanted me to ask you if we could borrow an egg,” he announced, glancing back over his shoulder to his mother to make sure he had phrased the request correctly.

Zev's smile didn't reach his eyes. “I'll see what I can find,” he assured, nodding politely to the frazzled woman beyond the open door. The pleasantries were normal, but they left him feeling irritated. He took off his shoes as he stepped into his own apartment, but didn't drop his bag yet. Fetching an egg, he slid back into his boots before he would go into the hall, handing the delicate treasure to the boy.

“There you are. Don't drop it, now.”

“Thank you, sir!”

The click of the closed door followed a satisfied sigh. For a moment, he leaned his shoulders against the old wood and closed his eyes, slowly toeing off his shoes for the second time. A part of him longed to drop the heavy rifle in its canvas duffel, shuffle to his bedroom and collapse in his clothes on top of the sheets. Never could he let himself indulge in such a simple pleasure—already the stillness and the weight on his shoulder nagged at him to follow with his routine, alarm bells ringing in his ears.

Heaving another sigh, he walked to his bedroom, first unloading the pieces of the gun, then methodically cleaning them before he locked them in specified compartments in a gun safe. Then the duffel was wiped clean, zipped up, and stowed into his closet. Only then did he allow himself to switch on the television, the sound low and already on a local news channel. He stripped out of his clothes, folding each piece before he put them in the laundry hamper. He brushed his hair, noted that the dark strands were getting a bit long, and turned for the bathroom. He stopped abruptly when the news returned, showing a roped-off crime scene.

“—the wake of one brutal murder, police were ambushed by a lone gunman who fired multiple shots into crime scene investigators and bystanders. Three people were shot dead on the scene, including two officers, and another died at the hospital. Two more people were injured, and are currently in stable condition. No names have been released, and police are encouraging any witnesses to come forward. They have only a vague description of the gunman: a white or Hispanic man between twenty and forty, wearing a black coat and jeans, with dark hair. A sketch artist has not yet been able to make a rendition, but police assure they will update us with more information as soon as they have it. It is yet unknown if the two killings are related, but it is unlikely based on the weapons used. If you have any information, please call the police hotline on your screen.”

“Hispanic?” Zev repeated skeptically, looking down at his nude arms. His skin had much more of a Mediterranean tan, in his opinion, but he supposed in panic people made assumptions. “And anyway,” he went on to himself, liking the sound of his own calm voice compared to the reporter's drone, “I wouldn't be surprised if they had claimed I was of African descent. People do like to encourage their own stereotypes, and they assume the minorities are the ones to commit murders. Not good, self-respecting Anglo-Saxons.” He was about to continue on to the bathroom to shower, but he paused again in the doorway, looking back at the television. It had cut to an on-scene reporter talking to a police officer. They spoke of motive.

“Motive,” he repeated, and licked his lips. Why had he opened his gun on the crime scene? A little frown furrowed his brows for the first time, and it wasn't from that nagging voice telling him to clean himself. The man brought down by the sniper rifle was a job, a contracted killing. Were he ever caught and taken to court, he would testify to that fact. It was nothing personal, just money. But what about those men and women that went down under his Glock? His teeth found his lower lip, but he only worried the tender flesh for a moment, speaking aloud again.

“Impulsive,” he said at last. “It was impulsive and childish.” He turned from the television at last, and stepped into the shower. “No,” he corrected, calmer this time as his brain fought to rationalize under the spray of hot water. “It was an experiment. How will police and pedestrians react to another murder following so closely to the first? How prepared are they at crime scenes to defend themselves from further onslaught? Clearly they need to rethink their procedures. This will teach them.”

Turning his face into the water, he smiled. Yes, that was clearly the reason for the killing. It had been an experiment, and he would be sure to catalog the experience when he had the time. He meticulously scrubbed his body, washed his hair, washed his body a second time, and then stood under the hot spray until at last the heater started to give out. Then came the long routine in front of the mirror to wash his face, brush and dry his hair, brush his teeth, check the progress of any healing wounds (of which there were none at the moment), wash his hands, and then take a moment to listen to the news prattling on from the other room again. The pause gave him time to go through his mental checklist, and make sure no part of him felt unclean still. Satisfied with one more examination of his naked body, he pinched the skin at his abdomen, and then in a few other places, calculating a Body Mass Index in his head. He had been showed once how to do it, and from that day on performed it every day on himself. Not that he had much to worry about—his body was as lean as an athlete's, and some days it received just as much training. When the number was satisfactory, he finally went to put clothes on. The local reporter had moved on to other stories of woe and catastrophe from across the globe, and he had lost interest. He flicked it off, walking barefoot to the kitchen to at last treat himself with something to eat and a kettle of hot tea.

His phone rang, buzzing across the table. His client, no doubt checking in to make the arrangement to deliver the rest of the money. He would deal with them later. For now, he took his tea and sat on a mat in the middle of the living room, relaxing his body into a practiced meditation. Murder could wait. For now, he wanted to relax. After all, the bodies would still be in the morgue tomorrow.

DD # 8: Sacrifices

Is it only Monday? I feel as if this is the never ending week, and it's only started.

"Sacrifices"

“Honey,” I called as I poured over a table full of bills. “Can you come in here?”

“Hold on! I think I've finally taught the cat to sit!”

I knew I should have let him get that basset hound at the shelter. But those big, soulful eyes would have made my husband sit, roll over, and fetch the paper, and not the other way around.

“This is important,” I persisted, wondering at what point shouting between rooms became the preferred mode of conversation.

He came in carrying the cat. “I lied. She sat down so she could wash her tail, not because I told her to.”

What was it about that man that always made me smile? “I know that Tuesday nights are always our date nights, but I don't think we should eat out this month. Not if we want to still pay rent.”

His face fell. It was like saying no to that basset puppy all over again. “But I always get my best ideas when we're in a restaurant.”

“I know. And as much as I think a restaurant that serves only miniaturized versions of food is a brilliant idea, it's either cut date night, or go back to buying one ply toilet paper.”

He grimaced and crossed his legs. “I love you, honey, but my ass has been with me much longer, and I can't do that to him.”