Love

https://www.scribd.com/document/595365979/Love-erotic-poetry

Amour

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Amour.pdf

OR

https://www.scribd.com/document/595190144/Amour-erotic-poetry

vouloir l'amour

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/vouloir-l.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/588777605/vouloir-l-amour-erotic-poetry

une nuit d'amour

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/une-nuit-d.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/586455620/une-nuit-d-amour-erotic-poetry

bout de chemin pour la femme fatale

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/bout-de-chemin-pour-la-femme-fatale.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/583999729/Bout-de-Chemin-Pour-La-Femme-Fatale-erotic-poetry

Nepenthaceae

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Nepenthaceae.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/574096540/Nepenthaceae-erotic-poetry

Now that new reddit has pushed out we are likely to run into some issues with the existing design. For the time being, please use old reddit for interacting with features unique to the Ficiverse subreddits. We will need to take a look at what our options are with new reddit for site design. If you run into any issues, please send us a mod message with a description of your problem.

My prologue. Come eviscerate me.

So a few days ago I posted this on /r/Ficiverse. I didn't post it here because a) this sub gets much less traffic and b) I thought that a script might me against the rules, because people usually only submit prose. However, the /r/Ficiverse post hasn't gotten any real traction—it's sitting at 40% downvoted, so I know that some people don't like it, but it's also sitting at 0 comments, so I have no idea why. I figured if I crosspost it here, at least /u/SikaRose will feel obligated to comment maybe it'll get some real feedback. I'm not chasing praise, I'm just looking for somebody to actually verbalize their criticisms and complaints.

Joen slumped against the wall, yawning in boredom. She scratched herself against the reinforced concrete, feeling the jagged edges that the repair nanobots had left through her uniform. They were meant to have kept the wall as smooth and pristine as when it was built, but a combination of the severe damage of the rocket strike and two hundred years of neglect had left the microscopic symbiots an impossible task.

West cast her a disapproving look, and attempted to stand up even straighter, if that was possible. Joen noticed, and grinned at him, receiving only a frown in response. "Stand up!" he hissed from the corner of his mouth. "We're the gate guards! We need to look good."

"Oh, shut it West," Joen complained good-naturedly. "I swear, that missile launcher on your shoulder is pumping up your ego. We're standing twelve feet up the wall. No one notices us, and no one cares. Anyway, the DiGorneos don't need more good publicity."

West rolled his eyes and returned to examining the street through his RPG's viewfinder. Joen smiled at his back. West was a water orphan - one of the homeless children the DiGorneos had taken up off the street and taken into their water trade. Brought up as a guard for their caravans, and eventually joining the elite guards as a heavy gunner at only 19, he was staunchly loyal to the family and had a promising future among their private army. He had all the passion of youth, and all the meticulous dedication of the old, she reflected.

Joen shifted slightly, and glanced up the street. Masses of people milled around below, selling, buying, stealing, fighting, drinking, eating and moving. A small mob of petitioners were gathered in front of the gates, waiting for their chance to meet Tombo DiGorneo, the patriarch of the family and supplier of water to all of Blokten and Blocknin. Several guards were holding them back behind barbed wire and barricades; a heavy mech was unfolded nearby into a gun platform and a tank crew were watching them from the protection of their vehicle.

She stood up, and walked over to the edge of the balcony, unslinging her sniper rifle. Flicking the magnification on her scope up, she took a look through it down towards the east. Sure enough, nothing seemed to have changed. A heavily armoured water booth was pumping into the back of an industrial tanker, while a squad of DiGorneo soldiers were handing out free supplies to a crowd of beggars. A ring of Scrazi family thugs from Bloksixe were forcing their way across the road, surrounding one of their employers.

"Anything interesting out there, West?" she asked, yawning again.

She heard West shifting behind her. "Nothing dangerous, from what I see. Only some jeeps delivering cargo from the Shredding Sea. They're going through the gates."

"Cool, cool..." murmured Joen, putting down her rifle.

A shout rang up from below, and Joen tensed. Time seemed to go into slow-motion. Something is wrong... she thought. All of a sudden, she was in freefall, with chunks of concrete around her. Oh... she thought, something IS wrong...

She slammed into the ground with a whumph, all her breath flying out in a gasp. Her armour and helmet took much of the blow, but enough of the force came through to make her see double for a moment. She lay on the ground, gasping for air, as flashes of fire popped up above her and all the other sound was drowned out by a loud ringing.

"JOEN!"

She was yanked upright, and West's horrified face suddenly dominated her vision. He said something, but the ringing was still louder. Joen staggered, and turned, staring at the devastation. Much of their balcony had been blown away by a massive blast. The jeeps were blackened shells, twisted outwards by the explosion. The side of the mech was blasted apart, with gouts of flame burping out of it. The tank's machine guns were firing, cutting down figures in black armour. Bodies and concrete littered the cratered ground.

After the Meiji Restoration, the Empire of Japan has become a very powerful nation both in Asia and in the international community. Japan, in a span of twenty years, has grown into the second strongest nation in all of Asia, only being bested by the Empire of China. Japan experiences prosperous economic growth, a strong and large military, and a very high standard of living, comparable to that of the Western world.

In 1889, Japan is now openly challenging China's rule as the strongest Asian nation. Both nations have had close calls, but other than that, Chinese-Japanese relations are somewhat "peaceful". However, Japan has been slowly eyeing the newly formed Empire of Korea(est. 1886). After much negotiations, Japan and Korea have formed a mutual trade and defense alliance. This has caused much distress in the Chinese government, which has always supported Korea. Seeing this, Chinese troops have been involved with skirmishes along the China-Korea border. Due to this, Korea requested that Japan send in some troops to help out, which Japan happily obliged. Soon, over 1,384 Imperial Japanese Army(IJA) and Imperial Japanese Navy(IJN) personnel have entered Korean soil.

On October 9th, 1899, an IJN destroyer, the Miyuki, was sunk and destroyed whilst making a return trip to Japan. Later, China denied the attacks, but then claimed responsibility for the attack, claiming that the Miyuki was engaging an Imperial Chinese Navy(ICN) battleship. This caused great strain between Chinese-Japanese/Korean relations, and after much arguing, both Korea and Japan decide to cut ties with China.

On November 2nd, 1899, the Empire of Japan and Empire of Korea both declare war on the Empire of China, citing that an ICN battleship was in fact responsible for the sinking of the Miyuki. On the same day, China declared war on both nations. This, sparked the East Asian War.

The first battle of the East Asian War was the Battle of the Yellow Sea, which resulted in a draw between Japanese/Korean forces and Chinese forces, although Korea and China suffered considerable losses.

On April 7th, 1893, China amassed an invasion force of 4,383,947 troops, mostly comprising of soldiers from the Imperial Army of China. Half of the invasion force will conduct an invasion of Korea, while he other half will attack northern Japan and continue southward.

This was an excellent opportunity to test out China's new secret weapon, a powerful virus known as the "Crimson Fear". The Crimson Fear was an infectious disease which kills a person. However, after two minutes, the disease will make the infected person come back to life, but this time with the skin being darker, along with the eyes becoming black with a deep red iris with red veins protruding out of the eyes. The body will also have all o the veins emit a very deep red glow, and illuminate the infected person's veins throughout its body.

However, the infected person will lose all of their humanity and morality. They will become hungry, and began to have a tendency to attack and even eat people. This, according the Imperial Chinese military officials, would make for the best fighting machine to help end the war. However, when the Crimson Fear was released, it infected millions. Troops and civilians from all sides were exposed and turned into these crazed creatures, now officially named "Red Corpses". While being "successful", the Red Corpses have also begun to attack Chinese troops, and have turned insane.

Northern Japan and Korea were hit the hardest. Korea was hit the hardest, while Japan wasn't too far behind. This was working out for China's military campaign in both countries, until Manchuria became ravaged with Red Corpses running around towns and villages. Eventually, the Red Corpses made their way south towards Beijing, the Imperial Capital. After much fighting, Beijing finally fell, and 49% of the Imperial Chinese government's leaders and lawmakers died. The new imperial capital is relocated to Nanjing, while Chinese troops at home fight to push the hordes back to Manchuria. The Russian Empire has also expressed anger and distain with the Crimson Fear and and Red Corpses running around. Eventually, China and Russia both build barriers around all of Manchuria. These eventually turn to become walls, and soon, the walls became known as the Imperial Iron Wall of China, which was completed on July 8th, 1896. The whole of Manchuria became condemned, and millions of refugees streamed down south.

Korea felt the worst effects of the Crimson Fear. The Empire of Korea had to give up 1/3 of its territory in the north to the Red Corpses. Finally, Korea also constructed iron walls, with construction being completed on March 16th, 1899. Japan, being the hardest fighting nation, didn't begin building their iron wall until 1900. Japanese military officials began to switch from fighting troops to fighting the Red Corpses. The Red Corpses advance far south, and on July 27th, 1899, a massive horde of Red Corpses are just hundreds of miles away from Tokyo. Everyone fought to keep Tokyo from falling, until eventually the Red Corpses were pushed far back enough that an iron wall could be constructed. Finally on August 17th, 1911, the Imperial Iron Wall of Japan is finally built.

Soon, all three nations agree to stop warring, and to instead focus their efforts on eliminating the Red Corpses and reclaiming land. All three nations sign a "peace treaty", and all three nations began to focus their war efforts on the Red Corpses.

“Is this seat taken?” The voice was quiet and patient.

Anna Medway looked up at the speaker, a woman in her mid-twenties who was head and shoulders taller than herself, blond, blue eyes, with a calm, thoughtful demeanor.

“It's free, Miss,” Anna said, smiling. The stranger's company was welcome. Anything would be better than sitting here for three hours, alone with her memories.

“How far are you going?” the woman asked as she sat down.

“Wangaree,” Anna said, unsure how to pronounce her destination.

“Ah, you mean Whangarei?” the woman asked.

“Is that how you say it?” Anna asked. She blushed slightly as the woman gave a quiet chuckle. “It's just that I landed an hour ago at Mangere, so I thought...”

“The spelling and pronunciation are different,” the woman said. “Maori words catch visitors all the time, it's nothing to be ashamed about. You're not the first person who's had trouble and you won't be the last...”

“Anyway, my name's Kate Fisher,” the woman said, to put her host at ease.

“Anna Medway.” Anna extended her hand, which she usually found discomforting. Kate Fisher shook hands with her and asked what she did.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Kate,” Anna said, which made Kate all the more curious to know.

“Go on, Anna,” she said. “You can't shock me with anything...”

I very much doubt that, Anna thought, keeping her musings to herself. “Alright, Kate,” she said, “but don't say I didn't warn you. I've spent the last ten years as a mercenary, fighting the Chinese in the Swamp War in western Siberia.”

“Good God,” Kate said, putting hand over heart. “I'd no idea...” Heavens, you must be a lot older than you look, she thought.

“Well, I guess you wouldn't, Kate,” Anna said. “It isn't as if I look the part.”

“Come to think of it...” Kate said, looking at Anna appraisingly, “there's something...”

“Yes, I know, there's something about me that should've warned you,” Ann said drily.

“Oh, it's not so much that, Anna,” Kate replied. She looked Anna over from head to toe as Anna stared back at her with narrowed eyes and levelled brow. Anna was wiry, only five feet tall, looking as tough as hickory. Short, jet black curly hair, flinty gray eyes, high cheekbones, a narrow well formed nose, full lips and a strong chin.

Anna was also studying Kate. Her straight blond hair curled at the nape of her neck. Cornflower blue eyes in a face that spoke of a quiet, peaceful nature. A dark blue scarf with white polka dots to keep the cold from her neck. She wore a warm, comfortable, old style tweed riding jacket and dress, with sensible shoes.

More at home in 1865 than now in 2065, Anna guessed shrewdly. Here was someone who valued a slower, more relaxed lifestyle. South Pole to my North, she thought.

The hydrofoil left Waitamata Harbour, running through Rangitoto Channel and starting to head north along East Coast Bays. They skirted east of Tiritiri Matangi, past Kawau Island, Cape Rodney and Little Barrier, past Bream Tail and the Hen and Chickens to enter Whangarei Harbour; much expanded and extended now by sea level rise and the vast earthquake, which had split eastern Northland off from the rest of the peninsula between Bream Head and the Bay of Islands in 2024.

“Would I be right in thinking that you're not all that distressed about the current way of things, Kate?” Anna asked directly, gauging her reaction as they entered the harbour.

“The rise in sea level is terrible, of course,” Kate said. “It's just something we have to live with. There are a lot of people who regard it as a dystopian nightmare, but I don't agree. If you're asking whether I'm unhappy about most technology on Earth going back a century or so, then to be honest I'm not all that fussed about it, no. Life was so frantic when I was a child, even when I was a teenager. It's a strange amalgam of ancient and modern, I'll admit, but things are much quieter now that so many have left.”

In New Zealand in the southern winter of 2065, it was easy to consider that the wars of the past half-century were over and done with. However, there were still many bushfire conflicts continuing that were offshoots of the twenty five years of savagery as China expanded west, dealing first with its own Islamic population, then conquering Russia, Central Asia, the Indian Subcontinent, Afghanistan, Iran and the Middle East. They took South East Asia and Indonesia and threatened Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific. All this was accomplished between 2019 and 2044, the brutal war known as the Bloody Quarter. Four factors stopped them from continuing their conquest. As they stood in 2044 on the borders of Eastern Europe and North Africa, the Chinese armies were by then stretched far beyond their strategic and tactical capacity. Their losses of men and material in the war had been crippling. Attempting conquest of the western Pacific was unthinkable for that reason. Finally, the northern world was now spinning down into the cold abyss of a new frigid age. About halfway through the war the icecap had been shed from Greenland and the Gulf Stream closed down.

“One of the advantages, I'll agree,” Anna said. “Takes fuel away from fires, anyway.”

“Not enough people left to carry on a war, you mean?” Kate asked.

“Having all the refugees from Eurasia ending up scuttling off down to South America has certainly changed things,” Anna said. “That and the vile weather brought things to a close, Kate. Having all of North America emptying out like that between 2030 and 2045 has made a difference, too, of course. The Chinese themselves are finding it difficult to stay in their own country, for God's sake, because it's so damned cold up there now. All their conquests have been put at naught. What a bloody waste of time, literally...”

“Plus all the elites of the world going up to live in the High Orbit O'Neill Colonies,” Kate said. “One of the many benefits of belonging to the plutocracy is that you can take off and leave the hoi-polloi in your dust...”

“Indeed, we're down here in the ruins of civilisation, they're up there looking down on the human zoo,” Anna said bitterly.

“The Marsh War,” Kate said, “that was part of the Bloody Quarter, I take it?”

“The Chinese war against Islam, yes,” Anna agreed. “It was a follow-on to that war, certainly. The Marsh War was brought to a stop largely because of Greenland...”

“Ironic that the Greenhouse Effect should cause the collapse of the Greenland ice cap,” Kate said, “which in turn caused the freezing of the northern hemisphere.”

“Ironic indeed, but hardly surprising,” Anna said. “About six hundred thousand cubic miles of ice was spread all over the North Atlantic between July and December of 2030, Kate. Icebergs for Africa, you could say. With the whole northern ocean covered by ice, what do you think happened to the Gulf Stream?”

“It would close down, obviously,” Kate said. She was silent for a long moment. “Good God Almighty,” she said finally. “What a mess we've made of things...”

“Such is life, Kate,” Anna said pragmatically. “Before your time and mine. I'm not prepared to take responsibility for the actions of others, nor should you. It's bad enough that we have to live with the results. We can't take a backward step from where we are now. Nature has an enormous flywheel that's hard to move. When it does start revolving it takes a long time to stop...”

“Yet the sea level of the world is still rising, Anna,” Kate said. “Why is that when by rights it should be falling, or at least stable?”

“Only the northern half of the Gulf Stream has been affected, Kate,” Anna said. “The southern half of the flow is still warm. It's eating away the edge of the ice fields. The ice is melting gradually, adding to the sea level. More so in the Atlantic Ocean, of course, but the new melt water is spreading out in all directions.”

“And the southern hemisphere, what of that?” Kate asked.

“The West Antarctic Ice Sheet is at the point of collapse, Kate,” Anna said bluntly.

“How is it you know so much about this, Anna?” Kate asked curiously.

“Because it affected my life directly, Kate,” Anna said, “whereas I daresay it's only touched your life in small ways...though I must say, I don't know anything about you...?”

“I'm a graphic artist,” Kate said. “I do basket-weaving as a sideline.”

“Heading home up north to your studio?” Anna asked.

“Well, no, I'm actually going up to Whangarei to listen to a speech this afternoon,” Kate said. “I'm planning to start a job up there as well, but the speech is the real draw.”

“That must be some speaker, Kate, to pull you all the way up here,” Anna said.

“She's the Prime Minister, Sarah Murray,” Kate said. “She's going to be explaining a new programme of building. To be honest, you don't make too much cash as an artist.”

“Better to make ends meet with a real job, then?” Anna said wryly.

“Exactly,” Kate admitted with a rueful smile. “Got to put food on the table...are you looking for work yourself, Anna?”

“Yes, I am, Kate,” Anna said.

“Well then, come along with me to the meeting,” Kate invited. “There are thousands of jobs on offer, I hear.”

“The sea's risen about four metres by now, hasn't it?” Anna asked.

“So it has, which is why it now takes three hours to get from Auckland to Whangarei,” Kate said. “There was a time when it took an hour less. The main road has been shifted inland quite a way west, making it longer to get there. Also, of course, with the rise in sea level the floor of Whangarei valley has been flooded. It was never very high above sea level anyway. It's so much easier to get up north by boat these days.”

“I hear you're having problems with a couple of volcanoes in this country,” Anna said.

“Problems is putting it mildly, Anna,” Kate said. “Okataina and Taupo have been in eruption since 2036 and 2056 respectively. In the last nine years Taupo has erupted three times. Okataina has gone off seven times since it began causing trouble.”

“What's been the main effect, Kate?” Anna asked.

“There's a great swathe of the central North Island that's completely deserted, Anna,” Kate said. “It's called the Ashland Drift, for obvious reasons. Nobody in their senses goes anywhere near the place.”

“So the only connection between the different parts of the North Island is by sea?”

“Exactly, there's no other way,” Kate confirmed. “No safe overland route, anyway.”

“And this building programme...?” Anna asked, having a good idea of what it entailed.

“Something about high country havens, whatever they are,” Kate replied.

“How many people live up here in the north, Kate?” Anna asked.

“About two million,” Kate said, “if you count the area from just south of the Bombay Hills up to North Cape. Then there's the area from Palmerston North to Wellington. That contains another million people. The entire South Island holds one million...”

“And the rest?” Anna asked. “I assume there's been some emigration?”

“About another two million have left, Anna,” Kate said. “Heaven only knows where they've all gone. Everyone is fleeing Earth as fast as they can...”

“Understandably, given the circumstances,” Anna said.

Passing the magnificent massifs at the mouth of Whangarei Harbour, the hydrofoil docked. Anna and Kate made their way to the Town Hall. The building was still well above the reach of the tide. The meeting was well attended, although the city had far fewer people than in its heyday. Within ten minutes of their arrival, Prime Minister Sarah Murray strode onto the stage. Tall, statuesque and attractive, she gained instant attention from everyone in the hall. Standing nervously before the microphones, she ran her hands over her shoulder length mane of glossy black hair.

“In this country and across the entire world,” she began, “we're facing the worst crisis in the history of the Human species. I have no idea how bad things will get before some sort of stability is reached. I do know that the population of the world is going to drop dramatically. This is only the beginning of a very long and hard road. Those few who remain on Earth are going to have to adapt, very quickly, to an extremely different world, a situation that's going to last for a long time.”

“Those who remain behind will need shelter, of course,” Sarah Murray went on. “We are a lucky country, for New Zealand is largely mountainous. We have any number of places where havens can be built, far above the reach of the highest possible tide. Just in this area, there's Parakiore Hill overlooking Kamo, Parihaka ridge to the east and the Western Hills at our backs. Those of you who came in by sea will've passed Whangarei Heads, Mount Lion and Mount Manaia, all of which are penciled in as future haven sites. There are about two million people to house. The havens will have to be immense. The efforts of all of us will be needed to make our lives bearable.”

“I hardly need tell you that we have entered the Flood Age,” the Prime Minister said. “In the high country havens of the deep future, our remote descendants a thousand years from now will listen to fireside tales of flooded, vanished cities and lost lands. The old refuge families will become the dream keepers, the holders of memory, the only bridge between past and future. All parts of the landscape become imbued with some scrap of experience, some trace, however shadowy, of old human memory. Each hill and valley, the plains, the shorelines, the quiet forests, the river bends, will all begin to accumulate a patina of ancient experience.”

“Landscape and memory intertwine,” she said, “weaving together a profound tapestry of legend and tall tale. Thus over the centuries the country is sung and spoken into being. The rhythm and rhyme continue for ever, once begun. Each memory, every event, will become yet another strand woven into the growing pattern. Those who pass into eternity year by year become droplets in the ocean of souls, the great shimmering sea of unseen life. Those who choose to come back into the physical world are sustained by this vast expanse. The souls become interwoven with the land itself, as races and civilisations follow one another in their turn.”

“The image comes to mind of an old, contorted tree,” she went on. “A tree blasted by lightning, shaped by the prevailing wind, tough and hard-fibred. Its roots hold tightly to the rocks, they dig deeply into the soil, they anchor the tree to the ground. A tree which is fertilised by that richer earth that was once human, and the souls of those who feel a deepening love for the land. Through the rise and fall of societies, the mornings of new cultures, the bright afternoons of each succeeding empire, the lingering evenings of dying and fading civilisations, we will prevail. Through earthquake and ash-fall, storm and flood, hell and high water, the ebb and flow of oceans and people, we will endure...”

“I definitely get the feeling that our Prime Minister was a preacher in her previous life,” Kate said with a chuckle, as she and Anna sat in a nearby cafe half an hour later. “I must say she appeared to be running more than slightly off topic at the end there.”

“Somewhat oblique, but interesting nonetheless,” Anna said, “On that topic, other than the Whangarei area, do you know where the havens are going to be built?”

“Northland is very rugged,” Kate said. “There are any number of possible sites.”

“Below a certain height limit though...” Anna began.

“The PM's got her eye on sites that are more than one hundred metres above sea level,” Kate said. “Nothing less, God help us, for we'd be wasting our time.”

“I was surprised to here her talk about souls,” Anna said. “I sort of lost track of things there for a while...I'm still not sure what she meant.”

“I understand what she was on about,” Kate said. “The succession of other people and cultures is to be expected in a small country that's periodically prone to massive disasters. There's a spiritual connection to the land that people gain by long tenancy.”

“Laying down a psychic matrix of human interaction and integration with the landscape over long ages?” Anna asked.

“Exactly,” Kate confirmed. “From the rocks our bones, from the earth our flesh, from the rivers our blood, from the air our breath, from the eternal blue heaven our souls. We are the land, the land is us...”

Anna looked out the window, watching a bird bring material to a new nest.

Following her gaze, Kate smiled, though her eyes were sad and her voice tired.

“True, it's a ferocious country,” she said. “We fill our lives with trivia, we're distracted constantly from the things that are truly important. All events have their season, there's a time for every purpose under Heaven. We're surrounded by moments of eternity. The new leaves flutter on the October branch, the wind whistles through the empty boughs of the July forest. The new, fresh grass rises in September, the May blade dries. The last leaf of autumn falls from the tree, the soft, cold kiss of the first winter snow lands on us.”

“Sunrise and sunset,” Kate went on, “golden dawn light and purple dusk shadow, the emergence of the myriad stars as the night sky darkens. The waves forever break on the shores of the world, the rippled sand is left by the tidal flow. There is an everlasting continuum of life, from the remote past into the deep future. The Supreme Soul shelters and sustains the host of souls, diamond flashes of living light who are all born from the Great Mother. We are merely one of the manifold patterns, a single thread in the web of Nature that brings the worlds together throughout the Universe. Despite everything, I still see hope for us.”

That evening they took a room at the Grand Hotel for a couple of nights. The hotel was an old paddlewheel river steamer that had been turned into a gigantic houseboat. The ten decks each had fifty cabins port and starboard divided by a central companionway. The decks were numbered from highest to lowest, with Anna and Kate in cabin 54 of the tenth deck, on the even numbered port side. Just above the waterline, they could hear the restful sound of water lapping quietly against the hull.

The en suite cabin was four metres by six and had two beds, set against each bulkhead. Each bed had a small side table with a flexible stemmed lamp for reading. A kitchenette provided coffee sachets, teabags and small cereal boxes. The bedroom itself was only four metres square; the rest was taken up by the shower cubicle and bathroom.

“Time for a shower, I reckon,” Anna said. “I've been travelling all day. I could do with a wash before bed. Care to join me, Kate...and save water?” she added, chuckling.

“Don't mind if I do, Anna,” Kate said, stretching away tiredness. “It'll relax me nicely.”

In the shower together, Anna kissed Kate and hugged her.

“Thanks for helping me, Kate,” she said. “I'd've been lost without your guidance.”

Kate doubted very much whether Anna would be lost even on Mars, let alone anywhere on Earth, but kept the thought to herself. She leaned down and kissed Anna's cheek.

“Glad to help, Anna,” she said. “Share knowledge if you have it, I reckon, and God knows I'm familiar enough with this place to make myself useful to travellers.”

Privately Kate was shocked, though not surprised, to see how many minor scars Anna had on her torso. Guessing her thoughts, Anna said that it was a hard world out there.

“You'll have plenty of time to get used to the sight, Kate,” she added. “We'll be in each other's company from now on, I daresay.”

“There used to be another Grand Hotel, Anna,” Kate said as they sat down together at the small table with cups of milo before settling in for the night. “That was before the big earthquake that tore Whangarei to pieces. Before my time by miles...I'm only 23 years old. The Land Splitter, they called it. It broke East Shore away from Northland in one fell swoop...it dropped the floor of the harbour and Whangarei by a couple of metres. There hadn't been an earthquake like that in Northland for over a thousand years. A full century of sea level rise was accomplished in a few minutes. Even after the tsunamis had done their damage and retreated, the next high tide just rolled in over the ruins. As a big city, Whangarei is finished. As a pair of small settlements on either side of the strait, it continues. As you see, though, few permanent buildings, for the sea is still rising. Most buildings are boats, moored to the nearest tree. Until the tide rises far enough to drown the roots of the tree and the boats have to shift their moorings yet again...and so it goes.”

“Where was it, this Grand Hotel?” Anna asked.

“In the centre of town, down by the main bus terminal next to Rose Street triangle,” Kate said. “It used to be called the Criterion, but the name was changed to The Grand after Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip stayed there during the official visit in 1953.”

“Anything left of the old building now?” Anna asked.

“Not much, just some broken walls,” Kate said. “Neap tides expose them occasionally, as with all the rest. The ruins of Whangarei are known now as Sunken City.”

“Along with many others, indeed,” Anna said pragmatically.

“New Zealand is only a small ship in a vast ocean, Anna,” Kate said. “There are a lot more ships out there, sinking slowly. Some boats have disappeared already, others will follow...”

Edward Lovett, a lonely schizophrenic living in the hills of Northern California meets a con-man shaman who convinces him in the existence of a deity called The Condor Of Life, a being as real as you believe it to be. Due to his illness, Edward begins to communicate with the god, and at it's command he changes his name to Akushesh and takes off on a pilgrimage to Mount Shasta, a spiritual epicenter near the California - Oregon border. Meanwhile, his estranged, multi-millionaire father Edward Cunningham, the founder, President, and CEO of Cunningham Incorporated, a revenue generating business conglomerate specializing in the Hotel and Lodging industry, tries to hunt down his son with the help of his Dalit aide Sanji in an attempt make him the heir to his company. Little did they know, shrewd and successful business ideologies have no place in Akuism.

Going to try this again (deleted older post). Here is a chapter of the work I got finished already. This part takes place after another night of prophetic nightmares. Frederick and his advisor, Pisces have business to attend to in Red Canyon Province. Frederick continues to mull over a dream interpretation Pisces gave before.

Frederick and Pisces looked out across the land from the castle’s battlements. By now it was noon and the sun had made its way to its zenith. A cool and gentle breeze lifted the smells of wildflowers and leftover dew from distant forests. The peace and tranquility of the land belied it’s turbulent past. They’ve seen the visions. Both the fish and the fox knew this tranquility wouldn’t last.

Frederick looked down off the stonework. Then he looked back at Pisces. The fish smiled at him and jumped up onto the parapets of the building. Then he helped the fox up. A swish of his fins produced a gust of wind. The red-orange and aquamarine robes of the two animals flew around flapping in the blowing wind.

“Are you ready for this?” Pisces called. “On three we’re going to jump. We have to transform at the right time.”

Frederick looked down. It was probably twelve miles up from the foot of the mountain to the top of the keep. He remembered back to his first training days when Pisces taught him how to perform transformations. Even though it was years ago, a lot of it was fresh in his memory. His first time on the parapets of the castle was terrifying but, with practice, he was able to conquer those fears.

Frederick looked back out at the land as the fish started to count.

“One…,” he called over the wind, “Two… Three…”

Frederick and the fish jumped. They plummeted, head first, toward the foot of the mountain. Halfway there, with a great flash of multicolored light, both the fish and fox transformed into falcons. Immediately, the gusting wind caught their wings and picked the two of them up. They, made their way eastward below the jet stream toward the scenic deserts of Red Canyon Province. Frederick and Pisces made their landing on the eastern edge of the canyon near the entrance to the bridge. As soon as they were on the ground they transformed back to their original forms. A pterodactyl, along with two coelophysis heralds were there waiting to meet the king and his high advisor.

“Presenting Lady Petra,” one of coelurasaurs said. “Ruler of Red Canyon Province.”

Lady Petra approached the king. She spread her wings and gave a dignified bow as she addressed the fox and the fish. The leathery skin of her back was a reddish-pink color that matched the vibrant sandstone in the area. It softened to a light yellow on her stomach. She wore a necklace of sapphires and turquoise around her neck. The brilliant blue of the gems contrasted against the light pink color of her skin.

“Petra?” Frederick exclaimed, “It’s been too long. When I saw you, you were still Lady of the Red Canyon Township. You’re in charge of the whole province now?”

“Yes,” Petra said, she spoke with the heavy Greek and Latin hybrid accent that all dinosaurs and prehistoric reptiles had, “My brother, may he live in the glory of the sun, recently joined Lord Sol in his fiery kingdom.”

“My condolences. He was a good lord and advisor. If it wasn’t for him, this bridge wouldn’t have been built.”

Petra lowered her head.

“Yes,” she said, “The land is much more prosperous and happy because of it though.”

“How is the new lord of the township working out?”

“Lord Monoceras is doing fine. He’s been busy making preparations for this event.”

“Glad to hear it. Should we get started?”

“I sent a message to Tyran Rex over four hours ago. When the messenger got back to me they told me he was held up on business. He did say he was sending ten bruhathkayosaurs ahead to administer the strength test. We can’t do much yet until they arrive.”

“How long will it be?”

“Well, they’re coming up from Titan Lake. That’s a few hundred miles south of here so it might not be until nightfall at the very least.” Frederick, Petra and Pisces walked to the middle of the bridge. The fox crouched over to get a closer look at the texture of the wood while Pisces stamped and pressed his fin into it.

The Gateway Bridge, as it was called, was enormous. Two suspenders were carved out of sandstone on each side of the canyon. The workers leveled the land on both sides for easy access to the bridge. Attached to the suspenders were sturdy ropes that held the heavy, wooden deck up. For that part they used an old saurian technique inspired by the way a log bridged a river after a storm.

Five massive trunks from five sturdy redwoods were cut in half and shipped south. They were then treated with a special resin to preserve the wood in the dry climate. Notches were made in each trunk to fit over the stone ledge and hold them in place on each side of the canyon. After that all ten pieces were laid next to each other while a group of smaller, heavy planks were laid across the logs and nailed in. A few other supports held everything in place.

“It’s very nice,” Frederick finally said as he stood back up.

“Yes,” Pisces added, “It seems sturdy enough.”

“Thank you,” Petra replied, “We do our best.”

Petra pointed to the other side of the bridge where some sculptors were carving out a head on the side of the deck. The head was adorned with a helmet decorated with a velociraptor statue on top of it.

“We chose,” she explained, “to honor the designer by carving his likeness into the bridge. There’s going to be a second head on the other side as well. My brother’s image is also part of it as you can see.”

“Where is the designer anyway?” the fox asked.

“Constructus is down below looking over some blueprints. Would you like to meet him?”

“Sure, but aren’t the bruhathkayosaurs going to be up here?” “I’ve been told they’ll be coming up through the dry river bed down below.” Frederick and Petra walked over to the western stairway with the two heralds following close behind. Shadows on the canyon walls lengthened while the sun started its descent into evening. They stopped at the top of the stairs.

“Are you coming?” the fox called to Pisces still looking over the side of the bridge.

“I’ll meet you two at the bottom,” the fish replied.

Pisces spread his fins and dove off the bridge. In seconds he became an eagle. His wings immediately puffed up when he caught the updraft. With a few maneuvers he jumped down to the next updraft and then to the next flapping his wings to keep steady. Frederick watched Pisces rock back and forth in the air gliding from updraft to updraft as he made his way to the bottom. The fox then turned back to Petra.

“How’s the family?” he asked.

“They’re fine. Terry just learned to fly. The teacher said that he’s becoming a real daredevil.”

Frederick laughed. He and the pterodactyl started to descend the thousand steps into the canyon below.

“Just like his aunt,” he said, “What about Alessandro? Is he still training at Ypsilos?”

“Yes. He told me there’s going to be some harsh competition this year. Things are going to be even harder with his father gone. He used to come every year.”

“I could come if you’d like. As, you know, moral support.”

“That would be great. You two haven’t seen each other in years.” By the time they reached the first couple of houses, the sun started to dip down below the horizon. Shadows completely covered the canyon walls bathing the community in a soft, cool shade. Small lamps were burning at the doorsteps of Greco-Roman style houses carved into the banded rock. They passed coelophyses and other smaller dinosaurs sweeping their porches or cleaning other parts of their homes in preparation for the big inspection. Most of the dinosaurs that came from the Triassic lived in the Red Canyon Province. The dry climate reminded them of home.

As they walked, Frederick noticed paths running along artificial terraces carved into the rock zigzagging in and out along the different layers. Each bend had smaller stairways that led to the level below. The houses and buildings were bigger on the lower levels. Everything from little open cafes to gigantic restaurants populated these paths interspersed with bigger houses and other public buildings. In the center of it all were the lord mayor’s, and the Provincial lady’s palatial mansions.

They were huge buildings. Both of them had sandstone domes on top that punctuated themselves with ornate towers. Through the colonnades that surrounded the circular walls Frederick could see lamps shining out of yellow windows with pointed arches. The craftsmen who carved the buildings made sure to follow the shapes of the sandstone and the weathering so that the natural order and look of things weren’t disturbed.

“I see the palatial mansions are finished,” Frederick said.

“Do you like them?” Petra asked, “The inhabitants of Red Canyon were very gracious to us. They did such an excellent job carving every detail.” Frederick and Petra eventually reached the bottom of the steps.

“Welcome to the Red Canyon Bazaar,” Petra said extending her wing.

“Wow,” Frederick replied, “It’s grown since the last time I came here.” On the last step of the staircase there was a small velociraptor statue like the one on top of the head of Constructus’s bust. Petra bowed and kissed it whispering something in the old Greco-Latin of the saurian tongue. Frederick, more as a sign of respect, did the same.

“We thank the god of commerce, Emporio,” he repeated in English. The leaders in Dinosaur Land were seen as divine representatives by their people. Many, like Petra, took the job very seriously. If they didn’t they’d see the wrath of both the saurian gods and their citizens. Before the land was unified, many rulers came that didn’t observe the old rituals. They were instantly thrown out and exiled. Local exiles were ended when the Frederickan codes were established and Dinosaur Land joined the Goodland.

Frederick and Petra found Pisces already back in his fishy form a few feet from the stairs. They continued along the canyon floor. Millions of animals of all sizes from all parts of the kingdom were shopping among crates and barrels of food and other items. Dragons from Dragonland bartered for crystals. An Archeopteryx from Aviland fought with a Quetzal bird from Nature Land over a batch of berries. Their squabbling incited a little bit of an uproar among dinosaur merchants and customers alike. A nearby mammoth watched the commotion as he ate his soup at a small wooden table indifferent to the outcome of the fight. The top of his head touched the cloths draped over poles to shield customers from the rain and sun.

After another hour or so Pisces, Frederick and Petra came upon a large open-air restaurant. By then the sun had completely set and the night watch was busy lighting the torches on the street corners. A mamenchisaurus sat at one of the tables reading notes and designs by candle light. The fox, the fish and the pterodactyl came up to him. He had thick bluish-gray skin and his long neck curved up and over as he read the parchment. A small cup of tea sat on the table along with his simple little candle. For a minute he felt the presence of eyes on him. When he looked up he saw he had visitors.

“Oh!” the dinosaur said. He stood up and bowed toward Frederick and Pisces in respect. Then he extended his front foot to his visitors. “Constructus Pontem at your service. I’m sorry I didn’t get up sooner. I’ve been so wrapped up in my work. Please. Sit.”

The mamenchisaurus took his tea cup and sipped a little. Then he quickly piled his designs into a neat stack. With his work out of the way, he got back into his seat.

“I’m so sorry about the mess,” he said, “There is still so much work to do.”

The restaurant was busy with many different species of small dinosaurs. They scurried about bringing out platters of food and drinks to customers. As payment they received small trinkets or other things. Those that couldn’t pay in trinkets worked by sweeping or taking in dishes. After the attack from the Dragon of Darkness, Frederick made a law forbidding the use of money and established a system of barter and trade. If they didn’t have anything small enough to be given for a small job, they’d exchange it for a service of some kind. The bridge Constructus designed was worth a full year of free room and board in the city including all other amenities.

Frederick and his companions sat down at the table. The mamenchisaurus signaled a waiter with his front foot. The waiter came over and poured tea for the group. Then he asked if they’d like anything to eat.

“The fish is amazing here,” Petra said. “Our alchemists make sure to use scales from the best fish from the river. All of them naturally flaked off of course.”

“Sounds good enough to me,” Pisces said.

Pisces and Frederick both ordered the fish. Constructus just ordered a small salad of ginkgos and ferns. The waiter left the table and disappeared into the building. In a few moments, he came back out holding a platter with plates of food. Each plate was set down in front of the prehistoric reptiles and their guests.

They waited in silence as Petra said a small prayer over the food. Frederick looked up at the sky. By now twilight ended and the stars were starting to fill the sky. The pteradactyl’s words slowly faded into the background as Frederick remembered the dream he had that morning.

Vivid images of him being skinned alive, the other world and the bird that brought him there flowed into the fox’s mind. He thought about what Pisces said about the dream. What changes will there be? Frederick wondered. How will I change? How will I get this new heir? When will he come? From where? Should I be worried? What about the country?

Frederick knew that the answers to his questions lay somewhere in the future. He tried many times before to look there using the techniques Pisces taught him. Still, no matter how hard he tried, it was too far for him to see it. The fox looked down at his uneaten fish. He cut off a piece with his fork. Then, as he pushed it around on the plate making small circles and swirls in the cranberry gravy, he lost himself in his thoughts and worries. When Frederick’s mind flowed back to the table and dinner for a few minutes, the prayer was over and Pisces and Constructus were in the middle of talking about the work on the bridge.

“…I have a few concerns,” the memenchisaurus said to fish before shoveling a pile of plants into his mouth.

“They would be?” Pisces asked.

“When the Dragon of Darkness attacked, they took a huge chunk out of the bridge. We had to patch it up. That meant finding strong enough redwoods to replace what was lost. We then had to find enough resin to keep everything in place and sealed tight. The resin had to be laid on pretty thick in some parts of the base. Because of this some of my apprentices think there might be warping. They’re up there right now trying to fix the problem.”

“Will it still be okay to cross?”

“I can’t completely be sure. It should hold but…”

Once again the fox’s thoughts flowed out again as the fish and the sauropod continued their conversation. Petra looked up from her meal at the young fox. “Your Majesty?” she asked bringing Frederick back to reality for a few moments.

Frederick looked up from his plate. Petra, Constructus and Pisces were all staring at him.

“Are you okay?” the pterodactyl asked, “Your food is getting cold.”

“Oh,” Frederick said looking back down, “Yes. I’m alright.”

“I’m really sorry,” Pisces explained, “He hasn’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“I understand,” Petra said. “It can be hard running a piece of land. Even ruling my little province is a big job. Listen, bad things are going to happen no matter how much you prepare. You can’t keep yourself up all night worrying about things that will happen in the future. You are doing a fine job so far.” The fish and the mamenchisaurus went back to their conversation after Petra finished speaking. She continued to eat her meal quietly listening to the conversation. Frederick slipped back into his world of thoughts and worries continuing to play with his piece of fish making swirls and circles in the red gravy.

It's 1974 and Buford R. Billsworth, former Five Star United States Army General, former Governor of The State of California, and current Senator of The State of California is getting ready for the upcoming Presidential Elections in 1976. As he prepares his campaign, he becomes worried the youth of America, a dangerous, ever growing demographic, will be his downfall; there's no way they'd vote for a man with his hard right, conservative values. So, in order to secure the vote, Buford starts a Manson-Family style, Heroin peddling cult in an effort to get the youth of America on dope and into one of his newly founded rehabs, products of Buford's hand written legislation, The Hope For The Youth Of America Act. However, there's a catch to Buford's program: Three trips to a rehab and then you're a felon, which entails disenfranchisement. And, since Buford drugs the patients with high powered psycho-pharamcuticals, they're sure to crawl back to a rehab or dope use once their prescriptions run out. However, it doesn't matter if those rogues come back or not, as the famed Senator and his cronies joke to each other, "Dopers don't vote anyways." It takes an unlucky hippie and an unluckier cop to stumble upon the corruption brewing in the underbelly of Point Arena, California.

The world passed by Russell as in slow motion. While this wasn't the first time he'd been scrambling to get to his plane it was certainly the most chaotic. Adrenaline pumping through his blood, he saw the ship around him fly past in a blur. Crew ran for their quarters, klaxons blared, and emergency lights painted the halls red. Through this surreal haze he noticed Commodore August running for the command bridge, shouting into a handheld radio. If the pirates managed to board it would come down to his marines and the Russians to defend the ship.

Sprinting past knots of soldiers running to combat stations, Russell rounded the corner and nearly bowled over Watt as he scrambled out of his quarters, strapping on his gun belt and flight jacket. Watt turned on Russell with a look of anger that swiftly melted to surprise and confusion.

"Hey you- Russ? Russ, what the devil's going on? We've got everyone running around like chickens with their heads chopped off and I'm hearing cannonfire. What in blazes is-" Russell grabbed his arm and began pulling him along before he could finish.

"No time, get to the hanger. Pirate ship came outta the clouds, took down the frigate, we're scrambling." He explained hurriedly, dragging the stumbling Watt behind him.

"They what?" Watt said incredously. However the shock on his face soon melted into a mad smile, and he tore himself from Russell's grasp and took off down the hall. "Right then my boy, looks like this little cruise is getting interesting after all!" Chasing after his friend, Russell downed the stairs to the bottom decks.

The normally quiet bottom decks roared with noise now as they neared the hanger. Already neither of them could speak to the other and used handsignals as they stepped through the bulkhead door leading into the hanger.

The hanger was the largest space on the ship, a cavernous expanse dominated by the docking and launching mechanism in the center of the room. The bay doors had already retracted, opening up a large hole in the bottom of the ship from which aircraft launched. The four planes in question hung just over it locked into the docking carriages by their wings and fuselage. Their engines had already been started and roared with amazing power -the sound magnified by the enclosed space, melding together into one single monotone roar that vibrated through the air and drilled into Russell's skull.

It was not just noisy but incredibly windy as well, with the bay doors open a steady stream of wind was gushing into the hanger, adding to the already deafening noise. As they entered a man came running from their left, arms full of gear.

Are they ready? Russell signed to the man, who nodded vigorously. He dropped the pile at their feet and quickly went to work helping them pull on their jackets and buckle on parachutes. He was quick, and in a minute he was guiding them towards their planes. Pulling his helmet and goggles over his head, Russell climbed onto the wing and into the cockpit, sliding the canopy forward and muffling some of the outside noise. His heart was pounding as he strapped himself in and slid on the he"adset between his knees and flicked it on. Static filled his ears and the noise of the outside faded further, reduced to a dull roar which vibrated through him.

"Testing, testing, this on? I'm getting green lights across the board Russ, 'bout you?" Watt's voice crackled in over Russell's ears. Russell checked over his control panel and found everything satisfactory.

"Looks good here. Andre, Frankie, you two good to go?" Russell said on the two other pilots.

"Oui, we're good." Frankie confirmed. Andre just flashed his status light green.

"Bloody good. Now remember, once we're out there you chaps just stay on my wing. Once we engage split off and cover your wingman, break these buggers up and deal with them one at a time. Hang on, incoming from the captain. Patching it through." The headset went to stastic again, and then to the steel voice of LeGar.

"This is Captain Burgandy LeGar. A pirate vessel has came out of the clouds and destroyed Commodore August's vessel and is now preparing to board. We have confirmed that they have launched interceptors and are moving to engage us. Keep those fighters away from our engines and the command car. Godspeed. LeGar out." The radio cut out, ending LeGars curt message.

"Right then, now that you're all duelly motivated, let's go crack some skulls and crossbones. We launch in ten." Watt announced. All eyes turned to the yellow light hanging above them. Russell breathed deeply. His mind was awash with emotions right now, a potent mix of deep-rooted fear and adrenaline-powered excitement. Combat terrified him, it exhilirated him, and waiting for it brought time to a crawl. The sound of his heartbeat and breath filled his head, blocking out the hum of th engine.

He looked around. Watt's spitfire hung in front of him like an eagle preparing to spring from its roost. Russell was behind him, his P-40 sporting the popular sharks teeth painted on the nose. Taking up the rear were the Frenchmen Andre and Frankie, both flying dewotines. Russell exhaled. They could do this. He pressed forward on the throttle, causing his plane to push forward, fighting against the restraints. The engine increased from a growl to an all-out roar as it tried to break free.* "Five seconds."* Watt said. All thought left Russell's mind. There was nothing except the roar of the engine, the steady in and out of his breath, and the thumping of his heart.

"Drop."

For a moment everything seemed to stop as the light blinked green, and Russell felt like he was observing all this from outside his body. But just for a moment. Watt's plane suddenly vanished before him, and before Russell could brace he found himself plunging through empty blue sky.

Go! Years of experience and training surged through Russell's mind as he fell through the emptiness. He counted as he fell, one second. Two seconds. He pushed the throttle forward to full and felt himself pressed back in his seat as the plane lurched forward. He was immediately scanning the skies for threats as he put distance between him and the ship, pulling up and coming around. He saw the pirate vessel a few hundred meters above and further away than it had been before -possibly wary of any hidden cannon aboard its prey as some particularly mad merchant captains were known to do.

"Russ, at your two'clock high." Watt crackled in over the radio. Russ looked high to his right and spotted Watt's spitfire cruising a few hundred feet above him. Pulling up on the stick Russell nudged his plane up onto a level with Watt's and sided up as his wingman. Andre and Frankie both leveled out behind them later, completing the finger four formation -so called because the positioning of the four planes was like the four fingers on a hand laid flat. Russell twisted his head around, checking for signs of the pirate interceptors, but all he saw was empty sky. That only made him nervous, the only thing worse than a fight was a fight against someone you couldn't see. "Alright lads, climb to five thousand and keep your eyes peeled. But keep on my tail, we're not leaving the ship, since that's exactly what they're waiting for." Watt said, referring to the pirate ship hanging at a distance. The spitfire tipped up and began a shallow climb and broad turn left. Russell followed, keeping on his left wing and continously searching the skies.

"Gentlemen. Angels six at eleven o'clock." Frankie said. Russell looked nearly straight ahead and up.At first he saw nothing, but his trained eyes soon made out the black dots of distant aircraft about a kilometer and a half ahead cruising at six thousand feet. Judging by their spacing Russell surmised they were holding a similar formation to him and the others. As if aware of their being noticed, the flight of dots veered to their right and began heading directly for Russell.

"Hah. They want to play chicken." Watt said with a sinister laughing tone. "Fine then. Russell, and you French, tighten up the formation. We're going to form a spearhead and crack their daft little formation wide open then break off and cut them down when they run for it." From the tone of his voice Russell could tell he was grinning beneath his mask, and the thought sent a shiver through him. At a certain distance when two aircraft were charging each other head-on it became impossible to break away without essentially exposing your underbelly and giving the opponent a decisive advantage and as such it boiled down to a game of nerve to determine which pilot would break away first to avoid risking a collision. Watt loved this game, and organized the planes in his command into a tight formation that he used like a spearhead, punching a hole through the incoming enemy squadron and then breaking off to engage whoever survived the initial onslaught. And with the combined firepower of the twin twenty-millimeter cannons on Watt's plane and the bank of six fifty-calibre machine guns on Russ's warhawk, it was a very impressive onslaught indeed.

Of course Russell -like most pilots- preferred a more elegant tactic than flying straight into incoming gunfire. But Watt was in command, so Russell kept formation besides Watt and closed in closer until there was only twenty feet between their planes. He levelled his plane and began nudging it so the growing dots in front of him lined up inside his gunsights. Watt's plane surged ahead as his gunned the throttle to overdrive and Russell followed suite. But as the planes in his sights grew larger so did a sense of unease in Russell's chest. The pirates were following some incredibly poor plan of battle considering they should have had th advantage. Whichever planes launched first should have had time to gain altitude -a substantial advantage in a dogfight. And considering the pirates use of altitude to destroy the SkyForce frigate earlier, it struck Russell as a bit odd.

Last time they struck from the cloud cover, and waited until the frigate was distracted with us. A creeping sense of deja vu began to sink into Russell, and he felt the rising panic of realization. He quickly keyed his mike.

"Watt, this doesn't feel right. When their ship opened fire they came out of the clouds while the frigate was distracted." He said with a certain amount of unease swimming through him. He was scanning the skies above him urgently now, but the sun was stabbing at his eyes and he couldn't make out a thing. "Watt..." He said.

"Yeah, I know." Watt said grimly.* "Frankie, break off now. Hard left and run for the ship, then circle around. Be ready to throw some evasives if you have to. Russ you and me are doing something different. I'll head down to draw them off, you head up and go head-to-head with him. Hopefully by the time the other four are split chasing me and you the French will have swung around to take them."* He explained, And Russell tried to ignore the open-endedness of the word 'hopefully.'

"Copy." He said.

"Alright, everyone break in three-" He didn't get past three. Before anyone could react a shadow emerged from the glare of the sun, barreling down on them. "Break!" Watt howled, but it was too late. The pirate was perfectly positioned and dove towards them, all guns blazing. Russell sent his plane hard left into a barrel role while Watt rolled right, dodging the barrage of fire. But the warning had been too late for Frankie who was trapped square in the pirates sights. As he levelled out, Russell looked over just in time to see Frankie's dewotine shudder under the stream of rounds that stitched a line of holes across his engine and fuselage. With a sickening feeling Russell watched Frankie's form jolt as in surprise, then slump forward as his cockpit was ventilated. Bleeding thick black smoke, the shattered plane tilted forward and began plumetting to the ground as its attacker shot past them in a blur.

"Andre, get him!" Watt roared. Then, "Russ, ahead of us!" Russell turned his head at the warning. The line of incoming craft ahead of them was suddnely much closer then it has been before and getting larger quickly, and Russell figured that they had been cruising along at a slow speed to distract them while the fifth attacker got into place. Now they were accelerating quickly to attack them while their formation was scattered. One kilometer and closing fast, they'd be within range is seconds. "Alright, I've seen worse trust me. I'll head straight up, see if I can draw some of them with me and take them for a chase in the clouds. You handle the others." Watt quickly explained, and before Russell could say a word he quicly pulled up and started climbing towards the cloud cover. Ahead of Russell two of the incoming interceptors immediately broke off to follow the asending spitfire, leaving the other two to handle Russell.

Two against one. Well, I suppose it's better than four to one. Russell swallowed and pushed the throttle to maximum. The throaty engine pulled him through the air at blistering speed, right towards the incoming fighters. As his finger tightened around the trigger Russell's head was filled with a screaming blur of thought. Fear, excitement, anxiety, and survival instinct all blended together with raw adrenaline to make a deafening din inside his head. But as Russell's breathing slowed and the two planes ahead of him grew to dominate his vision all that may as well have taken place in another world. In the world Russell was in, the only things that existed were the planes approaching in his gunsights and the press of the trigger on his finger.

A row of yellow flashes erupted on the incoming fighters as they opened fire. Russell flinched reactively as the torrent of bullets hissed through the air around him, occasionally striking with a sickening jolt. Russell felt a cold sweat break out and he could only pray that the thick armor plating held together, trying not to focus on the streams of tracers reaching out towards him. At a hundred yards he opened fire and the the bank of heavy machine guns roared out angrily, spitting a hundred rounds of hot lead towards the pirates in a short burst. Whether any of hit Russell couldn't tell as just as he had begun firing the pirates were nearly upon him. Twisting the stick violently he spun his plane on its side and blazed between the wingtips of the pair.

Almost at once he was working the foot pedals, manipulating his elevators and sending him into a tight left turn that felt like an elephant pressing on his chest. Squeezing his legs together to keep from blacking out, Russell craned his head around to check. If his gamble paid off he could probably level the playing field. If not he would likely find himself on the receiving end of a dozen machine guns. A grin split across his face as he saw a pirate fighter arcing around towards him. Perfect. They'd behaved as he'd expected, split off and both come around in a loop to snare him like a pair of pincers. At this distance he could recognize the silouhette of his foe, a German-built Messcherschmidt. Ordinarily his heavier plane wouldn't stand a chance of out-turning the nimble German fighter, but at high speeds his large ailerons allowed him to perform surprisingly tight turns.

As it was, at two hundred yards distance he found himself blazing towards the Messcherchmidt which was still banking, exposing it's entire top side to him. He opened fire at one hundred and fifty yards, the six recoil from the fifty-caliber guns shaking his plane. A stream of tracers poured out and crashed into the helpless pirate, stitching a line of holes along the engine and shattering the canopy. The engine exploded and started belching out oily black smoke as the shattered plane twisted violently and began the long fall to the unending jungle below.

Taking no time to make the mistake of gloating or following the kill to the earth, Russell immediately began scanning for the the pirates wingman, hoping he could keep him off his tail. A hail of bullets put that hope to rest, and Russell spotted him in his rear view, mirror slotted neatly in behind him. Keeping his throttle at full he took off at quick as he could, trying to shake the pirate. No such luck however, the pirate had moved quickly and had gotten in close on his tail. If Russell now tried to out turn him he woud only expose himself just like the plane he'd just shot down, and recieve a similar fate. He clenched his teeth tight, if he couldn't lose him with any evasive tricks then his only only option would be to try and out run him. No, wait. There's another option. Russell keyed his mike, hoping Watt was still alive.

"Watt, you still kicking?"

"Aye, barely. Tried to lose them in the clouds and get on their tail, but they're a bit cleverer that I gave them credit for. Waiting for me when I broke out of the cloud cover and planted a few solid ones in my engine. Isn't looking too good." Watt's voice was stressed, and Russell imagined him exhausting his depleting book of tricks.

"I tagged one of them but the others dug in like a tick and isn't coming out. Listen, I want us to try a Thatch, I'll try and clear things up on your end.

"You sure that'll work?"

"No, not really. But I'm sure that if we don't try something the rest of our lives will play out another two minutes." Russell said. A moment of silence passed before Watt replied.

"Fine then. If you can knock one off my six I might be able to shake the last one. Got a couple smoke canisters tucked away, if I can get him close enough behind me I can light 'em and loose the scabber in the cloud." It wasn't much of a plan, but no plan made under fire was.

"Copy that then. I'm at three thousand feet, where are you?"

"A few hundred above you on your ten o'clock." Russell looked up and spotted the spitfire come barreling out of the clouds with two pirates hot on its tail. With a note of worry Russell saw the thin train of smoke leaking from its engine, and realized just how much trouble Watt was in. As another barrage of fire came his way Russell pushed the yoke right and swung his plane around on its side so his wingtips were facing up and down, making himself a much thinner target. The stream of bullets flew past him on either side, and before the pirate could realign himself for another shot Russell barrel-rolled himself level and took off on a decline, using the speed of the dive to gain valuable distance.

"On your left, three seconds." Watt notified him. Russell checked behind him. The pirate had been thrown off by his little stunt it seemed, and was approaching a bit more cautiously, staying a few hundred feet behind him to line up a killing shot. Russell could only hope that he -and the two chasing Watt- would be too distracted to notice what they were up to. Out of the corner of his vision Watt's spitfire tore across the sky with the two pirates in screaming hot pursuit. Within seconds they'd fly right past him and Russell would have one chance to succesfuly execute a Thach Weave.

Developed solely for the purpose of helping slower-turning fighters take down quicker turning ones, the Thach Weave called for two planes, one to act as bait and get chased by a fast-turning fighter and lead it across the second planes line of fire. This is what Watt was doing now.

The smoking spitfire tore past Russell's nose just two hundred feet away. Russell squeezed the trigger the moment Watt was clear and his pursuers flew into the stream of lead. The lead plane physically crumpled from the punishment, it's left wing completely shorn off. It spun away helplessly, but the second pilot was quick on his feet and pulled a tight roll around the deadly barrage and stuck doggedly on Watt's tail. Then he was gone, Russell closed the distance and flew past them.

"There, that's one down. Hold on a tick, let me see if I can shake him. Hang in there mate, I don't think they'll fall for that twice." Watt's voice rattled meaninglessly in Russell's ears as another hail of fire flew past, several imbedding themselves in his right wing. He clutched the yoke in a deathgrip and tried a loop with a sudden deceleration, hoping the pirate would overshoot. But no such luck, the pirate war far enough back to see it coming and slow down himself. Russell began to feel the edge of panic creep into him, he wasn't agile enough to throw him off and seeing how well he had been followed he was doubting that outrunning the pirate was on the table anymore.

"Damnit Watt, help me! I can't lose him!" He yelled, trying to control the fear in his voice.

"Hang on mate! Smoke worked, I'm coming for you but you need to set him up for me. I cant barely get past two thirds throttle so I can't catch up with you so I need you to do exactly what I say."

"Watt.."

"I'M the bloody warhero so just listen to me or turn into a burning metal pancake cratered on the Congolese jungle! Now if you're done arguing, cut your airspeed by a quarter and dive straight down." It didn't make any sense to Russell but by now he was far too shaken to question them. Pulling back on the throttle he heard the engine's rumble fade away, then pitched forward on the yoke and sent his nose downwards.

Acceleration hit him like a punch to the gut, he was pressed violently back into his seat as he sped towards the earth. A thousand thoughts flew through his mind like pages in a wind storm but none of them settled in his mind, nothing but nearly overwhelming fear. The pirate was still on him, slowing speed to match him.

"Watt..." He croaked like he hadn't had a drink of water in days.

"Hang on you bloody bastard, hang on I'm coming. Now drop airspeed to half throttle, gradually as you can." With shaking hands Russell reached for the throttle. The engine faded further to a distant drone, and he could feel the rush of acceleration lessen. Another heart-stopping thwack jolted him as another round struck home. This time he felt the airplane shudder and he could only pray it wasn't a mortal blow. He would have felt sick but he was far too terrified for that, and as another bullet plowed into his wing and as the ground raced up at him he felt his grip on his nerve about to slip away.

"Watt!"

"Stick right, elevators up NOW!" Watt thundered. Without a word Russell twisted the stick right and pulled so hard on the foot pedals he felt they would rip out of their mounting. His plane banked hard right and leveled out so fast that Russell nearly blacked out, and he could hear the entire airframe groaning from the exertion. Barely keeping the enclosing blackness at bay, he fought through the gees and and forced his head around.

Behind him the pirate had gotten so close on his tail that it had zero time to react when he pulled away. And before the pilot could reorientate himself and get back on Russell's tail, Watt's spitfire came out of the blue in a full-dive all guns blazing. The pirate exploded before he could even level out and plunged towards the jungle leaving a trail of thick black smoke. Russell had his nose up and was climbing fast when his headset came to life. "Sorry about that, but the only way I could catch up with him was in a dive. Needed him to follow you down for that." Watt explained as his spitfire pulled up. "Nevermind that though, you can thank me with your paycheque later. Where's Andre? How many more do we have left?

"I am here on your right." The accented tone of Andre rang over the headset. Russell twisted his head and saw Andre's dewotine coming up a few hundred feet below him. "I have avenged our comrades death, now are there any other bandits remaining?"

"I got two and Watt took down another one. Speaking of, where did that other one chasing you go off to?"

"He took off after I downed his mate. Ain't feeling the odds are with him anymore it seems, saw him hauling tail east so the skies are clear now."

"Good then, let's get back to..." Russell's voice trailed away as a shock of realization hit him. The ship. We were drawn away from the ship. An icy cold snake slid up his spine as he turned his head towards the ship. There, hanging in the sky like an ornament, was the Godetia. And latched on to it like a monstrous parasite was the pirate ship. Any feeling of elation Russell felt at victory came crashing down into the pit of his stomach.

"This. Is very bad." Watt said gravely in what would have been a hilarious understatement if not for the dire reality. The primary duty of escort pilots was first and foremost to protect their mother ship from hostile ships by going after engines and control cars, keeping them too harrassed to get close and throw down boarding lines. And they had failed utterly. Caught up in the rush of the explosive surprise attack they had entirely forgot to hold formation around the ship and had been drawn away like moths to a light.

"Mon ami, this is where we part ways. I bid you both adieu." Russell's headset crackled as Andre banked and began heading west.

*"You bloody little frog, the job's not done yet! Where are you going?" *

"Towards future prosperity, which is not to be found aboard a pirate-infested vessel. If either of you have any wisdom you'll do the same." With that Andre switched off his headset and carried on into the horizon. Should we join him? Russell asked himself. Letting a pirate ship board their charge was not a shiny record on any resume -although a SkyForce frigate being destroyed wasn't part of an ordinary job either. The temptation to flee was alluring though, he and Watt could likely use up the rest of their funds fueling up on their way east where they could hope a market still remained for independent fliers.

"No chance of us following him mate." Watt interrupted as though he read Russell's mind. "My engines shot to hell and I can barely make over two hundred miles per hour. That and I have no idea how long until it shakes itself apart, and I'm not eager in bailing out over the African jungle again."

At the mention of Watts engine Russell's eyes strayed across his control panel, where he nearly swallowed his tongue. His fuel meter was at a quarter tank. A wave of shock washed over him followed by a grim realization.

"Just noticed, it looks like they shot through a fuel line on my bird. Tanks draining fast, so running away isn't on the table for me either."

"So the only way to not pancake into the jungle is to land on the ship. Land and hope we can find some nice barrel to hide in. Peachy." The prospect was unappealing. Actually it was completely horrifying, but a steady stream of draining aviation fuel limited his choices. Russell exhaled and took a deep breath, then with a heavy heart and an empty gas tank he rolled his plane around and headed for the Godetia.

Links:

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She tore the strips of dried hide apart with the stumps of her fingernails, each worn down past the calloused skin to the raw pink tucked away by the nail and wall of dirt that had collected underneath them. The scratching and tearing was a minimal pain. Juniper smiled and tossed the piece up in the air. Charlie caught it in his jaws. The shaggy thing spent long moments with the piece stuck in between his teeth. He smacked as he tried to get it out, but didn’t swallow. Even he had learned to savor what little they had.

Juniper tugged and tore a small piece, and put it in her own mouth. It was dry, and stole what little moisture sat on her white-covered tongue. She pretended it tasted like jerky. That the tough strings of hide were real meat. The saliva built up in her mouth and pooled near her bloody gums at the thought. It was a good feeling. They had had real jerky, a while ago, maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks. Juniper wasn’t sure. But John wouldn’t let them hunt big game anymore, the rest of the bullets were left only for self-protection, he said. He always said.

Charlie swallowed the hide whole when he was done chewing. His tail wagged in his own way of begging for more. Soft amber eyes looked up at her, big bushy eyebrows framing his face and doggish smile. Juniper thought he must have been very wise, like a grandfather. Charlie barked. He got what he wanted, and padded off to hold the strip between his paws, both mottled and coated with blood and mud. He didn’t mind his feet. His paws held the hide still as he started chewing it.

"You shouldn’t be giving him that."

Juniper felt her ears burn. Guilt. Shame. She slipped the hide back into her jacket pocket. "It was only a little bit. He deserved it. He brought us back a rabbit. Yesterday."

"And half of it was filled with worms," he countered. John’s voice was sharp. Juniper sighed and turned around to face him. John was right, John was always right. That was why he was in charge. She looked up at his face, but couldn’t look at his eyes. She spotted that he had shaved. Probably yesterday.

The rabbit. They skinned the rabbit yesterday. There were a lot of worms. Long thin ones. Marshal said that was why it was so skinny.

Juniper knew John shaved because there was only a little dark scruff covering his chin and jaw.

"Juniper," he called. He was reminding her to think. No, to listen. Something. "You can’t give Charlie anymore." He spoke to her like a child. "The others will be pissed." Juniper stared down at a weed that had been pressed down flat to the earth, dead, under her feet. "Juniper?"

"What?" she whispered. Her brother tried looking up into her face.

"Do you understand? You can’t give Charlie anymore."

"I’m not… stupid," she spat. How long it took her to say those three words told her otherwise.

"I know."

Still, like a child. He spoke to her like a child.

"Okay," she said finally.

John wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He stank, but he was warm. Juniper knew she liked being warm. She was cold a lot. They both watched the wolfhound in front of them gnaw on the old, wrinkled deer hide. His tail thumped against the mud. A splatter of the mud landed on Juniper’s face, but she didn’t wipe it off.

John didn’t linger long. Instead he moved and pulled the backpack on his shoulders. The backpack smelled like mold and smoke, and it was creased and crinkled. Juniper could see him grimace when he felt how light it was. “We’re running out,” he said.

Juniper looked down and nodded slowly. "I know."

"There isn’t a lot we can do around here," he explained.

"I know."

"We’re going to have to keep moving."

A pause.

"Okay."

Simple.

Her throat tightened. The knot inside tightened.

Juniper whistled, and Charlie came back. He bounded past her, and stepped on her foot. Juniper didn’t mind. Her short whistle rang out through the forest of phantoms and ghosts. She stuck her hands in her pockets. It’s cold, she thought. The year must be getting late. Juniper concentrated on her footing, one foot after another. She stepped over charred and splintering trees that had collapsed on the ground. They were exhausted, and they couldn’t breathe. They turned black and grey and white when they couldn’t breathe. Juniper knew because breathing trees were brown and green.

She pulled her boots out of the green muck, and the mud. Then she pushed her brown hair out of her face. It didn’t care, it swept in front of her eyes. Again and again. It never listened. Juniper knew hair didn’t breathe. Maybe that was why it was always so angry at her. She wondered in the bacteria was in this water. She looked up to make sure that John and Charlie hadn’t gotten too far ahead. After a while, all she could see was blurred shapes. All of it grey.

Juniper shook her head and looked down. She forgot she had passed the weed for a second. Blinking. One, two, three. Then she looked back up. It was the same. She sighed, and stepped over a black tree stump. It was covered with moss.

That had been the worst part of it all. Not that they were cold, and hungry. Not that she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her anymore. There was nothing to do about it. But that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the worst part that she liked being with Charlie more than she did her with her own brother. Or anyone else. The worst part was that she remembered. Vaguely. She remembered that she was better than this. She didn’t use to have such a simple mind. She wasn’t stupid. John said that it was a small price to pay for having survived. Juniper wasn’t so sure if she agreed.

Juniper wondered. She thought. She thought and wondered while she walked, if the ground underneath her feet felt the same way. When it was burned, it could have been destroyed. As a whole. Instead, the trees were the ones that burned away. The beautiful, tall, green trees. They would bloom at times. Flowers in the springs. Birds in the summer. Color in the fall. White beauty in the winter. Now, only foul-smelling moss and algae grew in its place. It was the same with her mind.

She thought the forest must have been magnificent. Once.

The rest were waiting where it was dry. They had found only a small patch where it was dry. It was a mound of ashes and earth, all pushed and churned up from the trees falling and pushing away the mud. Charred branches spread out over the mound, held up by long limbs from the dead, fallen pine and furs. They created a covering of grey to keep the planes from seeing them. Coarse blankets and packs scattered the small hidden alcove. John said it would be stupid to make camp out in the open, even for a little while. Through the blurriness, Juniper counted. One, two, three, four, five… Nine in total. Including John and Charlie.

John was barking orders. Charlie was just barking. “Be ready to leave in an hour,” John said. Not to her, but to everyone. Juniper sat down at the edge of the canopy of branches. She watched others move around. And move away. From me, she thought bitterly. It brought a bad taste to her mouth. The taste of the hide was gone. She hadn’t expected much else. No one wanted to be near someone who had already been sick once.

Juniper pulled her jacket sleeves over the long scars on her arms that helped condemn her. Guilt.

"Zravost is west."

It was Rowe.

"How far?" John asked.

Nathan was grumbling in the background.

"Bout a week, maybe if we’re slowed down trying to find food."

"Then we’ll start heading west."

Juniper saw a blurry shape. It was walking towards her. Rowe came into view. He was bundled up in his ragged and filthy clothing, just like the rest of them. There was even dirt on the back of his balding head. If it wasn’t for the dirt, he would probably look all bald. His hair was very light. The sun wasn’t even that light anymore. Most of the time there were clouds.

"You need help packing?"

"Not really." There wasn’t anything to pack.

"Do you have everything for Charlie done and ready to go?"

A pause.

"Yeah."

Another pause.

"I got it."

Juniper liked Rowe, he was a man of God. Maybe that was why John listened to him so often. That was the only reason Juniper could think of. Of why they were following him. But maybe that was just her simple mind. There were only seven colonies on Rowe’s map. They didn’t know for sure if people were in them.

But Rowe used to be a priest, so they should listen to him. Did John say that? Juniper didn’t remember. She never got to pick the things she remembered.

Rowe was going to give the last blessings to the sick and dying. They could get sick going to the colonies. They all knew it. But they saw him, Rowe, as a man leading them to redemption. Or something. Some were only sticking around because there was food. Sometimes.

Juniper only saw him as a kind hand. One of the only ones.

They traveled all the next day too, and halfway into the night. They went until their tired feet couldn’t carry them anymore. Juniper’s eyelids were heavy. Her feet ached. Her hands were frozen. Her hair was greasy and stringy. It stuck to the inside of her hat.

Green had begun to spot the trees around them again. Just at the tops. And there were birds. Birds that were singing. Richard hit one with his slingshot. It squawked and screeched as the stone hit his chest. Richard shared it with his daughter, Anette. Juniper like her, Ani. She was nice. She only stayed her distance because her father said so. Juniper didn’t blame Richard. He was trying to keep Ani safe.

Marshal shot down a bird too. He didn’t share with anyone. He never did.

Juniper couldn’t see, but she could hear Darrel swear loudly when he missed a bird he aimed at. The bird would have been nice if he had caught it. It was big and fat. It was probably tender and juicy. Or would have been.

He stomped past her in his rage. He huffed and puffed. He threw a knife at a tree. It was blurry, but Juniper could see the bark fly off as the blade hit it. It probably wasn’t a healthy tree then.

Juniper felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up high as he passed. Darrel Schultz scared her. He had done things before the Fall. And he was none too shy about them either. He would even brag. Sometimes. About the things. The things he had done. Not the good things, the bad things.

Rowe would get mad at him then.

They secured the little food they had. They set out their tarps and bags and backs in a big circle around them. For warmth. They didn’t need a blanket of charred branches. The trees had enough leaves to cover them up.

They settled down and curled up like fetuses. The fire burnt low and ruddy. Nathan was with May, the two pressed against each other. The cold air would make Nathan’s bones ache. That was what Juniper heard him say. And so May would give him an extra blanket from her own pile. They were happy like that. Old. And with May always taking care of Nate.

Richard had Ani tucked away in his strong and protective arms. Marshal slept alone, with an empty bottle of whiskey. It had been empty for days, but he just like to smell it. Juniper didn’t like the smell. Marshal said it could be used to cut someone too, if they need it. Juniper didn’t think they would. She hoped they wouldn’t. She didn’t like to think of it.

Rowe had gone off into the woods, to say his nightly prayers in peace.

Darrel slept by himself. He slept with his eyes open. Juniper didn’t know why. She didn’t think she would know why, even if she had never had that fever, if she had never gotten sick. If she had never gotten so slow. So stupid.

There was no one for Darrel to watch out for. No one for him to be afraid of. Wasn’t it him? That they were supposed to be afraid of? Richard and Ani and John and everyone else? She didn’t know. She wished she hadn’t gotten sick. That she was smart again. She would have known that. Then.

Beside her, John slept. And Charlie slept next to him. Both man and dog were snoring after the long, exhausting day. John had helped to carry Ani for a couple hours, and all the other packs. He was a good man like that. Charlie had scouted ahead. He barked, when he thought he should.

Juniper shifted under the thick wool blankets. She had them over her chest. She pulled them over her shoulders, and stuck her hands in her underarms. They were moist, and warm. Her brother’s back was turned to her. She tossed, and looked up at the trees above them. Sparks from the fire flew up. They found the breaks in the branches and leaves, and joined the stars in the night sky. Her hair was a pillow itself, even if it was greasy, it was soft. It was the same color as John’s. The same as her parent’s had been. Once.

Juniper didn’t remember if she had any other brothers or sisters. She only remembered John, and her parents. But it was only a memory. She could remember a birthday. Her birthday. A party. Maybe she was four or five. There had been lots of dogs like Charlie. Her parents had bred them.

Or something.

The great big wolfhounds were always kind to her. No, not kind. Not exactly. It was like kind, but better. They listened to her, they respected her. They loved her. She had been smart then. She wasn’t stupid. Juniper could tell them when to sit, and heel. When to stay. When to rollover. She had trained them to bark, whenever someone came up the road. That way she could hide in time, when someone came up the road. Or she could find John. Or her parents.

The Fall had been the same year she was born. So she was always with the dogs then. The dogs protected her. Charlie protected her now.

Juniper remembered a girl in a yellow dress. She had hair that tangled and tumbled down her back. She remembered a pink crown. It had been made out of plastic. The rhinestones had fallen off. The little girl didn’t care. Juniper didn’t care.

They had cake that year. Chocolate. The frosting had been thick. It had been gritty. It had been too heavy and too sweet.

It had been wonderful.

Juniper thought she had been that little girl. Those had been her memories. But the thought passed her mind that it was only a fantasy. A painting that John had been put in her head after years of fairy tales. Or reminding. One of the two.

John didn’t tell those stories anymore. So she clung onto the memories. Even if they were false. Boredom took ahold of Juniper. She slunk out of her sleeping bag, and pushed the wool blankets away. The rest appeared to be sleeping, the blankets on top of them rising and falling. Slowly.

The eyes of a curious creature scurried off through the brush when he saw her sit up. His eyes were burning yellow.

Juniper tiptoed around the dying fire. She knelt next to Nathan. The man was wheezing in his sleep. His pushed up nose was big, and bulbous. The edge was crusted over with dried snot. A few white hairs were poking out.

Juniper reached out gingerly and turned over his wrist. It was stiff. On his wrist was a watch. It was old, and powered by even older batteries. A miracle they were still working. The watch glowed a faint green light. The screen was cracked and grey at parts. It made it hard for Juniper to read. She could only see two things:

October 21st

No wonder it’s cold, she thought. Winter will be here soon. John looked back at John as he slept. She thought about what he had said the day before. We’re running out, he had said. We can’t do much here, he had said. The backpack had been light yesterday. The backpack was even lighter now.

Juniper looked over at Nathan’s backpack. At May’s. They were small. And Nate and May were old.

It tightened. The knot inside her throat tightened. We’re not ready, she thought. It was hard to breathe. We’re not ready!

Tears started to form, and she almost dropped Nathan’s wrist onto the ground. The thicket and brush crackled. It was being stomped on, in the distance. The hazy firelight and tears did nothing to help her already blurred vision. After a moment she could see Rowe. He was coming back from his prayers.

Juniper climbed to her feet. She tiptoed to the fire again. She stuck her legs into her sleeping bag, and slid in. She pulled the extra wool blankets over herself. They were all the way up over her nose. Juniper waited until there was no more noise. Rowe put out the fire. It screamed and hissed as it died. The ashes and wood gave a sigh of relief.

Nothing.

Juniper dared to move once more. Her hands slipped into her pockets. They were warm. She pulled out a piece of hide. She reached past John’s head, and slipped the hide in front of Charlie’s nose. The wolfhound’s snout twitched. His amber eyes open, and his head shifted. He smiled at her. He reached out with his tongue and took the hide. He licked Juniper’s hand after.

As the cab drove into the port, Father Thomas could see that the extravagant mansion was put away for the night. The front lights were off, the windows were dark, and the only light that shown was the low beams of the headlights. "Well he must be expecting me by now," Father Thomas declared to himself. He checked his watch, the glint of the silver hands off the gold face read 11:42. He was early, but only minutes ahead of schedule. With a humph, he paid the cabbie, thanked him and told him to be back around 2:00 to pick him up. "Knowing Christoph, though, this will probably take longer." He mumbled. As he exited the car and gathered his things, his coat and briefcase, he paid the driver with a very British farewell. It was a cool night, and the dense forest that surrounded the 40 acre plot made an eerie silence of the pitch blackness. the mansion stood like a grey hulk on the finely manicured lawn. It wasn't unlike a Don to live in this kind of extravagance. He briskly walked up the veranda to the front door and rung for the doorman. Thomas knew him, a middle aged man by the name of Ygoff, he wore his suits tailored to make him look thin, and kept his face and hair tidy. Unlike most of Christoph's men. Ygoff was always very professional and gave Thomas a lot of respect for being a clergyman. It was only seconds until he answered the door. "Ahh Father, You are expected. Master Christoph is in the basement with the necessary things. If You'll please come in out of the cold, I could take your coat." Thomas stepped through the threshold into the parlor a huge room with marble floors and stone walls decorated with Persian and Russian pieces only God knows how expensive. "If I could check your briefcase Father, I'm afraid Master Christoph insists all his guests are checked---for security purposes you know." Thomas's lips tightened to a frown, "Its only God's word, and a few scotch glasses today Ygoff. I'm afraid I'm in a hurry, The Sabbath is in two days and I still need to write a sermon. And I'm afraid its quite late and I really would like to be anywhere else but here." "I'm sure you would Father, pardon me. Right this way." Ygoff lead him though a huge arched doorway and through several hallways all lined with portraits and landscapes. Thomas began mentally preparing himself for what he knew was coming. As Ygoff lead him through a nondescript door and down two flights of stairs, Thomas was citing scripture in his head to commit to memory for later use. When the he had reached the bottom of the staircase Ygoff stepped to the side and said,"Its just down that hallway, the black door Father, when you are finished meet me back here and I would be glad to escort you out." "Thank you Ygoff, the Lord bless you." "Thank you Father." Thomas headed down the hall way and speculated if the Lord really would bless a man in the employ of someone like Christoph. "You sure do love your sinners." He said silently. Thomas rapped his knuckles on the door loudly. It was a sound proof room Thomas had seen before and he knew his knocks were probably still muffled.
The big door opened just a little, and Christoph edged his way out closing the door behind him. He was a sizable man, stocky and built well on his fingers were the family crests of the mob, and Thomas knew that over 50% of his body was covered in Tattoos, all of them had special meaning, some depicting him with horns and wings, of his nominal "The Fallen Angel". Thomas knew that in the scriptures Lucifer was depicted as 'The Fallen One' and he knew the nickname fit. Christoph eyed him with his dark eyes like a shark. However his lips leaned into a smile through his greying beard. "Is good to see you Father. Sorry I have missed so many confessions as of late. I know this is late and what I ask you is hardly polite. But business is business, and what will happen always happens. The pay is same. you will enter and exit he does not speak. after everything is done. You and I will have drink, da?" Thomas nodded. and moved past him into the room. It was small for the Don's standards, the floor was tile and the walls were padded and florescent lights hummed overhead. There was plastic sheeting underfoot. Thomas groaned internally at the sight, in the middle of the room knelt a man , or what was left of one, because he was only skin and bones. They must have kept him imprisoned somewhere because his eyes were sunk back into his skull and his collar bones were protruding. They had also apparently shaven his whole head with a dull knife, because there were shallow cuts all over his face and scalp. But the worst of it was his fingers and hands, they looked to be a mangled mess and the handcuffs looked to be biting into the skin of his wrists. "He must have been tortured." Thomas thought, and his hand tightened on his briefcase. The mans face was blank. A long far off stare was all he held. Thomas thought how many times he would have to see that stare. How many times before the creator finally struck down the one who had done this to them. He didn't do this for the pay, he kept telling himself, no some where deep down he knew he still had morals. But he had never refused Christoph's calls. Not once. He took a shaky breath all he could hope for would be that this would be the last one he would have to do. the last one he would have to remember. He knelt down in front of the man and began. "Listen to me, I am a priest. I know You are instructed not to speak, so let me do the talking for now. For some reason God has called you this day, because this is it. I wish It was better, I really do. Believe me if I could tell these men to let you go so you could live the rest of your life, and have them listen to me I would. But I don't call the shots. As a sign of respect I was called here to read your lasts rights, and, if you are willing to give them, hear your sins confessed to the Lord. Now, I need your name. Speak it." "Joseph." he whispered as his eyes watered. "Joseph, is there anything you would like to confess before the Lord unto me?" Joseph held that awful stare and swayed his head signaling no. "Ok, lets begin." Thomas laid his briefcase beside the man and opened it. He brought out bread and wine, the last sacrament. and began. "This is the body of Christ, who was crucified for your sins, eat it and remember him." He broke the bread and held it in front of Josephs face, Joseph took a whole mouthful and chewed it slowly. Thomas doubted he was remembering. Next he took up the flask and unscrewed the cork and said, "This is the blood of Christ which was shed so your soul may pass unto heaven. Drink it and remember." He put the flask to his lips and let Joseph take a long drink. When he was finished, He spoke the vaticum and ended with "May the Lord keep you and lead you to eternal life. Amen." then he bowed his head "Dear Lord, keep this man's suffering quick so that you may take him into your heavenly kingdom. Let him find his peace so that he may know your way Lord Amen." Thomas packed his case again and replaced his frown. when he turned and headed for the door he whispered "forgive me."

(Part 2 coming soon maybe)

Billie Anna Lee Christiansen died the night of June 18th, at exactly 11:59 PM. She was hit by a car. Her skull cracked, leading to severe hemorrhaging in her brain, and her neck broke when she hit the pavement. The bones in her right arm shattered from her last-ditch attempt to break her fall. She was also covered in cuts, bruises, and various other lacerations. She was eighteen years old. It was the night of her high school graduation.

It was instantaneous, my mother tells me the next morning as I sit in the hospital, choking down rubbery scrambled eggs, burnt toast, and milk gone slightly sour. She would’ve died the instant her neck snapped. Quickly. Painlessly. I’m in more pain now than Billie ever was, she says.

I’m lucky, apparently: I got off with only a slight concussion (which came along with a messy gash on my forehead) and a hairline fracture in my leg. They want to keep me in the hospital for a while longer --possibly just overnight-- to make sure that I don’t have any memory loss or that my concussion won’t make me snap and massacre the shopping district in town or something.

My mother stands up from where she’s sitting on the side of my bed. She pats the top of my head, her fingers gentle next to the gauze wrapped around it, over my ear, across my forehead, and to the back of my head where it’s tangled in my long blonde hair.

“I’ll bring you something,” she says, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you want coffee? I can sneak you something from the cafeteria if you want.”

I shake my head softly and wince at the pain; it feels like my brain is bouncing around inside my skull. “C-can you just bring me a book or something? And my iPod?”

She nods once and walks out the door, but sticks her head back in a moment later. “Claire and Nate Jamison are here, do you want to see them?”

“Um, sure.” My head is throbbing now. I pinch the bridge of my nose between two of my fingers and wince again as the door creaks open slowly. Nate walks in first, still wearing his suit from graduation but not the tie. There are two matching bloodstains on each side his shirt, and his dark hair is wild. He runs his hand through it and clears his throat. It sounds awkward in the heavy silence of the room.

Claire is still in her dress, but she’s coated with grit and spatters of crimson blood stand out against the white of her skin. Each of her knuckles has a spot of it on them and her fingers are trembling as she clutches her skirt, holding it up so she doesn’t trip. Her mouth twitches into what looks like a small smile when I look at her.

I become extremely self-conscious at this moment and can only imagine what I look like: definitely a complete wreck. I can feel my own blood seeping through the bandage drawn tightly across my forehead. My hair is probably a thick, messy curtain, and the blue color of my eyes is dulled and puffy from a lack of good sleep. I’m dressed in a flimsy gray hospital gown, my blue graduation dress (liberally splattered with blood) neatly folded and sitting on a chair next to the door.

Nate hugs me lightly (almost carefully) and says, “They tried to send us home to change.”

"We refused, obviously,” Claire adds, shrugging slightly. I can’t help but think, They’ve been waiting here since midnight?

That’s all they say. The silence is so thick it’s almost suffocating, but they don’t need to say anything for me to recognize that this is the new normal. This is what I’m going to have to get used to.

Billie, the glue that has held us together since childhood, is dead. Nothing will ever be the same.

The sun was still rising when Aidan descended the steps outside his house and jogged up to meet Ricklow, who was stood by a car on the road. The air was warming up now that the clouds had gone, and the canvas of sunlight had formed an orange cloak across the gravel, grass and trees.

‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of these,’ he said, taking cover under the shadow of an old oak as he looked the machine over.

‘You’ve seen one before?’ Ricklow replied, walking around him and climbing into the driver’s seat.

‘You sound surprised,’ he laughed. ‘A few people at Saint Frederick’s, their families have them.’

‘Ever been in one?’

Aidan chuckled. ‘No, no. I’ve seen a few pulling up outside, and I see some on the roads… but no. Never been in one.’

‘Hadn’t been in one,’ he corrected, leaning over to the other side and swinging open the door. The interior seemed to reflect Ricklow’s personality perfectly; leather tainted with dust and tears, stretched across oversized seats, an ancient dashboard with nothing more for entertainment than a handful of buttons and levers, and the driver’s window jammed half-open by faulty mechanics.

Aidan stayed silent for a time, staring out the window as his home disappeared behind him. It wasn't until then that he truly realised the gravity of his situation. He could not return for five years. He would spend five long years in the wastes of the North, learning the ways of his people and trying to build a new life amongst the snow and stone. Suddenly, he found himself thinking of his parents again, and he was struck by sadness. His anger was still deep within him, and it helped to quell the loneliness he felt. But truth be told, he didn't know what to feel anymore -whether he should be crying, shouting or doing nothing at all. Eventually, he decided to keep his mind off of it, moving to the only other topic on his mind.

'So what's it like?' he asked.

'Huh?' replied Ricklow, keeping his eyes on the road.

'What's it like?' he repeated. 'In the North?'

The scarred teacher seemed to ponder the question for a moment, before answering. 'How do you mean?'

Aidan looked out at the gravel and grass ahead, glancing Lichenmark to their right. 'Like, how are the people there? They're not... violent, are they?'

'I, uh...' he exhaled. 'Why are you asking me that?'

'Well, since I started school, I've read things in class and...' He paused, confused at his sudden laughter. 'What's so funny?'

'Nothing, Aidan,' Ricklow chuckled. 'It's just... I forgot about the things Humans are spoon-fed down here.' He laughed again. 'I mean, me, of all people, forgetting that? Ancients, that's bad.'

Aidan didn't understand. 'Why's that?' he asked.

Again, Ricklow never looked away from the road, making a left turn at a four-way junction and putting his foot down a little bit more. 'Well, I wrote them,' he answered. 'That's my job after all.'

Aidan stifled a chuckle. Ricklow didn't exactly strike him as a man who spent his time working on schoolbooks. 'Really?' He laughed. 'You write textbooks?'

Ricklow inclined his head in Aidan's direction, still keeping his eyes on what lay ahead. 'Well, no... and yes.' He slowed as they came to a small stone bridge, and went quiet as he drove them over the stream. Once they were across, he continued, 'I mean, I used to - when I was younger. Pretty much everyone in my department did back then. It was... more of a priority, I suppose.'

'What do you mean?' Aidan asked. 'I thought you worked at the Academy, not in an office.'

'Half-right, Aidan,' Ricklow replied. 'I work for the Academy of Conjuration, yes, but that's not my main profession.'

'Then what is?'

'I...' He paused to open the window, only succeeding in jamming it further. 'I work for the Triads.' Upon seeing Aidan's confusion, he added, 'Sorry, I mean the government. I suppose they could be best likened to your… Ancients, what’s the word? Parliament, that’s it! But I’d say they’re a bit more... powerful, I guess.'

Aidan nodded. 'So what do you do at "The Triads"?' he asked, looking out at the trees and hills as they sped past. 'I work for a department there called the Office of Angelic Education - or O.A.E, for short. They... work mainly to develop and protect the Academies across Lichenforre, but that's not their only job. They handle the younger Angel population as a whole, tracking their abilities and - in a rare case such as yours - escorting southern Angels to our society.'

'What do you mean "a rare case"?' Aidan asked. 'Doesn't this happen often?'

Ricklow paused, pressed the pedal down further, and made a right turn onto a wide concrete road. 'No, Aidan. It's frowned upon - illegal, in fact.'

'What?' Aidan said, trying to hide his anxiety. 'Why?'

'The Secrecy Act, Aidan,' he replied. 'It says that "no Angel below the age of eighteen may travel to Human-inhabited areas - unless accompanied by an Angel of the appropriate age."'

'But I was with my dad for all that time,' Aidan said, 'so it wasn't illegal, right?'

'You'd think so, but no. You see, the Act also says that you "may only visit this region for a total of six months maximum." Not a second longer. Didn’t seem like the wisest decision a few centuries ago, but no-one complains.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, most underage Angels prefer to spend their days in their home towns-’

‘No,’ Aidan interrupted. ‘No, that’s not what I meant.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Why wasn’t it a good idea?’ There was a brief pause.

‘I don’t think you ought to know just yet.’ Ricklow seemed to bristle at that question, and Aidan thought it best not to press the issue, opting to look out of the window instead. They went past a house on the road. Aidan thought it abandoned, until he caught a glimpse of the bearded man through the window, sipping gently on some drink or another. They had gone over yet another bridge and seen a deer prance over the concrete before Ricklow spoke again. ‘It’s just… something had happened beforehand – or rather, something has been happening for a very long time. It’s been going on for centuries.’

Aidan’s interest grew then, and Ricklow clearly noticed. ‘Like I said, you shouldn’t know just yet.’

Valerie was 8 years old when she first realized she was special, different from other kids. Not in the sense that many parents will prattle on about how special their special little snowflake is, but in a way that was wonderful and strange and could cause scientists to take a seat and rethink how their laws of physics work. Even before she found out just how special she was, Valerie was already different from the other children.

For one thing, she never got upset. Her face was always possessed of a bubbly, cheerful demeanor when she was happy, and a calm serenity when she wasn't. She would never pout or scream or complain. She would just be silent and get a peaceful look on her face. Her mother was slightly confused by her actions, but shrugged it off and figured it was preferable to a temper tantrum. She believed it was just because Valerie was a "good girl". But really, it ran much deeper than that. Valerie wasn't just a "good girl", she was a thinker. When she asked for something and was denied, or did something wrong and was shouted at by her father, she would get that peaceful look on her face and think about it. She would think about what she did wrong or why she didn't get what she wanted and would contemplate ways to do better next time, to get what she wanted or to avoid making a mistake again.

That wasn't the extent of her thinking however. By age seven, Valerie had read three volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Her mother tried to get her to read normal children books, like Charlie And The Chocolate Factory. Valerie considered it garbage. Or "horsedicks" as her father regularly said when he didn't like something. Those books wouldn't provide her with the knowledge she desired. A guitar playing friend of hers would later tell her that her desire for knowledge was what made her greater than everyone else. And it was this desire for knowledge that led her to realize just how special she was.

It was the third of September, 2006. Valerie was sitting in her third grade science class, at her desk. Her black hair, unusually voluminous for an 8 year old, was done up in a bun and her glasses sat perched on her nose. She tapped one long ivory finger on the desk impatiently. The teacher, a balding old substitute that was clearly bad at his job, was still struggling to quiet the class down. Valerie didn't get upset however. She amused herself by counting the little pockmarks on the teacher's face and thinking about how each one got there. Finally, the class calmed down and the teacher explained what they were going to do.

"We're, ahhh..." He began. He seemed to have a habit of saying ahh often, which made Valerie wonder why he did that. Perhaps he was part goat, the goat half causing him to try and bleat every so often. She knew it was unlikely, but it was still an amusing thought. "We're ahh, going to be, ahh, watching ahh video about, ahh, aquariums."

Valerie watched attentively as the video began. While most of the kids in her class seemed to pay attention only to the colorful fish and sea creatures, Valerie paid attention to narrator's words, learning all about how fish lived and how aquariums were run. Soon however, the narrator went silent. An unnarrated portion of the video began, a recording taken by a scuba diver in some tropical locale studying the bright and colorful fish and undersea plants. Valerie was absorbed by the video. She thought about what it would be like to swim among the fish and get up close to them like the scuba diver, to see them in person. Valerie smiled, but this smile vanished as she sneezed. And as she sneezed, she came face to face with a sea anemone sitting on her desk, slowly swaying. She gawked at the plant, and then looked up. The very environment around her had changed. Bubbles erupted from every child in the room and the air wavered. It looked like they were underwater, but somehow they could still breathe. Around them swam luminescent white jellyfish and sharks, ghostly images of what was on the TV. Dark shadows moved, shadow images of smaller schools of fish. For a second, Valerie thought it was all in her imagination. That thought was pushed away when one of her classmates let out a shrill scream and fell out of his seat in an effort to get away from a jellyfish. Soon all the children were screaming in terror. The teacher tried desperately to calm them down.

"Ahh, settle down! Ahhh!" He bleated. It seemed his "ahhh"ing only increased when he was upset. "Ahhh, relax! Ahhh, sit! Ahhh!"

Valerie giggled slightly as she was struck again with the mental image of her substitute teacher began part goat. Her smile changed to a look of horror as the teacher started wailing. Two large lumps were forming under the skin of his forehead and they began pushing outward. In seconds, two large goat horns had sprung out from his forehead, causing little beads of blood to run down his face. Valerie screamed herself, upset for the first time in her life. She ran towards the door. The classroom doors were always locked during the daytime, but that was a nonissue. The door vanished as soon as Valerie looked it. She fled the classroom and ran to the nearest bathroom, where she vomited into a sink. She began crying and, several feet away in her classroom, the images and the horns on the teacher's head vanished in a puff of smoke.

Hours later, after the police and paramedics had arrived at the school, the school nurse and the paramedics had worked together to figure out what had happened. None of the strange experience the class had been through had remained, aside from two bloody openings on the teacher's forehead. It was eventually decided that it was just an outbreak of mass hysteria, likely because of the teacher. He was quickly stitched up and then fired for causing the incident. But Valerie knew what had really happened. It was her thoughts that had done it. She didn't know the term yet, but a part of her knew that she could bend reality. Valerie was a reality warper. And on the third of September, 2006, she realized just how special she was.

Ma Hong Opens the Sultan's Crate to Repel Pirates

"Captain, there are several boats coming towards the ship from that island over there," said Mamat as he held onto the ship's mast.

Ma Hong ran to the stern of the ship and peered out over the waves. Indeed, three boats flew towards them across the water. Each boat carried around ten men: some rowing with oars, the others carrying steel weapons which glinted in the sunlight.

"Ai ya! These men must certainly be pirates," said Ma Hong. "Quickly, pull the anchor. We must depart in all haste."

"But sir, the sail has not yet been fully patched, and the water has not been completely bailed out. How then can we hope to set sail?" asked Mamat.

"We have no choice. Even if we must row the ship like a riverboat, we must still try to flee from these pirates," said Ma Hong.

Saagar set down the bucket which he had been using to bail out the hold and hastily pulled up the anchor. As soon as the anchor was up, Ma Hong took the ship's sculling oar and dipped it into the water. Mamat clambered down from the mast to help Ma Hong row. Together, the two pulled the oar from port to starboard and back, desperately trying to propel the waterlogged ship forward as the others continued to toss bucketfuls of seawater back into the strait.

"It's no use, Ma Hong," said Chen Yuan, looking back at the boats pursuing them. "The pirates are still gaining on us. Their boats are lighter and quicker than ours. We cannot hope to outrun them. We can only either fight or surrender."

"How can we fight them?" asked Ma Hong. "There are so many of them and only five of us, and we have no weapons and only Ruan Qing has any skill at fighting. We have no choice but to surrender"

"Do not talk of surrender, elder brother," said Ruan Qing, glowering fiercely. "Even if there were ten thousand of these men, I would chop each and every one of them into pieces with my machete and then send the pieces down to the bottom of the sea."

"Pah! You are just passing wind." said Chen Yuan. "Even you cannot hope to defeat so many."

"Ah bitter!" said Ma Hong. He let go of the oar and sat down on the deck despondently. "We have survived the storm only to be beset by these pirates. If they capture us, who knows whether or not they will let us live. And even if we were, they will most surely seize the cargo that the Sultan has assigned us to take to Perak and thus our families will be as good as dead."

As soon as he had uttered that last sentence, Ma Hong was suddenly struck with a thought. He leapt up from the deck so forcefully that the others started in surprise.

"That's it!" said Ma Hong. "The Sultan's cargo! He told us not to let the crates become swamped with water nor to bring it close to flame. Surely they must be some sort of gunpowder weapons! Mamat, Saagar, quickly bring one of the crates out onto the deck."

Mamat and Sagaar rushed down into the hold of the ship and emerged carrying one of the sultan's crates. Ruan Qing drew out his machete, broke the seal on the case, and pried open the top. Inside were many clay pots with cords sticking out from the top.

"You were right, Ma Hong," said Chen Yuan. "These do indeed look like gunpowder explosives."

There was a piece of paper attached to the side of the crate, which Chen Yuan pulled out. On the paper there were letters in Jawi script.

"It says: 'Light fuse. Ten seconds to explosion,'" read Chen Yuan.

"Hahaha, a clever idea, elder brother," laughed Ruan Qing. "With these bombs, we will surely send these devils back to the eighteenth level of hell."

By this time, the pirates' boats had caught up with the ship and began to pull alongside on port and starboard. The men who were not rowing gave out a shout and brandished their spears and machetes at Ma Hong and his crew.

"Ha! You things which ought to die!" shouted Ruan Qing in a great wrath. "Your lord Ruan invites you all to eat a course of explosives! Brother Chen, hand me one of those!"

Chen Yuan struck flint to steel and lit the fuse on one of the clay grenades. He passed the lit grenade to Ruan Qing.

"Go die!" cursed Ruan Qing as he tossed the grenade at the leading boat on the starboard side. The bomb fell just short of the boat and plunked into the water. There was a muffled explosion and a column of water leaped up from the sea to wash over the pirates' boat. The pirates on board all shouted in surprise and grasped the sides to keep from falling out of the rocking boat.

"You blind-eyed old ox! Who taught you how to throw?" said Chen Yuan. He lit another grenade and tossed it to Ruan Qing. "Aim better this time!"

Ruan Qing again tossed the grenade. This time it fell square in the middle of the boat. Having seen what the bomb could do, the pirates all shouted in fear and every man jumped overboard. The bomb went off, and the explosion blew a hole in the bottom of the boat, which began to sink. Now were all the pirates afraid, and the pirates on the other two boats pulled their comrades out of the water and turned back towards the island.

"Hahaha, look elder brothers - look at them running away like wet dogs," laughed Ruan Qing. "Now that we have the upper hand, why do we not pursue them? I have a mind to blow each of them into little pieces."

"What foolish talk is this?" said Chen Yuan. "Though we have turned them back now and sunk one of their boats, it will not be so easy to fight them once they are on dry land. Let us quickly fix the sail and bail out the hold and be on our way."

"Chen Yuan is right, Ruan Qing," said Ma Hong. "Let us be away from this place as quickly as possible. Besides, how can we take these weapons to Perak if you use them all up to fight these pirates?"

Mamat climbed back up onto the mast and brought down the sail to finish patching it. The others resumed bailing water out from the hold. Soon, they had finished restoring the ship. Ma Hong then ordered the sail raised and the anchor weighed and they were again on their way up the strait.

He gulped the water down greedily, not caring if it splashed onto his trousers or the seat of the vehicle he was in. The driver looked at him worryingly, but said nothing.

The Pariah shook the canteen, the last few droplets of water ending up on the seat between his legs. “Thank you,” he said, voice still a little cracked. Travelling through a black hole could exhaust you, that much he knew.

“Not a problem,” said the driver, turning to the vast expanse of sand dunes. He was not a man of many words, but Pariah knew people like that were the most dangerous kind. Give little of yourself away to others, and they won’t know how to deal with you.

Did that apply here? His driver wasn’t even human. After the sound of the engine had ceased Pariah had gotten up and running for the source of the noise. There he had found some kind of hovercraft, held aloft above the ground by blue, levitating crystals.

The driver used one of his three arms to wipe his forehead, and licked his lips with a long, forked tongue. Oh yes, he remembered, at long last. He was a Daluran, the same race that attacked Earth in 2112. The Pariah drummed his fingers on the seat, trying not to show he was nervous. “For a non-human, you speak English very well,” he commented. It was a game of devil’s advocate. “Thank you, stranger,” replied the alien. Or was he the alien, on this strange planet?

So he was playing it safe. Pariah decided to job at him more. “Have you ever been to…you know, Earth?”

The Daluran flicked his tongue again. “No, I have not heard of that planet. Stranger, you still have not told me your name.”

He was getting to him. But how did this Daluran not have heard of Earth? Maybe this was another alien after all. “I’m Pariah.”

“Well, Pariah, how did you end up in the desert?”

He thought about it. “Ship crashed,” he half-lied, keeping a close eye at the Daluran’s third arm, which had reached into the alien’s pocket. That was not a good sign. Whether the driver had a pistol, a knife, or some kind of weapon, he couldn’t fight back. Especially not in this confined space.

A test was needed, he decided. Now, what did he have that was valuable? The Pariah reached into his trouser pocket and removed the gold ring that was his final request before his execution. He threw it and then caught it.

The Daluran’s right eye turned instantly, locked onto the ring. Clearly, gold was still of value here. The hand in the pocket slid a little out of its place, revealing something shiny. “How far away is closest settlement?” he asked, to dispel any suspicion. “We’ve been driving for half an hour.”

“A few Negs away.” The Daluran replied, returning to look forward. That was helpful, he thought. When the car came to rest on the edge of a dune, the alien hit the brakes. Pariah, nearly lurched forward, out the nonexistent windshield and to his death at the bottom of the dune, but his hands gripped the fabric that covered the seat; he had been expecting something like this. Before the Daluran could reach he threw a punch at the alien’s face, which split its mandibles open.

The alien drew out the knife and slashed wildly, but Pariah rolled out the side of the vehicle. His enemy climbed out as well, one of the hands nursing a seriously injured jaw. “You will die, human!” it practically screeched.

Pariah got to his feet and jumped down the side of the dune. The tips of his fingers were grazed as he slid down, but he couldn’t feel the pain through all the pumping adrenaline. The Daluran rode the side of the dune down like a surfer, it’s knife poised to strike the Pariah.

He turned, and caught the third arm just as it brought the weapon down. The other two arms grabbed his head, trying to twist it and snap his neck. Pariah twisted his hand sideways, breaking the Daluran’s wrist and causing him to relax his other two limbs. With the wrist broken the Pariah pulled the knife from its grip and slashed. The alien jumped back, the blade barely missing it. He then turned and ran for the vehicle, hoping for an escape.

No such luck, thought Pariah, transferring the knife’s hilt to between his index finger and thumb. It wasn’t properly balanced, and the glaring heat was messing with his eyes, but he knew he could do it.

One swift motion sent the knife flying into the Daluran’s back, dropping him to the ground and severing one of his two spines. Pariah walked over to where he laid, begging for mercy. “Please,” he said, a last, desperate plea.

The Pariah shook his head and ground his head into the sand. He bent down to remove the alien’s coat, and examined it. There was a piece of parchment tucked into one pocket, and the knife’s sheath in another.

He took the parchment out – a map, written in language he didn’t recognize. The relief was the same as any map he knew, though, and he could just make out his surroundings in the top left corner of it. A smile crept across his face as he saw a square quite close to his location. A settlement.

He pocketed the map, and walked back to the vehicle. He whistled a tune he knew from long ago, when he was still on Earth. Now, if only he could figure out how to drive the car…

(The song he whistled: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYDuNq-a5b4)

The world dissolved. Black, white, blue, red were now only concepts, paving way for the unseen values of the fabric of reality. Time and space went out the window, replaced by entropy and endless tesseracts twisting inside out. Or was it outside in?

A few cows floated by, immediately turned into mounds of living flesh, and then into dingoes. A huge balloon sailed past, its sole occupant with a foot instead of a head, and then the balloon popped, turning into a rainbow swirl of water.

The ship came to a stop, and everything went back to its normal place – all the cows returned to Earth, the dingoes to Australia and the hot air balloon to someone’s wicked dream.

Inside, Pariah gasped, air suddenly existing in his lungs once more. How he had survived was beyond him. He had chosen the name himself, of course, not only because he was truly exiled, but because he had forgotten his old name a long time ago. Not that it mattered.

Where was he? Out the window was a vast expanse of desert, littered by…blue cactus? Pariah fumbled for the release lever, and the bubble of the cockpit swung open. Harsh, yellow light flooded down, previously only held back by the tinted glass.

He closed his eyes for one long moment, and then opened them again. The sunlight hurt no more, a mere annoyance with the brightness – unnatural, but it was just an inconvenience. The Pariah tried to climb out of the cockpit, but his ankle cuff restrained him halfway.

Seconds later, it crumbled to dust, lacking the quantum entanglement method that kept it intact. No, that couldn’t be right. Had someone attacked his jailers? Most likely not – Dubrovnik Security was the most secure in the multiverse.

So it had to be something else. A sudden, painful spasm of his leg sent Pariah tumbling into the sand. For a while, he just laid there, taking in his surroundings. A scorpion, as blue as the cacti, crawled slowly over his cheek. It stopped midway, turned around, as if it had sensed some predator, and scurried away. Pariah watched as the little insect burrowed its way under the scorching sand, and realized then he had to find help.

But where was help? The wild expanse around him was almost utterly uniform, with no sign of human intervention. He sat against his ship, ignoring the sand burning his backside, and closed his eyes. I’m dreaming, he thought.

Except he wasn’t. An hour passed by, and Pariah wondered how he isn’t tanned by now, in this scorching sun. It beat down on him like someone would beat meat with a mallet to get it soft. His sweat soaked his clothes, only serving to extend his torture. He was going to die there, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Then he heard the sound of an engine.

Can you hear them. I can. Alone in my room as I'm going to sleep. They're so faint, like they're not even real. I think I'm going insane. But is that so bad? I can't see any reason not to lose my mind. This place is so pitiful and hurtful.

I need help. Not just as a character but as an author. This story is literally my life, and it is a story writers will be able to get best, because it is a story about the realm of my imagination, pure and simple. What I can present to you is only the tip of the iceberg. I am willing to discuss the future plans I've been working on and to offer you twice the initial amount of reading and critiquing material, just please. I'm begging you, be merciless. Help me get as good as I can.

The first entry.

This is the beginning of a short story for the r/shutupandwrite contest. Thread here: http://www.reddit.com/r/shutupandwrite/comments/1l2cnz/critique_cast_call_for_submissions_12_inanimate/

Ice Cube Z continues on its perpetual journey around Earth. It performs its duty as one of Earth's twenty-six chaperons, even checking on those in the darkness. It observes from afar, removed from the chaos that plagues its creators below. It rotates along its path, each of its four corners a toe on which this ballerina pirouettes. As it spins its lenses draw in the light from surrounding space, each taking their turn bending the sun's yellow and Earth's oceanic blues.

The launch of the cubes in early 2523 was only celebrated by the select few who still had the luxury of owning a television. Even if those in darkness enjoyed such frivolity, they wouldn't dare be seen bleeding their rations over such an antiquated indulgence. It was rumored that a television ran on over two hundred watts an hour. The elderly fortunate enough to remain tell tales of a time where all little children watched cartoons, sitting around for hours on end staring into its seductive glare. Their grandchildren just sit there with porous smiles. They just shake their head, giggling, "You're crazy grandpa, that would never happen." Others claim to have heard stories; stories passed along generations. They've heard stories of the night, except the night they describe is different than the frigid emptiness they feel after sunset.

Camera 9.121, unblinking, focuses its gaze India's western coast. It traces powerlines carefully, checking for any breaches of protocol. A few radio waves begin the lonely journey towards E.I.S.S. Headquarters in Moscow as the camera spots damage to a length of barbed wire. The dislodged wire sags atop one of two twenty-foot fences that follow the line down the coast to a powerhouse in Mumbai. The affected portion faces inland, where less than a mile east lies the outer regions of Dharavi.

I couldn’t believe my luck. I had finally found it.

Of course, I couldn’t be sure. You can never be absolutely certain when buying online. Images can be altered – lightened, smoothed out, even generated from scratch. This one seemed right. It felt right. I tried not to let myself get too excited as I examined the miniscule graphic.

I think this is it. It looks like it. I scrutinized the tiny .gif image on the screen, eyeing its surface. I smirked as I pictured myself with a jeweler’s loop in my eye, analyzing the tiny glowing image on the screen. I clicked on the image, and – yes! – an enlarged picture rolled onto the screen.

I was certain now. This was it. The tone was perfect, there were no visible flaws, no signs of neglect or abuse. The size was correct. I had finally found the perfect skin.

My hands trembled as I clicked the “ORDER ME” button. I filled out the forms – name, address, phone number and payment information. None of the information was actually mine – you could never be too careful in the skin trade. The information belonged to a carefully crafted identity that I had spent the past four years developing in anticipation of this very moment. My research told me that this seller was reliable and well-versed in transactions of this type. He wouldn’t turn me in. But there was always someone watching, someone willing to give your name to the authorities just for looking at these websites. I wouldn’t so much as view one of the trade websites from my home computer, lest someone turn up circumstantial evidence of my ventures, my passion. You could never be too careful.

I finalized the transaction, and waited. The seller advised that my order would arrive by courier in 72 hours. I would find a temperature controlled crate sealed with a computerized combination lock labeled “research materials” waiting outside the apartment. The combination would arrive via registered mail within 48 hours.

Those first 48 hours passed at an agonizing snail’s pace. I tried to keep my mind occupied with little tasks. I cleaned my kitchen, sanitizing the counter once and then again, just to be sure. I boiled the instruments, and scoured my hands just for practice. I tried to divert my thoughts with a book, some television, and even played some solitaire on my computer, but I was too distracted. The anticipation was heavy on my mind.

A few minutes shy of the 48 hour mark I made the trip to the post office box to find that, as advertised, the envelope was waiting for me. It was plain manilla bearing no postmark, listing a (almost certainly false) return address in New Mexico. I placed the envelope in my pocket, not daring to open it in public. It was all I could do to keep from sprinting home to tear the envelope apart and behold its contents.

E379228-FHGL1.

The combination had arrived…now to endure the next twenty-four hours until the package came. Time passed even more slowly as my anticipation grew. I briefly considered taking a few sleeping pills, just to make the time pass quickly while I dozed in a chemical haze, but I couldn’t risk being foggy-headed when I picked up the package. So I endured the wait as the hands on my old kitchen clock slowed to a halt.

And the moment arrived. I grabbed my jacket and sprinted to my other apartment, the near empty shell rented to a “Jonah Stark.” I could see my breath in the cold air but I could feel sweat starting to bead on my forehead.

I was nearly upon the moment I had waited for all these years. At first, way back when I first began planning my purchase, I dreamed of this very trip across town time and time again. Every time, it looked exactly like this.

I climbed the stairs to the second story, my chest heaved from the wild mix of exertion and anxiety, but I pressed on, I couldn’t stop now. And there it was – the trophy, the package, the prize: the large brown crate.

The crate was awkward, cumbersome and surprisingly heavy but the trip home was a blur. I set the crate onto the kitchen counter, and set to working the combination. The lock released with ease, and I took a deep breath.

I pulled the lid from the crate and moved the silvery packing materials aside. With as much precision as my trembling hands could produce I slipped a blade through the inner plastic pouch. Inside, there it was, and in the very color and texture I had imagined from that graphic on the website.

My new skin.

I carefully pulled the fleshy suit from the crate, evaluating each curve and every fold. It smelled faintly of chemicals, but my research told me to anticipate some odors from the preservation process. The skin was soft and supple, clean and new. It was everything that my own skin was not. I pulled its shoulders across mine and let it hang down the length of my body. The size was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Now, the hard part. Blade in hand, I breathed deeply as I made the first cut across the length of my own arm. My head spun as I began the process of removing my old, tired flesh so that I could don my new suit.

Google Docs ~ 1,200 words

Short piece, a hopefully saddening view about someones appreciation for their rapist. [Google Drive Link] (https://docs.google.com/file/d/0Bzr8OmzevSfwT1JKaUVXcTlwQVU/edit?usp=sharing)