Fox and Wolf 01 – Prologue (Draft 1)

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The following piece of writing is mildly inspired by my time playing Gatsukaiko, a Horde character that I used to play on the World of Warcraft MMORPG (Nagrand server). However, the story did not start with her in mind. In fact, it started sometime in the past, with Ethan fleeing from militia that believe he has killed his mentor.The scene led to a camp where nefarious characters kept a bunch of slaves in cages. One of the prisoners is Gatsu, who is being followed by her animal companion, a wolf named Raz.

The prologue is a flash forward of events later in this epic fantasy story. It isn’t perfect, not that I’d expect it from a first draft, but I believe I have created some of the mood and set the stage for latter sequences in the story. Anyway, I welcome any feedback that you guys are willing to offer, as it really does help with the editing process. I look forward to reading your comments.

***

Prologue

On a moonlit night, in the middle of a field three people stood between the corruption of the entire continent of Beladar and the destruction of the one behind such a perverted plan – Gatsukaiko, an Orcish huntswoman; Ethan, human adventure; and Wendell, the Dwarf that had raised Ethan since the lad was orphaned at a young age. The trio were surrounded by the undead army of Illian Crowe, a villain bent on destroying civilization.  The closest of their attackers was nearly thirty yards away with sword in hand, the smell of death upon him. The aroma was pungent with the stench of their corruption, and there was more than enough death to go round.

The three gripped their weapons tightly. For Ethan, it was his twin short swords that he’d inherited from his father, a famous warrior in his own right. Wendell held an enormous axe in both his hands. As for Gatsu, she carried a katana with her right hand, the other free for weaving spells, a gift that had only recently been awakened in her.

There was little the heroes could do other than fight, because they knew that in the event that they got captured, they would be fed the Fires of Naanru, and over the next few painful hours they would become one of the walking dead. And then they would be used as tools for the destruction of many that they held dear. It was a pervasion of the cycle and a tortured existence – it was unnatural.

Illian had to be stopped.

Ethan looked at Gatsukaiku a moment. She stared back at him with a look of resolve upon her face. He’d grown fond of her in the short time that they’d known each other, and now counted her as one of his closest friends. He’d felt her pain after her precious Raz had been taken. The bond between the woman and her wolf companion had been severed and with that a piece of herself. It had sent her into a coma, until he’d managed to call her back from oblivion, and along with the Southlander woman, came Xena, who’d left soon after the ordeal.

They knew what her bloodline was capable of, but if worst came to worst she could use her gifts to send them to the Nether, the other-world. It was, of course, the last resort. The Nether was the place of the dead, and not a place for the living. But it wouldn’t be necessary if they could destroy Illian and the artefact. And if they could destroy the artefact, the taint of undeath would be removed from those transformed by that foul creation, allowing each one of those poor tortured souls to move on to their afterlife.

The beating of the hearts within the chests of those three heroes was almost deafening.

“My boy, the war is all but lost here, but I want you to know that I love you as my own kin.” The stocky dwarf told him.

“And I love you as much as any lad can love his father.” Ethan said with a single tear flowing down his face.

“Stop being such pessimists. If you let your emotions, your fear, rule this battle, then you’ve signed your own death warrant, and you might as well slice your own throats this moment. Stand tall and do not waver until you have either achieved the task before us or have bled your last drop of blood!” The huntswoman said with conviction.

Gat was right, the two men knew. Each one understood how strong emotions could impede your ability to fight, and that could get you killed. But how could they not be affected by the hundreds of death warriors surrounding them? How could they not be influenced by the aura of fear and sadness that each tortured soul exuding from even this distance?

Gatsu stared out at the shadowed faces of those she recognised and saw Sarif looking back at her, whitened pupils where once blue eyes graced her. She’d cared for him for only a short time, yet the connection was strong. She had to destroy the artefact for Sarif, and for Raz, and for all the souls surrounding the band of heroes. She had to destroy it for the ones that would be transformed should they not succeed.

As the first wave moved towards the party, each of these proud warriors felt a surge of adrenalin course through them. In that moment, Gatsu moved her left hand in an intricate manner and a light emanated about them in a warm, protective glow. As the first of their foes converged on them, she weaved another spell, and their minds were as one.

As the party took down the last of the first wave of rotting undead, they felt Illian across the field past hundreds of his minions. He seemed to be calling to them, but their minds held strong against his enchantment magic, their recent connection with the Ether Realm creating a mental shield against such weavings. Now that they’d felt the attack, each one had a direction. All that they needed to do now, was survive long enough to kill him.

“Nether will not greet our souls this day!” Gatsukaiko declared just before the party charged in unison into the mass of bodies that stood between them and the Necromancer.

The Jade Sword Chronicles 01: Prologue (Draft 1)

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In 2005, I attempted NaNoWriMo for the first time. I failed by a noticeable margin, but I managed to crank out some decent prose in the process. The following is the newly completed prologue from that same NaNoWriMo project that I spent some time finishing up this evening. The work is inspired by anime about Shinigami, but I wanted to avoid it being a clone of a number of shows I have enjoyed over the years. So, I added in some gadgets, gizmos, school drama, magic, and reincarnation along with what I believe to be enough westernisms to avoid cultural confusion.

***

Prologue

The First Alex

3^rd March, 1990

A single early morning sunbeam touched the young man’s face subtly waking him from a pleasant dream. Alex’s first waking thought as he stared up at the ceiling was of her. His mouth creased into a smile as he watched the shadow of the fan blades as they moved in slow circles.

He thought of her smile. He thought of her cute little laugh. He thought of her beautiful, long red hair and the way that it caught the light. He thought of the many things that he still wanted to know about her, stuff that seemed a lot less childish than the question of what her favorite film or color was.

He thought of their first meeting, a time that seemed like an eternity ago. In reality it was only a month prior, but Alex felt like he’d known her all of his life. She’d been sitting at his bus stop waiting for her 3:15 bus to arrive. He didn’t notice the hooded, heavily clothed girl as he sat under the cover of the bus shelter because of the strange old man in his late sixties sitting next to her. The trio waited a few minutes before the man asked the boy which bus that he was going on. Alex confirmed that he was going on the same bus.

The old man got up and stared at the boy. “You look like a good lad. Can you take care of my granddaughter while I am gone?”

Alex thought that the request was odd but simply nodded. He’d learned from spending time of his older relatives that you should never question. Satisfied with the lad’s response, the old man stumbled across the road to a nearby shopping centre.

“Be careful, Sir.” Alex offered the gent now out of earshot.

Ella started to cry. He heard quieted sobs and realized that his only companion was crying. He looked over at her and considered what to do. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

She wiped her tears away with a long sleeve of her sweater. “You heard him, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“You heard my grandfather. He spoke to you and you heard him.”

Alex nodded, “Yes. Is that odd for some reason?”

“Yes, it is. Grandpa died here six hours ago.”

Alex’s face went pale. It wasn’t the first time that he’d seen a ghost but it was strange that she’d seen the old man as well. He’d only ever told his older brother about his unusual ability. She would be the second person that he knew of with the ability, but would not be the last.

This was Ella, the beautiful young red-haired girl that he would come to fall in love with. Whenever the pair met they would talk about so many things, revealing much about themselves and nothing at the same time. There was so much more that remained unsaid.

“Ella…” he whispered as he felt rays of morning sunlight caress his face.

If Alex had been a religious lad then he might have considered it a divine blessing. His feeling was unique in that he felt like Ella was there in person, like an angelic being sent down simply to watch over him. She was a being of such strength and beauty that the athletic youth couldn’t stop thinking about her. Thoughts of Ella McIntyre had been so powerful that he was driven to distraction. On days that the pair failed to see each other a dark cloud loomed over Alex. He just couldn’t function properly.

To Alex, Ella had become everything. For him, she was the world. She was worth giving up everything for, even his life.

Alex lay in bed semi-conscious thinking about her and groggily wondered if she would finally let him kiss her. He knew that Ella was quite sensitive and the pain of her twisted upbringing had made it difficult for her to develop close relationships with anybody. She had hardly any friends so Alex was careful not to overwhelm her with too many of the people that he knew. But even if their lips never met he was prepared to wait an eternity.

He’d learnt from his reclusive aunt that rushing things could do more damage and although Ella was not his aunt, she had many similar traits. She had difficulty with socializing and panic attacks occurred whenever things got too much. He was prepared to wait until she was comfortable with herself instead of pressuring her like so many of his classmates did with their own girlfriends. The way that he saw it, if you cared about somebody, you should build him or her up rather than be some destructive, manipulative monster led only by their own selfish wants.

Alex understood much from what Ella’s mother Jenny had told him about the girl when he’d first showed an interest in the girl. He was told that her father had kidnapped Ella when she was eight years of age, taking her to some compound of his religious cult in the Appalachians where they locked children in solitary boxes for long periods of time to condition them.

Even after five years of intensive counseling and support she was affected by the nightmare that her father had so willingly put her into. Who wouldn’t be? Alex had decided that he was going to take things slow with her because it was the right thing to do for this girl that he cared so much for.

Seventeen year-old Alexander Gateman the third was just becoming conscious when the ear-piercing sound of his cheap alarm clock declared that it was seven o’clock. And that meant that it was time for him to wake up, get up then prepare for a nine o’clock school day. Kipson Valley Senior High was not what he’d consider worth jumping out of bed for, but he had track practice that afternoon and a date with Ella so it was worth it.

Alex turned over and slammed down the snooze button with the arc of his left arm. He threw off the sheets and stared at the plain stucco ceiling of his room for a moment, making a note of the green stain of a mold patch that seemed to be growing. Shaking off the final affects of the groggy, half-awake state he sat up then dangled his feet over the edge of the bed.

Running a hand through his short brown hair, he let his eyes adjust to the sudden burst of sunshine that violated his vision from between the heavy green curtains. He tried to remember whether he had to do anything before he went to school. All of his homework had been done the night before and he’d certainly completed all of his assigned chores.

Content with the knowledge that he could take his time getting ready this morning, Alex decided to swing by Ella’s place and hang out with her before they walked to school together. She liked the company, and the gangs in the neighborhood rarely hassled anybody unless they were alone.

He placed his feet tentatively upon the carpet, making sure that his body wasn’t going to cramp up from stiffness. It was the peril of being an athlete, sometimes the body cramped up after a long rest. Regardless of how hard that an athlete worked, or how fit they were, they had to be careful not to tear anything.

A quick look about the room revealed a pair of sweatpants and an old tank top that he’d inherited from his older brother. He quickly threw them on and went out into the hallway where he smelt bacon cooking on the stove. He smiled knowing that Jean was up already in spite of how tired that the pregnancy had been making her of late.

He liked his sister-in-law, not just because of the little things that she did, but because this giving nature came naturally for her. For many, it was an anathema. For these people, they believed that the world should give them something, like they deserved something without giving something back in return.

“You up already, Alex?” came the pleasant voice of his brother, Robert from at the kitchen table.

“Sort of…” the lad said as he entered the tiny room.

The tall and lanky slightly balding man sitting at the table with the paper opened in front of him chuckled. It was the usual routine, Robert would ask the same question and Alex would answer the same way every time. It had been a tradition ever since Robert had taken Alex into his home three days after their parents had died in a car accident.

Robert looked up at Alex who was now leaning against the doorway. Jean’s back was to them both as she fought bacon that had started to spit. At Alex’s place at the table was a plate and in the middle of the table were plates of sausages, bacon, fried eggs, and a large stack of steaming, hot pancakes. A tub of margarine and a selection of pancake syrups in bottles added to the smorgasbord.

“You do realize that you are making me fat?” Alex laughed.

“You should always start your day with a decent breakfast. Haven’t you read any of those papers that I brought home the other day?” Jean said, turning around to face the teenager. She pressed hands to her hips and wore an enormous grin. Long black curls fell in of her face but she was unfazed.

Alex raised an eyebrow, “What is with all of those pamphlets that you’ve been bringing home lately? Are you trying to tell us something?”

“She is a nurse, remember?” Robert added.

The two males laughed at the joke but Jean responded by poking out a tongue and going back to the task at hand. She flipped the sizzline in the pan and was spat at again. Alex sat at his spot and dished out a helping of sausage, some strips of bacon and a couple eggs upon a large ceramic plate.

Jean swore under her breath but the other didn’t seem to notice. When she was finished the cooking she dished out the fake bacon and the two fried halves of the tomato before sitting next to her husband. It was hard work given the large bump of impending motherhood that sought to deny her the ability to eat over the table. Instead, she rested the plate on her belly and tried to balance it while she tried to portion out the pieces of food.

It was the tomato upon the floor that finally brought the problem to her husband’s attention. He’d been so wrapped up in reading the Wednesday funny pages at the back of the paper that he had barely noticed at all. Alexander however went to clean up the splattered vegetable on the linoleum.

“You look like you need help, hun,” Robert said, rolling up the paper and placing it next to the maple syrup container.

Jean frowned at her husband, “I don’t need any help. It is just that…”

“If you don’t let me at least cut up your food, you might starve.”

“I am not a baby. I can deal with this myself, as always.”

“It isn’t like I am going to spoon feed you. Come on, babe. Let me help.”

She stubbornly carved at the other piece of tomato only to send across the place and at the maple syrup container. It rebounded onto the paper over a report about the war in Kuwait. Robert smiled. Alex cringed from kneeling position.

Jean frowned. She knew that he wouldn’t let her hear the end of this. The amount of times that she’d heard him say “I told you so” in recent months had led to more than one door slamming. She hated it because he was always right. She was sick of being wrong but she couldn’t help but hate the way that he enjoyed saying it in that irritating, annoying way that he did.

Alex placed the tomato in the bin and washed the floor cloth in the sink. Looking up at the hands of the clock he realized how much time that he’d wasted. He thought of Ella again and that bubbling excitement told him that he had to hurry up.

He grabbed a quick-snap container from the cupboard next to the dishwasher. Pouring the food still remaining on his plate and some extra meat into clear plastic it closed with a satisfying snap.

In ten minutes he was in his clothes for school. Though Kipson Valley didn’t have an official uniform, the students were encouraged to wear a lot of red and blue in their clothing. The only dress requirement was the necessary removal of jewelry and enclosed footwear. That being said, many of the parents insisted that their children wear the unofficial uniform.

Alex had decided upon wearing a light blue polo shirt with the school shield ironed on the pocket and a pair of dark blue track pants that would be replaced with another pair once track and field practice was finished. Over this he wore the red and blue striped windbreaker to keep warm while he walked to Ella’s.

As he walked up her front pathway past the rows of African Daisies, he felt that something was wrong. There was an unearthly stillness in the air and the hairs all the way up his airs stood on end. He ascended the three steps up to her door and tentatively knocked once only to have the door open slightly.

That was when he saw the black-skinned beast standing over the top his beloved Ella. It was vaguely human in shaped, but he knew that this was something supernatural. Beside his girlfriend was her mother, pale and lifeless with a look of horror upon her face.

Alex tried to think of what to do next, but his choices were removed when he was knocked down by two strangers pushing past him to get to the creature. On the left was a short pink-haired girl in a schoolgirl outfit with a kukri in each hand, and the right was a tall man wearing a trench-coat wielding a katana.

As Alex watched from the doorway, the two individuals surrounded the creature with weapons out and combat stances. The monstrosity stopped what it was doing and looked first at the man and then the woman. That is when it put out a low rumbling growl that shook the ground for some distance around it.

The duo drew the creature into the living room and began to fight it. Now that Ella was away from the immediate danger of the creature, he ran to her and tried to help her up, but as soon as he touched her arm, it began to turn black. He let go in horror as she quickly transformed into a similar creature to the one that had stolen her life force.

Scrambling backwards along the floor, Alex couldn’t help but realize as she lunged for him, that he was going to die as well.

Moments later he was bleeding upon the floor from the wounds inflicted by the monster that he once called Ella. The two that had fought the creature that had taken her from him, now knelt beside him with a number of strange gadgets in front of them. He saw their lips moving but couldn’t make out their words.

“That can’t be right, Clyde – we need to save him!” the girl shouted in anger.

The long-haired man looked back at her with a look of pain upon his face, “The scanner says that he already has a new vessel. His destiny has already been chosen for him. It is sad that he is dying like this, but it is predestined, Miriam…”

The girl looked down at the young man before her and began to weep. He did not understand the tears because he did not recognize her.   She, however, seemed to recognize him, but it would be another lifetime before he would learn the truth of it.

As Alex lay on the floor with his back to the hardwood floor, Miriam cradled his head in her hands and wept for the loss. He couldn’t feel a thing, his body paralyzed from the venom in Ella’s claws, but as he drifted off into the abyss, he knew that the two of them would meet again.

Paradigm Shift 01: Chapter 01 (Draft 2)

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The other day I did two freewrites that I considered worthy enough to spend some time rewriting. Earlier today I posted the rewrite of the second of those manuscripts, but now I am going to post the rewrite of the first, a story about a grieving widow who is unaware that his wife of numerous years is not the woman he believed her to be. As with all second drafts, it still needs a bit of work, but I think there is enough promise to do more work on it. Without further ado, the second draft of Paradigm Shift book 1 chapter 1:

***

It was the day of the funeral. As William wandered through the empty house, he found a gaping hole inside his chest. Mary was gone and he was all alone now, with the memory of their life together all about him. A picture here, an ornament there, he could not help but be enveloped by thoughts of her wavy red hair, emerald green eyes and that warm smile.

As he reached the couch he sank down and the tears began to fall, in a trickle at first, then as a torrent.

He cried for the time that they’d spent together, and for the numerous things that they’d planned to do but hadn’t. He wept for the family that they would never start and for his selfishness in not letting her go back into nursing as she’d wanted to for so long. Those tears would fall for the vacations he’d never taken with her and would never have a chance to.

Tear-soaked and emotionally exhausted, William would cry himself to sleep on the raggedy old second-hand couch that his parents had given to the couple when the youngsters had got married a decade ago.

He would awaken hours later by his brother-in-law, Tracy, knocking at the front door. The tall man had been there for him for the last couple of days helping with the funeral arrangements. A widower himself, Tracy knew what William was going through, and the passing was just as traumatic for the Scot, who’d been close to Mary. Some say that there is a special bond that twins have, one with the other, but their relationship was more than that.

Tracy and Mary had been friends.

William got up and wiped the remnants of tears from his eyes, then answered the door. Tracy stood just outside in a suit, a mass of curly red hair that had always reminded William of a lion. The man was tall at nearly seven feet tall, and was built like a linebacker. He did not however play any sports, and the younger man had always attributed his brother-in-law’s massive physique to being a labourer.

How wrong he was!

“Looks like we need to get you cleaned up, Laddie,” the big man said to the much smaller one before him with a thick Scottish accent.

William nodded, “Yeah, it’s been pretty rough today. I can’t believe it is time to say goodbye for the last time…”

Tracy nodded, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted, boy-o.”

The big man followed the small, closing the door behind him. His nostrils flared as his noted all-too familiar smells in the vicinity. It made him angry that the hunters had defiled the home of his kin. He hated that she’d been taken from her loved ones by those hypocritical bastards!

Of course, Tracy wasn’t about to mention this fact to his brother-in-law just yet. He knew that William was still unaware of their heritage, and it seemed like an inappropriate time to bring up the fact that his family were not entirely human. There was a time and a place for such discussions, and it would be more of a blow to the younger man if Tracy suddenly revealed that the woman that William had known and loved was a werecat.

As Tracy waited for William to have a shower, he looked over his sister’s collection of ceramic animals. There were hundreds of them placed in strategic places about the house. He’d never got that about his sister, but he’d stopped trying to understand her impulse to collect those freakish little figurines years ago.

As William got dressed, Tracy looked through a photo album of family photos and smiled as he remembered the good times he’d spent with his sister as a kid growing up near the border of Scotland and England. They’d spent many a time playing on the moors frightening unsuspecting tourists. They never really hurt anybody, and because of it tourism went up in the area.

Then the wolves came and started killing people, bringing with them the hunters who would in turn kill werekin indiscriminately. The Fergusons had to lay low, but when Tracy and Mary’s cousin Jimmy was murdered, their parents went into survival mode. The family immigrated to Australia after that, leaving behind the ties of kin and community, to start a new life.

It was good for a while, but then the wolves came, and with them the hunters.

Tracy didn’t hate all werewolves, knowing that each clan had their own code of behaviour. While some were honourable, others were dark as sin, killing and eating their way across the countryside with no respect for the rights of others. In recent times, he’d met with some of the werewolf chieftains in the local area in the hopes of dealing with the problem, but the council hadn’t come to a decision as to how to deal with the rogue clans.

“Perhaps my sister’s death will convince them that we need to deal with the problem in-house!” he thought just as William entered the room in a dark suit.

Tracy turned to face him and nodded thoughtfully, “That’ll do, though I think I should fix up that tie of yours.”

William was confused, but this was remedied when Tracy started to deal with his lopsided tie.

“I haven’t worn a tie in ages…” the younger man said.

Tracy left out a short chuckle, “Don’t worry about it, Will. I had to get pa to re-educate me in the wonders of ye olde half Windsor yesterday.”

William sighed, “I never did like wearing ties for exactly this reason – I can’t tie one if my life depended on it.”

Tracy put up his hand to interject, “Don’t sweat it, man. It really isn’t that big a deal…”

The smaller man looked outside the window at Tracy’s Camry in the driveway, “I guess it is time to head out then…”

Tracy gave a quick nod, “I guess so.”

“It is time to say goodbye to Mary for the last time.”

“Let’s go then…”

And with that the pair left the house to go to the funeral.

To be continued…

Drake and Mallone 01 – Chapter 01 (Draft 2)

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Yesterday I posted a freewrite on this blog that I just spent some time rewriting because I like where it is headed. I like the two main characters, Drake and Kayla Mallone, two people with such differing backgrounds, though both have strong moral centers. Given that this is only the second draft, there is no doubt more work to be done on it, but I’m at a stage where I think I have enough to work on this puppy. Anyway, without further ado, the second draft of Drake and Mallone book #01 chapter 01:

***

“Repent – The end of the world draws near!” yelled the evangelist on the street corner of Fifth and Main Street.
As I walked past the man we exchanged looks. He was a tall man in his late fifties, with balding brown hair flecked with grey at the temples. Those grey-blue eyes bore into me and I nearly stopped in mid-step.
Close, but no cigar.
It was strange that with all of the monsters I have faced over the years that the look of such a man would have as profound an effect on me as he did. Then again, I knew what he was capable of. I was a Supernatural, and his true faith had real power against non-humans. Why I dared walk past him every day at the same each morning is anybody’s guess.
Perhaps I am a masochist as suggested by the resident Karlan mystic a while back. Then again maybe I am trying to see where my limits lie. Could it be that I am sub-consciously trying to build up a resistance to his gift. That would make sense if a recent conversation with my former therapist is anything to go by.
“Kayla,” he said behind wire-framed spectacles, “Your trouble stems from your inability to relate with other human beings and I believe this is due to your upbringing. With enough therapy, we can begin to understand how best to affect a breakthrough.”
I was all a bunch of tripe, and I bet that I might have ended up like one of his other patients if I’d continued going to the pervert. Nope, I am lucky that I didn’t wake up in his therapy room with the sex fiend on top of me like forty-two year-old Sarah Aster, one of his numerous victims.
Some people say that the monsters are the non-humans, but history has shown that we’ve had a lot better track record in the treatment of others than mankind itself. I won’t go into the crimes mankind has inflicted on each other because I would be here for years. I probably shouldn’t be so harsh, because humans are capable of great good as well.
As I passed the old man on the corner, I hear the sound of an SMS coming through on my mobile. I look down. It read, “Got a job for you if you’re up to it.” I didn’t recognise the number.
I notice a familiar figure watching from across the road with a mobile in those massive hands. The guy wearing the grey trench-coat over the hooded muscle-man body was Drake, the local Dragonkin. Yeah, not really an original name for one of his kind, but I suppose his family had a sense of humour. Perhaps this was just their way of hiding him in plain sight.
He nods at me, but I can’t really see his inhuman face because of the disguise. Others seem to be watching him as he watches me. He is, after all, freakishly big in his hybrid form. Those massive shoulders seem right out of a comic book, and his gloved fists are out of proportion to the rest of his body. Why he is his war form is a mystery to me, but I know that it must be important.
I answer the phone as I reach the cafe, knowing that he is converging to the same establishment, a small place that we used to go to before I learned that he wasn’t human. I didn’t realize until I ordered a couple of deluxe breakfasts that I was in there. I nearly kicked myself.
“Damn it!” I said under my breath.
He sat down in the chair across from me placing the phone in front of me and looks at me with enormous blue eyes from behind the dark fabric.
“What the hell, Drake?” I hissed.
He looks down at a piece of table in front of him and sighs, “I’m sorry that it is me, but the council are busy trying to find out what caused the problem at hand. Twelve agents have already died, including Pete…”
That got my attention. No longer was I the vengeful ex-girlfriend, now I was the grieving ward. When I first discovered that I was a Supernatural, Pete had been the one to guide me through, helping me keep things in perspective when everybody else in my family had left. He was a good man with the ability to read people.
My jaw dropped, “Pete is… dead? How did that happen?”
He shook his head, “That is what the others were trying to figure out, but the Elders seem to believe it is the result of a shipment that came in a week ago. He was found drained of blood, as were the others.”
“When did the Fellowship start looking into whatever this is?”
“Four days ago. They got an anonymous tip that some contraband was smuggled into the docks, so the lads looked into it. Problem is, that none of them came back.”
“So, point me in the right direction and I’ll deal with whatever did this.”
“You’ll have to discuss it further with Whiskers at the meeting hall, but I’ll need to go with you.”
I frowned, “Why?”
He looked into my eyes and said, “Safety Protocol X-11 has been enacted due to numerous other deaths that are believed to be linked to the murders of the Agents.”
“So, the problem is much bigger than the murders of a few agents?”
He nodded. A few moments of silence passed before the plates of food arrived at our table. I looked up and thanked the short skinny man that brought them. He left us to consume our food in silence. For the next few minutes I tried not to think of my mentor with little to no success.
As I finished a slice of French toast I looked over at Drake’s hands and noticed them trembling. It would be the first time I would ever see him like this, but it wouldn’t be my last. In the days to come, I would learn more about this man than I ever anticipated. As I wiped the plate clean with the remaining piece of toast, I recalled Drake hovering over me.
Soon after we paid for the breakfast, we started out for the meeting hall.

Freewrite 2 (60 minutes): 11-17-2009

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Just before bed last night, I did a freewrite. To start with I was stumbling over words, and then found myself heavily distracted by my husband’s viewing of one of the new episodes of Dexter. As time progressed, something weird happened: a decade-old character entered the piece of writing. I’ve never written anything with Drake in it before, but I’ve been waiting for the right time to give him a home, and this story is the perfect way to do that. However, based on how dysfunctional the last few paragraphs were, I am in for some editing today. The descriptive and background for either character is lacking, and this should take some time to rectify. Anyhoo, the work itself might be categorized as either horror or fantasy based on the conflicting themes therein, but I look forward to any feedback that you guys can give me. (By the way, this includes a name for the story featuring these two intrepid characters.)

Date: 11-17-2009

Start time: 8:30 PM (60 mins)

Subject: None

Visuals: None

Audio: Majikakonvinazion by Butumba

Story Prompts: None

“The end of the world draws nie!” yelled the evangelist on the street corner of Fifth and Main Street.

As I walked past the man we exchanged looks. He was a tall man in his late fifties, with balding brown hair flecked with grey at the temples. Those grey-blue eyes bored into my very being and I nearly stopped in mid-step.

Close, but no cigar.

It was strange that with all of the monsters I have faced over the years that the look of such a man would have as profound an effect on me as he did. Then again, I knew what he was capable of. I was a Supernatural, and his true faith had real power against non-humans. Why I dared walk past him every day at the same each morning is just begging for trouble.

Perhaps I am just a masochist as the resident Karlan would suggest. Then again maybe I am not. Could it be that I am sub-consciously trying to build up a resistance to his gift. That would make sense if a recent conversation with my therapist is anything to go by.

“Kayla,” he said behind wire-framed spectacles, “Your trouble stems from your inability to relate with other human beings and I believe this is due to your upbringing. With enough therapy, we can begin to understand how best to affect a breakthrough.”

I was all a bunch of tripe, and I bet that I might have ended up like one of his other patients if I’d continued going to the pervert. Nope, I don’t want to wake up in his therapy room with the sex fiend on top of me like forty-two year-old Sarah Aster, one of his numerous victims.

Some people say that the monsters are the non-humans, but history has shown that we’ve had a lot better track record in the treatment of others than mankind itself. I won’t go into the crimes mankind has inflicted on each other because I would be here for years.

As I pass the old man on the corner, I notice a familiar figure watching from across the road. The grey trench-coat over the hooded muscle-freak is Drake, the local Dragonkin. Yeah, not really an original name for one of his kind, but I suppose his family had a sense of humour. Perhaps this is their way of hiding him in plain sight.

He nods at me, but I can’t really see his inhuman face because of the disguise. Others seem to be watching him as he watches me. He is, after all, freakishly big. Those massive shoulders seem right out of a comic book, and his gloved fists are out of proportion to the rest of his body.

When one of his kind are around, something is up, and that is where I come in.

I guess I have a job.

To be continued… (with lots of editing)

Freewrite 1 (60 minutes): 11-17-2009

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It has been a while since I added anything to this blog, mostly due to the fact that I haven’t done any freewriting exercises in months. Today though, I decided to pull my finger out in the hopes of breaking away from my NaNoWriMo insanity to mix things up a little bit. And so, I bring you the following piece of writing, which feels like the beginning of something. I am not sure when I’ll work on the second chapter, but I think it might be worth pursuing. Anyway, I bring you the first draft of this literary excursion into the lives of werebeasts, hunters and a grieving widow. Let me know what you think!

Date: 11/17/2009

Start time: 11:15 AM (60 mins)

Subject: None

Visuals: None

Audio: Viva la Vida (album) by Coldplay

Story Prompts: None

It was the day of the funeral. As William wandered through the empty house he found a gaping hole inside his chest. Mary was gone and he was all alone now, with the memory of their life together all about him. A picture here, an ornament there, he could not help but be enveloped by thoughts of her wavy red hair, emerald green eyes and a winning smile.

As he reached the couch he sank down and the tears began to fall, in a trickle at first, then as a torrent.

He cried for the time that they’d spent together, and for the numerous things that they’d planned to do but hadn’t. He wept for the family that they would never start and for his selfishness in not letting her go back into nursing as she’d wanted to for so long. Those tears would fall for the vacations he’d never taken with her and would never have a chance to.

Tear-soaked and emotionally exhausted, William would cry himself to sleep on that raggedy old couch that his parents had given to the couple second-hand when the youngsters had got married a decade ago.

He would awaken hours later by his brother-in-law, Tracy, knocking at the front door. The tall man had been there for him for the last couple of days helping with the funeral arrangements. A widower himself, Tracy knew what William was going through, and the passing was just as traumatic for the Scot, who was one of Mary’s best friends. Some say that there is a special bond that twins have, one with the other, but their relationship was more than that.

William got up and wiped the remnants of tears from his eyes, then answered the door. Tracy stood just outside in a suit, a mass of curly red hair that had always reminded William of a lion. The man was tall at nearly seven feet tall, and was built like a linebacker. He did not however play any sports, and the younger man had always attributed his brother-in-law’s massive physique to being a labourer.

How wrong he was!

“Looks like we need to get you cleaned up, Laddie,” the big man said to the much smaller one before him.

William nodded, “Yeah, it’s been pretty rough today. I can’t believe it is time to say goodbye for the last time…”

Tracy nodded, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted, boy-o.”

The big man followed the small, closing the door behind him. His nostrils flared as his noted all-too familiar smells in the vicinity. It made him angry that the hunters had defiled the home of his kin. He hated that she’d been taken from her loved ones by those hypocritical bastards!

Of course, he wasn’t ready to mention this fact to his brother-in-law just yet. He knew that William was still unaware of their heritage, and it seemed like an inappropriate time to bring up the fact that their family were not entirely human. There was a time and a place for such discussions, and it would be more of a blow to the younger man if Tracy suddenly revealed that the woman that William had known and loved was a werecat.

As Tracy waited for William to have a shower, he looked over his sister’s collection of ceramic animals. There were hundreds of them placed in strategic places about the house. He’d never got that about his sister, but he’d stopped trying to understand her impulse to collect those freakish little figurines years ago.

As William got dressed, Tracy looked through a photo album of family photos and smiled as he remembered the good times he’d spent with his sister as a kid growing up near the border of Scotland and England. They’d spent many a time playing on the moors frightening unsuspecting tourists.

Then the wolves came and started killing people, bringing with them the hunters who killed indiscriminately. The family immigrated to Australia after that, leaving behind the ties of kin and community, to start a new life. It was good for a while, but then the wolves came, and with them the hunters.

Tracy didn’t hate all werewolves, knowing that each clan had their own code of behaviour. While some were honourable, others were dark as sin, killing and eating their way across the countryside with no respect for the rights of others. In recent times, he’d met with some of the werewolf chieftains in the local area in the hopes of dealing with the problem, but the council hadn’t come to a decision as to how to deal with the rogue clans.

“Perhaps my sister’s death will convince them that we need to deal with the problem in-house!” he thought just as William entered the room in a dark suit.

Tracy turned to face him and nodded thoughtfully, “That’ll do, though I think I should fix up that tie of yours.”

William was confused, but this was dealt with when Tracy started to deal with his lopsided tie.

“I haven’t worn a tie in ages…” the younger man said.

Tracy left out a short chuckle, “Don’t worry about it, Lad. I had to get pa to re-educate me in the wonders of ye olde half Windsor yesterday.”

William sighed, “I never did like wearing suits for exactly this reason – I can’t tie a Windsor if my life depended on it.”

Tracy put up his hand to interject, “Don’t sweat it, man. It really isn’t that big a deal…”

The smaller man looked outside the window at Tracy’s Camry, “I guess it is time to head out then…”

Tracy gave a quick nod, “I guess so.”

“It is time to say goodbye to Mary for the last time.”

“Let’s go then…”

And with that the pair left the house to go to the funeral.

To be continued…

Poem: Pain

Image by Southworth Sailor via Flickr

I don’t write a lot of poetry, but when I do it is at the spare of the moment, often years between those events that might trigger such a writing. I’ve been wanting to post something that I considered worthy enough to share, and today I decided to bite the bullet and post Pain, a poem I wrote in 2006. I don’t claim to be good at poetry, and with my lack of practice, that may remain a truth for years to come, but hopefully this poem will offer some insight into who I am as an individual and that of the human condition.

The following is a poem written at a time when I reflected on a life-changing event in my childhood. It is written from my own experience as a survivor of sexual abuse by a former family friend, but I am not one to reflect too much, upon the circumstances anymore, as I’ve learned that it can distract you form moving forward. The poem isn’t perfect, but in the writing of it I grew noticeably. I hope that it conveys the emotions I was feeling at the time it was written, as well as how the even impacted on myself as the protagonist.

*

Pain

By Dianne Owens

*

You tore me apart.

Each piece was left to bleed upon the cold and dusty stone.

You did not care.

You did not dare

To even think of what you’d done to me.

*

I was only young.

Yet you reached out your old meaty hand and took my innocence away.

You made me fear…

When you were near…

I was a child with you as adult assailant.

*

I was so naïve.

To think that this pain would just float away with the wind.

To dance with the breeze…

Then I‘d be at ease…

But I was so wrong – so very wrong.

*

I lived with the secret.

Of what you’d done that warm new years day in 1989.

You told me those lies

To stop me from telling

And here I am near two decades later.

*

I’d like to say that you didn’t win

But the damage was already done.

I can’t win because I still feel the pain of it in my memory.

And there you are far away having no remorse – happy.

Probably feeling proud of what you’d done to a little girl.

*

I hated you for years

But I realize the futility of holding this too close

It eats me up inside

Many tears were cried

But at least I know who you are.

*

04-20-2006

Freewrite (30 minutes): 09/30/2009

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Hello, guys! I know it has been a few weeks since I posted the last piece of writing. Life has a way of getting in the way of writing, though I have to admit that I was suffering from a little bit of burnout that the break has helped me recover from. Anyway, below is a little freewrite for you. It isn’t much, but I figured I’d share it with you as a thank-you for you guys offering feedback and support. The work feels like the beginning of a longer piece of writing, and I hope it was creepy enough to fit into the horror category. If not then let me know and the rewrite will be creepier. I have already identified a few areas that I can improve upon but don’t hesitate to let me know if you have any suggestions.

Date: 09/05/2009

Start time: 11:00 PM (30 mins)

Subject: None

Visuals: None

Audio: Coma Circle (mini EP) by Sever

Story Prompts: None

Diary Entry: 25^th June, 2005.

Sometimes I ask myself who I really am. Such questions usually come to mind upon waking from a bad dream, when I am completely covered in sweat. Some people would say that such a thought can be unhealthy, and in some cases I can agree with such a notion, but there are times when this question can help you examine where you are at.

For me, it is the bottom of a pit from whence I may never dig myself out of. I have no friends, and feel alone. Some of it is my own doing, while the rest of my own inability to understand others. Human-kind has always been a mystery to me, but of al of our failings it is the willingness to ignore the dark forces that move amongst us, the virus that seeks to destroy the strengths of our people. These are not human, but something dark and evil.

I have watched them tear down our society for years, twisting creativity and innovation for their own ends. These are the Shadow People, the ones that walk between the worlds feasting on the dark emotions of my kind. Some would call them Vampires, but Vampires at least have the good nature to take what they need to survive. The Shadow People have an insatiable appetite, leaving a pile of soul-less husks behind them.

I have seen this and know the truth of it. I have investigated and confirmed it all, but only a few listen. Every day I see more and more victims of the Shadow People and this inability to act against them leaves me feeling inadequate. And yet, I know that if I give in that I will become a prime target for them to gorge upon my soul. I will not open a conduit for them because I know that there has to be somebody out there that will understand and be able to do something about the invaders.

I have to keep going, and yet my faith keeps wavering. I wonder if this is what some people refer to as a crisis of faith. I don’t know how long I can keep it up, but I will try to leave clues just in case I fall to the enemy. I just need to think of a way to go about it without drawing too much attention to myself. I know that they are watching too, so I have to take precautions.

I guess that will be something for another day though, as my body and mind is too weary from the long day at work.

Jayden Carlson

Wings of Terra Book 01 Chapter 1 Draft 1

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The following is the first installment of Wings of Terra, a Science Fiction story with what I hope is an anime feel. The first chapter is very rough, and I will address a LOT of identified problems in the rewrite. These include the wordiness (aka dragging on) of my descriptions, as well as a small amount of info-dumping. There are other problems as well, but I encourage you guys to pick at it and let me know if you spot any strengths or weaknesses in the writing. I look forward to reading your feedback and suggestions.

Dianne

Chapter 1

Project Vista

11:30 PM (GMT +8:00) April 24^th, 2093. Location: Newport Space Station

It was the day of the interview. On the fifteenth floor of the Madison Building thirty young men and women waited for their names to be called out, at which time they hoped to present the reasons why they would make good members of the crew of HMS Terra with the strength of characters and charisma that they envisioned themselves as having. They were the best in their fields, but each longed for the adventure of space exploration, a one in a lifetime experience. Each of them had served no less than a tour of duty in the past five years, had some college under their belts, and no less than two other notable life experiences.

Of all of them only one stood out, a young man with chocolate brown hair and blue eyes, an oddly shaped freckle on his left cheek and pale skin that was the product of excessive time spent on desk duties. He was a rather average young man as far as looks were concerned, but Simon Laskin had some that would put him one step ahead of his competition – creativity. His peers were clones of each other, each with their lives laid out on a flow chart in front of them. Simon wasn’t like them in that regard either, as he saw such ideas as folly and usually based on perfect outcome. In his mind nothing was guaranteed, and success was something to be worked towards not considered a given.

Simon had been sitting in the pale room for just on an hour, waiting for his interview to come up. One by one candidates had been called up, and every time they walked up to the automatic doors of Taylor’s office, he’d looked up at the clock on the wall. By the time that half an hour had passed, he noted that several candidates that had been listed as having appointments after his had started passing through those doors. It irritated him, but the youth had been sure to keep his cool when he’d made an enquiry with the tiny secretary at the desk near the office. She’d just nodded and informed him that his name would be called soon.

For the next fifteen minutes, the young man had watched as others went into that most sacred of offices, the one that would determine whether he would have a future as an officer on-board the HMS Terra, the greatest warship ever to have graced the area of space over Earth. Now that it had been decommissioned, the government had seen fit to carve out its guts to make way for its new role as ambassador to the undiscovered expanse of space beyond the Milky Way. Although Simon found the idea of such a magnificent feat of science being butchered deplorable, he saw the opportunity that Project Vista held, and as such wanted to be a part of it.

Every so often Simon looked over at the older woman at the reception desk, a Spanish woman with long plaids of black that went past the middle of her back. Her hair framed a heart-shaped face which bore soft blue eyes and tiny lips. She looked back at the young man with a warm motherly smile that offered some comfort while he waited. It was this simple gesture that reassured him that he hadn’t been forgotten, and that Taylor would see him in due time.

So, the lad took out the palmbook from his coat pocket and began to go over his notes for Project Vista. He knew the information verbatim, but the process helped occupy his mind. Soon this activity took up so much of his attention that it wasn’t until he felt a tap on his shoulder that he realized that there was only three people in the room: Simon, Rosalind the receptionist, and the imposing figure of Taylor himself.

“Now that the other candidates have left, we can get to the task of signing you up for the program.”

Simon’s mouth went limp with shock, “Wha…?”

The tall European grinned, “I’ll explain it over lunch, Mister Laskin. Get your stuff together and we’ll head upstairs for some food.”

Simon stood up and tried to steady himself. He was trying to wrap his head around what the man was saying. Why on Earth would Taylor and the board give him an automatic pass into the program? As numerous scenarios flashed before his mind, the young man suddenly became suspicious. He wondered in his father had anything to do with this. And if that was the case… well, he didn’t want to think about it.

Taylor looked over at Rosa, who was clearing a desk covered in paperwork accumulated from the afternoon worth of interviews. “Feel like Thai food, Rose?”

Rosalind looked up for a brief moment and smiled back at him, “Sounds good to me, Peter. You want me to order it?”

Taylor shook his head, “No, I’ll message Eddy in a tick. I’ll let you know when it gets here.”

“You’d better, hun, or I’ll use my feminine powers to make you regret it,” Rose replied cheekily.

He nodded just before turning back to the boy, “Hope you’re up for Thai food as well, Simon.”

Simon nodded absently before following the older man whose athletic figure towered over the twenty-two year-old as they moved down the hallway and got into the elevator. Taylor pushed in the coordinates for the topmost level of the Randolf Tower. Simon immediately understood that this was not just a simple one-on-one with Peter Taylor. He was going to meet the guy in charge of the entire operation, the man that he had hoped to avoid, Arnold Youngberry, his grandfather.

Arnold was the father of Simon’s long deceased mother. Last time that the lad saw him, the old man was arguing with his father a few weeks after the funeral. He was eight years old. It was horrific seeing those two imposing figures, so much alike, yelling at each other in his father’s study. He couldn’t hear the words over the shouting, but the body language consisted of violent stabbing motions and clenched fists. At one stage the boy had believed a physical fight might break out between the two men. He was so afraid that he nearly soiled himself.

Simon’s father refused to take him to see Grandpa Arnold after that, much to the boy’s dismay. Grandpa Arnold used to tell him stories about his mother and about his adventures in the Space Marines during those long visits over the holidays. These had given Cherie and Robert some well-needed time together, and a chance for their son to get to know his grandparents. After his mother had died, those experiences were taken away from the boy, and he still didn’t know why.

And now, fourteen years later, Simon had a chance to meet his grandfather. The lad wondered what he might say upon that first meeting, and hoped that it would be better than something that long-estranged characters say in global blockbusters. As he exited the elevator and walked along numerous corridors his hands began to tremble. If Pete noticed, he didn’t show it, something that the new recruit was thankful for.

Finally, the two men reached the main office at the top of the thirtieth floor. On one side of those double doors read “Arnold Youngberry, CEO” and on the other was a hologram of the company logo, a bear holding a globe. Simon stared at it and his heart began to pound harder than it had ever done before. He envisioned this to be one of the defining moments in his career and secretly hoped he could stay professional.

“It’ll be okay, kid!” Taylor said to reassure Simon after the lad had stared at the doors for an unnaturally long time.

Simon came to his senses and asked, “Did my grandfather decide to give me a pass sight unseen?”

Peter chuckled, “No, lad, but he’s been keeping track of you for years. He seems very proud of you, though I’m sure that you both have some catching up to do.”

“I don’t really know what to see to him, you know?”

Pete shook his head, “You’ll think of something. I highly doubt that anything that you’d say in there will make him think any less of you. He’s a good man, your grandpa. Just go in there and have a chat. When the food arrives I’ll send it up to you. Now just go in there and quit thinking of all the unlikely things that could happen in there.”

And with that, Peter Taylor pushed the boy through the double doors, leaving Simon Laskin some well-needed time with his grandpa and the promise of Thai food that would arrive twenty minutes. Questions would be answered and the new recruit would learn that there was a lot more riding on this mission than exploration. The crew would need to develop diplomatic ties with another sentient species that had only recently contacted by the company.

Freewrite (90 minutes): 09-04-2009 #1

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Date: 09/04/2009

Start time: 2:00 PM (90 mins)

Subject: None

Visuals: None

Audio: A Posteriori (album) by Enigma

Story Prompts: None

“The operation has been a success General MacCallister. Your daughter has been put back under while she sleeps off the after-effects of the procedure, but my colleagues and I expect her to make a complete recovery,” the albino surgeon said to the uniformed older man who stared down at his daughter’s body that still lay upon the operating table.

“Were there any complications?” the senior officer said.

Doctor Baxter shook his head, “None that I am aware of, Sir. The operation a lot easier due to the chemicals we developed. If you hadn’t spoken to the committee about that funding increase your daughter might not be so lucky.”

“And what of the graft?” the General said as he touched the cool glass in front of him.

Baxter raised an eyebrow, “I’m not sure what you mean, If you are wondering whether she’ll take on any of the side-effects of our other subjects, then I am not sure. If all else fails though, we can operate again to remove them from the equation.”

The General nodded and took in a long, deep breath. It had been a difficult choice to risk his daughter like this, but it was the only chance that he had at her surviving the immense trauma of the accident. It was something that he knew would bite him on the ass again in the near future, but Bronte was his only child and the only remnant of his now-deceased wife, Lorelei.

And what had he risked to give his precious Bronte a chance at life? It was the top secret grafting of alien DNA onto a human subject, all in the hopes of creating a more resilient soldier – one that could heal rapidly, was fast as hell and capable of flying across the battlefield towards their goal. Their bodies would be stronger and more agile than their none-enhanced peers as well, making the end product of the experiments a huge commodity.

Barrett McCallister had been a surrogate leader of the operation for just on ten years now and he understood the risks, but it was the typical regeneration of test subjects that he hoped would pass on to his daughter so that her body could regrow the limbs that she’d lost in the plane crash. He wanted to give his daughter a normal life and this was the only way to give it to a daughter that he’d neglected in his many years of military service.

As for the risks, well he was willing to pay the price for using Operation Celestia to give her the chance at that normal life. It would likely have him sent to military prison, but as long as he managed to transport her out before the higher-ups got wind of it, he’d be happy. He hoped that things would never end that way, but he had to prepare for the worst.

As the bio-suited medical officers lead his now domed daughter out of the operating room he considered the calls that he would need to make and the favours he would pay in return for Bronte’s safety. It was going to be a bumpy ride.

***

When Bronte woke up eight hours later, her head was aching and her body felt wrong. She sat up and looked at her body and noticed the abnormal silver tinge to her left arm and both legs. She touched her face absently and the skin was cold to the touch. Noticing for the first time that she was on a hospital bed and enveloped by an enormous plastic quarantine bubble, flashes from the crash started coming back to her.

Glen sat in the window seat next to her chewing a small bag of courtesy peanuts. There’d been a conversation to their companion, Sue, who sat on the other side of her. They’d been happy, or at least as happy as one can be whilst flying in economy class of a Durante Airlines flight. Then the plane shook and the captain had told the passengers to buckle up due to poor weather conditions. Almost as soon as she’d readied to secure herself, the lights went out in the cabin and the plane suddenly lost altitude, sending many of the passengers into the air or into the aisles.

She remembered the plane spiralling down into oblivion and the screams of her friends and fellow passengers as they came to the realization that they were at death’s door. The descent seemed to take forever, but it ended with a huge wave of bodies. She’d been calm enough to assume the position suggested for such a scenario, with torso held tight around legs. Having failed to buckle up in time, her friends were lying bleeding and unconscious in the aisle. The plane creaked eerily and lurched forward as its previous position atop a mountain became tenuous.

Then things went from one stage of bad to the next, and the heavily cracking hull of the plane began to go over the side. There weren’t many screams this time around, as most of the other passengers were either unconscious or dead. As the plane impacted for the second time, fate would see it fit to remove both of Bronte’s legs and her left arm. Her face would be shattered in many places on one side as well. As she went unconscious she recalled seeing the dismembered parts of her body lying nearby split seconds before she went unconscious.

And here she was, in some hospital bed covered in an enormous bubble. She lifted her left arm and studied it. That metallic-looking limb seemed alien to her, but she considered the thought to be merely a post-reattachment side effect. She put it down to the after-effects of drugs used during whichever procedures had been performed on her.

Bronte saw the symbols stating that she was in her father’s workplace and this gave rise several questions that would inevitably lead to other questions somewhere down the line.

First was the question of whether her two friends had survived the crash. She’d seen them be flung around by the accident, but believed that there was a chance they’d survived, even if remote. She hoped above all hopes that they were okay wherever they were.

Secondly, she tried to consider where her father might be within the facility. Not having a clue as to his role in the hierarchy, Bronte realized that she knew next to nothing about her father. It annoyed the college student that she’d managed to fall so out of touch with her dad after her mother died of cancer.

Thirdly, she wondered how long she’d been down for. It must have been a while if she was able to use her reattached limbs. She’d seen enough medical shows on the subject and believed herself to have at least some idea on how long it might take to regain use of said limb. By her best estimation, it would take no less than two weeks to regain full use of her legs and arms.

Bronte McCallister looked at her legs and tried to look for scars. Seeing none, she thought that this might simply be the expert work of a master surgeon. The silver skin though, well she thought that this might simply be another of the side effects.

All of Bronte’s attempts to convince herself that this was just another day at the hospital would be short-lived when several men wearing uniforms and carrying rifles burst into her room. Each of these soldiers had their guns pointed at her, whilst an unseen officer called the shots at the back. She recognized his voice as Colonel Max Krueger.

The sight of these men aiming the barrels of their assault weapons at her was enough for the previously calm woman on the hospital bed to go pale in fear. Her mind went black and her hands began to tremble. Unlike the plane crash, Bronte’s heart began to race and she became short of breath. Bronte was now dealing with real live people, and this increased her stress levels a hundredfold. Bronte was now dealing with real live people, and this increased her stress levels a hundredfold, resulting in the first anxiety attack that she’d had in just on two years.

Max stepped forward, between two of his gun-wielding underlings. “Bronte McCallister, I have been ordered to contain you until the appropriate transport arrives. If you resist such actions, we will shoot you, comprende?”

She collapsed and coiled up on the floor as those words tipped her over the edge. The soldiers were unsure of what to do and so began the whispering as they wondered what was going on. For Bronte, the anxiety attack was worse than any that she’d ever experienced. Down in the foetal position she thought of how the military would torture and kill her.

Soon after that, gunfire broke out, and with a simple wave of the hand Max sent the guards out to see what the threat was, for there was no sign that Bronte would resist. The troops within the room went to see what was going on down the hallway, leaving only Max guarding her with sidearm ready for action should the need arise.

To be continued…