My brain feels like a cotton ball that’s been left floating in a cup of luke-warm tea- soggy, and poorly caffeinated.
I’m pushing the three story prompts around my plate like broccoli, but I am working on them and will finish them this week.
But today …today I don’t wanna do nothin’.
Blech.
This picture is nice, though.
Sorry that I didn’t deliver last week — so as a way of apology, I’ll write a short piece about all three Story Demands from last week. It may take me most of the week to deliver, but consider it a promise.
The Lodestar
The Vagabonder looked up from his work. It was rare something could distract him, pull him from the pure world of his research — but the sound Izus was making was unsettling.
The villain was crying. A quiet murmur that wound its way around the regular sounds and rhythms of the engine room.
Silo and Jump looked up from the corner of the bay, where they were studiously scrubbing a patch of fungus that had sprung up from a long forgotten crate of mushrooms.
“What’s that guy’s deal?” Silo asked, Jump only shrugged.
“It’s the sound of a man giving up.” Martin said, from the stairs. “When there’s no chance of coming back, and it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks anymore – you’re alone in the dark. That’s the sound you make. I know, I’ve made it myself more than a few times.”
“It’s the breaking sound before you die.” the ranger struck a match, and set fire to the bowl of his pipe.
Kythera – The Circle of Silver
Haskeer fought off the waves of exhaustion and revulsion emanating from the medallion, and led the others northward. They heard sounds of Seafoam patrols, but for now they seemed to be mostly to the south. As unerring as a compass he walked through the streets — his need, and the need of the dark Precursor spirit the same. To find the light, to find direction — to find their lodestar.
Haskeer led them to a strange open area on the northern edge of the city — a few structures dotted the green lawn, but the greatest oddity lay in the center. A massive ring, as tall as a man, and as thick as an aurochs – gleaming, unmarked silver, suspended three feet off the ground. As stable as a rock in a stream.
And then, there she was.
She darted from one of the small buildings, still wearing the gray smock that she had been abducted in. Talitha ran directly into Haskeer’s open arms, crowing with delight. The others gathered around, and for a moment all was well.
Talitha looked at the others, and wrinkled her nose slightly.
“Where’s Gloompa?”
“Who’s Gloompa?” a gravel-voice called from the shadows of the building. The orange-skinned tiefling Sideways leaned out, and gave a half-wave.
Kythera – The President’s Garden
The President’s right hand twisted and pulled out the rogue’s heart. Corben watched with fascination as it continued to beat frantically, square crystals of ice forming around it, in Jaiden’s candle-white hands.
It was kind of beautiful.
Corben blinked, and his heart was still in his chest.
Jaiden’s black eyes. Black on white on black on white.
“Because you’re still useful as bait.”
Yeah. Proud of that.
Other people’s grief has always made me deeply uncomfortable. Averting my eyes, and scurrying out of the area as quickly as possible.
Grief was this grey-jacket loomer, an insurance salesman with faded hat — pushing his pamphlets, with a concrete-block hand flopped on his customer’s shoulder.
Seeing their eyes, their tears, the megaton-emotion radiating — I accelerate and ghost out of the room. Relieved and glad as the sun and wind found me on the outside, and away.
But then, one day for all of us — the knock at the door.
Grief slides in through the keyhole, looking for a place to hang its hat and dripping rain on the linoleum. It smiles a greasy smile and guides you to a chair, water and paper spattering on the kitchen table.
Now it’s your grief.
Now it’s my grief.
He visits each of us in turn. Sometimes rarely, sometime with pop tart regularity — sometimes he moves right in, propping his big rubber shoes on the ottoman, ruining the fabric with rain, and stays and stays. A few find a way to love their Grief, holding him close in the fish-clammy darkness of their beds.
Grief is a devoted husband.
Grief will break you, if you let him. Gum you slowly into oblivion, catfish jaws working and dripping dripping dripping.
My Grief is mine. If I try to explain what brought him to my door, you will nod and seem to understand — but you won’t. Just like I won’t understand if you tell me about your grey-fish insurance man. We all lose souls, and only the client knows what brings the pamphlet-pusher.
All I want to say, as I get heavier with rain and concrete — is that I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I ran out of the room when your Grief came to call.
And some advice, that a very wise friend once gave me. The Three Rules of Grief.
Every day you must:
1. Take a shower.
2. Eat.
3. Go to work.
That’s it. That’s all you should ask of yourself. If you do those three things you can feel as bad as you want, for as long as you want. If you don’t do those three things, you will follow them down into the grave.
If you need to break the rules, you will. That’s okay – it’s the Fourth Rule.
Handle it as you can, when you can – and recognize that you’ll sometimes snicker, or sing a song, or smile in the sun – and your Grief will sigh, and look very importantly at you over his glasses. And you’ll feel like you should cry a little harder to make up for forgetting that he was in the room.
Don’t.
spell-sword.com 