“So what’s the guy’s name?”
“Halcyon.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, that’s what the dossier says.”
“Weird name for an assassin. He work alone?”
“No. Two accomplices, Rose and Levity.”
“Holy crow, this guy is expensive.”
“One of the best, so they say.”
“Damn well better be.”
“Get this, even Arkham is afraid of the guy.”
“Arkham? Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Right then. Put in the call. Damn, I can’t even imagine what kinda sick fuck this guy must be to put a whack job like Arkham on edge.”
Elsewhere a young girl with crimson hair smiles as she pours tea for her guests. Sunlight streams in from a multitude of large, airy windows and causes her pigtails to flash. A large, vulpine creature basks lazily in a bay window. Sitting across from the young girl in a chair entirely too small for his frame is a youthful man with gleaming silver eyes. His knees are up near his chin and a saucer and cup balance precariously upon them. Something chimes in an adjoining room. “Excuse me, Miss Rose, may I get that?”
Rose clicks her tongue against her teeth, “Now Mister Halcyon, you know it’s rude to leave in the middle of a tea party.”
Halcyon smiles easily, “But Miss Rose, it could be important.”
She delicately sets the teapot down on the table and cocks her head to the side. “More important than being polite, Mister Halcyon? Look at Mister Darius here.” she gestures to a threadbare stuffed bear in an ill fitting top hat and vest, “He’s a minister of finance with many important obligations and meetings, and he understands the proper protocol for a tea party.”
“But Rose…”
“Or what about Mister Alfonz?” Here she indicates the stuffed crab sitting across the table from Darius the bear. It is bright yellow, possesses a comedic handlebar mustache and is missing an eye. “A diplomat of his caliber has many pressing engagements and he would never dream of interrupting a tea party.”
“Rose I…”
She narrows her eyes and strides around the table, her paisley sundress swishing briskly about her slender calves, “I do not appreciate your informal tone, Mister Halcyon.” Halcyon stares impassively ahead as Rose grabs his arm leans in close to his ear. She whispers fiercely, “Knock it off, Halcyon! You're embarrassing me in front of my guests! I know you know better.” Her breath smells like ginger snaps.
Halcyon rolls his eyes and sighs, “Sorry Miss Rose.”
“Smile.” Halcyon rolls the corners of his mouth up so far that he’s squinting. “Good.” In a flash Rose is back around the table, her tiny features once again open in the beatific expression of a happy child. The chiming stops coming from the other room. Halcyon sighs through his teeth.
Levity had opened an eye and nonchalantly watched the whole affair. Now that the drama appears to be over he rolls onto his back letting all four of his paws dangle in the air. The warm light feels good on his belly. He smirks as only an animal can and contentedly closes his eyes. Halcyon glares at him then looks at his cup. “May I please have some more tea and another cucumber sandwich, Miss Rose?” His is the resigned tone of a man trapped.
“Of course Mister Halcyon. It would be my pleasure.” Rose curtsies and retrieves the teapot.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A note concerning psychotic breaks
“Let me ask you a question, lieutenant: Do you think I’m crazy?” Omni-directional lighting blasted all traces of shadow from the steel room. Arkham sat down on the corner of the table and brought his face closer to Lt. Rex’s by leaning forward. “I’m not, you know, but Command thinks I am. Psychotic break from reality they say. Totally not true, though. Just ask Mr. Nod.” Arkham gestured to an empty corner. “Post traumatic stress they say. Plane I was on went down a month or so ago. Uncharted territory, everyone else died except for Mr. Nod and me. Well, Mr. Nod wasn’t part of our group, he found me later. Saved my life.” Arkham stood up and walked around the table while he spoke. He headed over to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of water. “Water Lieutenant? No? That’s all right. You know, I could get you a more comfortable seat, even a change of clothes if you’d just co-operate and answer our questions.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” Rex pressed his back to the chair and continued to work his right hand against the cuffs. A few more minutes of work and he could likely get the hand free without losing too much skin.
“Yes, we’re well aware of your current position on co-operation.” Arkham sipped from his glass. “Ok, I’ve got another question,” Arkham set his glass down, “have you ever seen an eye like this?” He removed his visor and gestured to his left eye. The iris was a bright golden color and highly reflective. “It changed into this at some point after the crash but before I was found. Mr. Nod says it’s a good omen, Command thinks it’s a traumatic mutation. Silly theory, eh? As if high stress could induce a physiological change of this type.” Arkham drew his left arm across his chest and tucked his hand under his right elbow. He tapped the visor he held in his right hand against his temple. “They think I’ve cracked under the stress of my ordeal. I know what you’re thinking, ‘if he’s broken then why hasn’t he been discharged?’ Well, Lieutenant, it’s because I’m very good at my job. And my job, as you may have surmised, is getting people to co-operate that may not be inclined to do so.” He moved over to a cabinet set against the wall. Using a key from his belt, Arkham removed the lock and opened the doors. Rows of glittering tools filled the interior. Based on the contents alone, it would be difficult to tell if the cabinet belonged in a machinist’s workshop or a surgical suite. “I’ve never really enjoyed my job Lieutenant. At times it can even be quite tedious.” Rex continued to focus on Arkham and did his best to make his struggle against his bonds as surreptitious as possible. “Mind you, I still get it done. Fortunately for both of us, with the arrival of Mr. Nod I find that I have an alternative. You see, Mr. Nod is very good at bringing people around to my point of view. It makes my job so much easier. So, why don’t you talk things over with him, see if you don’t change your mind.” Arkham reached the door with a few long strides, but paused and turned back to look at Lt. Rex. “Don’t try anything silly, Lieutenant, I’ll be watching.” He tapped the skin under his golden eye. The eye seemed to grow impossibly bright and a tingle rushed across Rex’s skin. Something smelled like it was burning. The recorder on the table leaked thin tendrils of acrid smoke. Rex also noticed that the telltales on the video cameras had all shut off. “Take your time Mr. Nod.” Arkham left the room and shut the door behind him with the faintest of clicks.
“It’s now or never,” thought Rex. He compressed the bones in his right hand and jerked hard against the cuffs. His hand made it halfway out. He flinched against the popping sound and tried to work some of the blood from his freshly torn skin between the cuff and his hand. A second tug freed his hand. He stood and looked around the room. His eyes alighted on the cabinet and he headed over to search for a weapon. The door swung shut when he was halfway there. Rex thought he could make out motion from the corner of his eye, but couldn’t see anyone else in the room. He took another step towards the cabinet and was knocked clear across the room by an unseen blow. His vision blurred when his head hit the wall. He sagged forward onto his knees and could make out a fuzzy outline of something coming towards him. There was something else in the room. Panic seized his chest and made his breathing erratic. His fingernails scraped against the steel floor as he tried to push back through the wall. The lock was clicked into place on the tool cabinet. Lieutenant Rex screamed.
Mr. Nod didn’t need any tools and, unlike Arkham, very much enjoyed his work.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Rex pressed his back to the chair and continued to work his right hand against the cuffs. A few more minutes of work and he could likely get the hand free without losing too much skin.
“Yes, we’re well aware of your current position on co-operation.” Arkham sipped from his glass. “Ok, I’ve got another question,” Arkham set his glass down, “have you ever seen an eye like this?” He removed his visor and gestured to his left eye. The iris was a bright golden color and highly reflective. “It changed into this at some point after the crash but before I was found. Mr. Nod says it’s a good omen, Command thinks it’s a traumatic mutation. Silly theory, eh? As if high stress could induce a physiological change of this type.” Arkham drew his left arm across his chest and tucked his hand under his right elbow. He tapped the visor he held in his right hand against his temple. “They think I’ve cracked under the stress of my ordeal. I know what you’re thinking, ‘if he’s broken then why hasn’t he been discharged?’ Well, Lieutenant, it’s because I’m very good at my job. And my job, as you may have surmised, is getting people to co-operate that may not be inclined to do so.” He moved over to a cabinet set against the wall. Using a key from his belt, Arkham removed the lock and opened the doors. Rows of glittering tools filled the interior. Based on the contents alone, it would be difficult to tell if the cabinet belonged in a machinist’s workshop or a surgical suite. “I’ve never really enjoyed my job Lieutenant. At times it can even be quite tedious.” Rex continued to focus on Arkham and did his best to make his struggle against his bonds as surreptitious as possible. “Mind you, I still get it done. Fortunately for both of us, with the arrival of Mr. Nod I find that I have an alternative. You see, Mr. Nod is very good at bringing people around to my point of view. It makes my job so much easier. So, why don’t you talk things over with him, see if you don’t change your mind.” Arkham reached the door with a few long strides, but paused and turned back to look at Lt. Rex. “Don’t try anything silly, Lieutenant, I’ll be watching.” He tapped the skin under his golden eye. The eye seemed to grow impossibly bright and a tingle rushed across Rex’s skin. Something smelled like it was burning. The recorder on the table leaked thin tendrils of acrid smoke. Rex also noticed that the telltales on the video cameras had all shut off. “Take your time Mr. Nod.” Arkham left the room and shut the door behind him with the faintest of clicks.
“It’s now or never,” thought Rex. He compressed the bones in his right hand and jerked hard against the cuffs. His hand made it halfway out. He flinched against the popping sound and tried to work some of the blood from his freshly torn skin between the cuff and his hand. A second tug freed his hand. He stood and looked around the room. His eyes alighted on the cabinet and he headed over to search for a weapon. The door swung shut when he was halfway there. Rex thought he could make out motion from the corner of his eye, but couldn’t see anyone else in the room. He took another step towards the cabinet and was knocked clear across the room by an unseen blow. His vision blurred when his head hit the wall. He sagged forward onto his knees and could make out a fuzzy outline of something coming towards him. There was something else in the room. Panic seized his chest and made his breathing erratic. His fingernails scraped against the steel floor as he tried to push back through the wall. The lock was clicked into place on the tool cabinet. Lieutenant Rex screamed.
Mr. Nod didn’t need any tools and, unlike Arkham, very much enjoyed his work.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A note concerning art thieves
“Sam, explain something to me: You are the greatest art thief the world has ever known…”
“Says you.”
“You have had in your possession items worth millions of dollars…”
“Says you.”
“And yet you live in squalor…”
“Says you.”
“Why is this? Do you pay attention to the media? All the big art thieves are rich and handsome and have titles and gobs of money. You have a tiny one and a half room flat with ‘furniture’ actually made from take-out boxes.”
“I’m a barber’s son. Doesn’t usually come with a title and my mum still lives in the house.”
“Besides the point. You’re an art thief, you’re poor, and I’m the only one who knows either of those things.”
“You know I don’t do it for the money. Never have, the only reason I steal ‘em is because putting ‘em back is fun.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…”
“Gill, this is a hobby, if I did it as a job, it wouldn’t be fun anymore. ‘Sides, I’ve already got a job.”
“You work at the Chicken Deluxe. You clean grease traps and frialators.”
“A hard day’s work. How can you even expect me to make money as a thief? Do you know anyone who’d buy the Mona Lisa? It’s sitting over there right now and it’s got a sheet over it ‘cause it creeps me out. She looks slightly concussed, even if someone was willing to pay for it, who’d actually want something like that?”
“Are you serious? The Mona Lisa is over there, in the corner, with a sheet and a pair of likely dirty knickers draped over?”
“I’m always serious Gill.”
“There’s something wrong with this picture, Sam.”
“That’s what I was just saying. Glad you agree.”
“You amaze me, Sam.”
“I’m an amazing guy. Hey Gill?”
“Yeah Sam?”
“Can I have thirty quid?”
“Says you.”
“You have had in your possession items worth millions of dollars…”
“Says you.”
“And yet you live in squalor…”
“Says you.”
“Why is this? Do you pay attention to the media? All the big art thieves are rich and handsome and have titles and gobs of money. You have a tiny one and a half room flat with ‘furniture’ actually made from take-out boxes.”
“I’m a barber’s son. Doesn’t usually come with a title and my mum still lives in the house.”
“Besides the point. You’re an art thief, you’re poor, and I’m the only one who knows either of those things.”
“You know I don’t do it for the money. Never have, the only reason I steal ‘em is because putting ‘em back is fun.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…”
“Gill, this is a hobby, if I did it as a job, it wouldn’t be fun anymore. ‘Sides, I’ve already got a job.”
“You work at the Chicken Deluxe. You clean grease traps and frialators.”
“A hard day’s work. How can you even expect me to make money as a thief? Do you know anyone who’d buy the Mona Lisa? It’s sitting over there right now and it’s got a sheet over it ‘cause it creeps me out. She looks slightly concussed, even if someone was willing to pay for it, who’d actually want something like that?”
“Are you serious? The Mona Lisa is over there, in the corner, with a sheet and a pair of likely dirty knickers draped over?”
“I’m always serious Gill.”
“There’s something wrong with this picture, Sam.”
“That’s what I was just saying. Glad you agree.”
“You amaze me, Sam.”
“I’m an amazing guy. Hey Gill?”
“Yeah Sam?”
“Can I have thirty quid?”
Friday, August 15, 2008
A note concerning angels
The angel in the dirty T-shirt waited. Neither the light drizzle nor the gazes of the mourners fell upon him. The service was brief and somewhat cookie cutter as far as such things went. As the mourners dispersed and filtered past, the angel deftly plucked a very poisonous and highly agitated spider from the collar of a young boy. He set the spider down on a tree limb and it bit him for his trouble. The angel walked over to the casket and pulled a white carnation from a wreath. With an easy motion he levered the coffin open with one hand, then stooped to peer inside. Mary blinked at him, realized he was offering a hand up, and took it out of habit. The angel clapped a warm hand to her shoulder. She looked from the angel to her body lying in state and back. Confusion wrinkled her features and the beginning of a question parted her lips. The angel smiled with his eyes and his mouth, an expression more genuine than any Mary could remember, gently laid a finer across her lips, and offered her the flower. She took it, inhaled deeply, and felt much better. The angel in the dirty T-shirt offered his arm, which she took, and the two walked off together, arms interlocked. The coffin clicked shut.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
A note concerning swords
The sword could easily be described as sinister. Five feet long, single edged with a slight curve in the eastern style, its blade was forged of a metal black like a beetle’s shell. The guard and pommel cap were crafted from pristine bone, delicate and ivory in color, and the grip wrapped in smooth leather the creamy white of a maiden’s skin. A menacing blade indeed. Beside it was an exquisite scabbard, fashioned from the same fine bone as the guard and pommel. Linked to the scabbard by a slender chain was a jade and shell comb. If such a sword were to make a sound, one would expect the gnashing of demons or the lamentations of its victims, certainly not the whimpering pain and broken sobs of a young woman. At the time, the blade and its scabbard lay upon a woman’s colorful festival kimono, which was also at odds with the weapon’s apparent demeanor.
The warrior pulled out a battered flute and clean, bright notes filled the night air. The tune was poignant, defined by the carefree and idyllic character of youth. It was a song written by the only son of a village smith for the youngest daughter of the apothecary. Though the warrior played with a practiced ease, the song lost nothing in the playing. As the last notes reverberated through the air the crying from the blade had ceased.
The warrior pulled out a battered flute and clean, bright notes filled the night air. The tune was poignant, defined by the carefree and idyllic character of youth. It was a song written by the only son of a village smith for the youngest daughter of the apothecary. Though the warrior played with a practiced ease, the song lost nothing in the playing. As the last notes reverberated through the air the crying from the blade had ceased.
A note concerning literal mindedness
“Get down. You’re being disrespectful.” This was said to the lanky man perched atop the gravestone. He cocked his head to the side, poised like a curious bird.
“Disrespectful to whom? I don’t think…” he peered between his toes, lips moving slightly as he read, “Joseph Tawson, loving husband and father, is in much of a position to care.”
The lanky man’s companion, a large man with a strong brow, strong chin, and a generally brutish build pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know I was not referring to Mr. Tawson. These are for the living.”
The smaller of the two men craned his head around to look at the neighboring marker. “Well, it seems like Mrs. Tawson is sharing the same real estate, so no harm there, eh?”
“Humor me, Zagan.” Zagan lithely hopped to the ground and easily matched step with the other. The two walked and everything was quiet save for the wind in the trees. Zagan noisily retrieved a wax paper bag from a worn pocket.
“Right, you’re so smart, Ronove, tell me this: Why do these people do this anyway?” He made an inclusive gesture with a pretzel retrieved from the bag.
“The memorials help the living to cope, it would seem…”
Zagan cut him off in a spray of crumbs, “No, that makes sense. I mean putting the bodies in the ground.”
“It’s all part of the process.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t work. I mean, look at what else they put in the ground: seeds and things they don’t want to be seen or found. The latter is excluded because it would defeat the whole purpose of a memorial, and the former doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what do they think could possibly grow from a corpse?”
Ronove thrust his hands into his pockets as if he were throttling an assailant. “Read some of the literature for once. It’s all in there. Dust to dust, and that sort of thing. It’s cyclical. Plus it’s part of the process for some of them depending on the faith. Besides, no one appreciates your literal mindedness. Planting the bodies like seeds? No one thinks like that, you’re being inane.”
“Inane? Please, try inquisitive,” Zagan shook his head, “Pretzel? No? Bah. No one makes pretzels like the guy on Brook Street. That’s the whole reason we came out here.”
“Maybe you. We should get back.” The two stood in tableau: ogre-like Ronove making a peculiar gesture with one massive hand and slender Zagan messily whistling out of key amidst a growing pile of crumbs. They stood for awhile and, much like time, they eventually went.
It came to pass three weeks later that a tree was found growing from the grave of one Joseph Tawson. Its smooth bark was a pale peach color and its leaves a vibrant crimson. It bore a curious fruit of a half dozen shiny pink babies, each hanging from their belly buttons by a slender stem. No one found the incident to be very humorous except for Zagan who, though severely disciplined by his superior, felt the whole thing was worth it in the end.
“Disrespectful to whom? I don’t think…” he peered between his toes, lips moving slightly as he read, “Joseph Tawson, loving husband and father, is in much of a position to care.”
The lanky man’s companion, a large man with a strong brow, strong chin, and a generally brutish build pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know I was not referring to Mr. Tawson. These are for the living.”
The smaller of the two men craned his head around to look at the neighboring marker. “Well, it seems like Mrs. Tawson is sharing the same real estate, so no harm there, eh?”
“Humor me, Zagan.” Zagan lithely hopped to the ground and easily matched step with the other. The two walked and everything was quiet save for the wind in the trees. Zagan noisily retrieved a wax paper bag from a worn pocket.
“Right, you’re so smart, Ronove, tell me this: Why do these people do this anyway?” He made an inclusive gesture with a pretzel retrieved from the bag.
“The memorials help the living to cope, it would seem…”
Zagan cut him off in a spray of crumbs, “No, that makes sense. I mean putting the bodies in the ground.”
“It’s all part of the process.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t work. I mean, look at what else they put in the ground: seeds and things they don’t want to be seen or found. The latter is excluded because it would defeat the whole purpose of a memorial, and the former doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what do they think could possibly grow from a corpse?”
Ronove thrust his hands into his pockets as if he were throttling an assailant. “Read some of the literature for once. It’s all in there. Dust to dust, and that sort of thing. It’s cyclical. Plus it’s part of the process for some of them depending on the faith. Besides, no one appreciates your literal mindedness. Planting the bodies like seeds? No one thinks like that, you’re being inane.”
“Inane? Please, try inquisitive,” Zagan shook his head, “Pretzel? No? Bah. No one makes pretzels like the guy on Brook Street. That’s the whole reason we came out here.”
“Maybe you. We should get back.” The two stood in tableau: ogre-like Ronove making a peculiar gesture with one massive hand and slender Zagan messily whistling out of key amidst a growing pile of crumbs. They stood for awhile and, much like time, they eventually went.
It came to pass three weeks later that a tree was found growing from the grave of one Joseph Tawson. Its smooth bark was a pale peach color and its leaves a vibrant crimson. It bore a curious fruit of a half dozen shiny pink babies, each hanging from their belly buttons by a slender stem. No one found the incident to be very humorous except for Zagan who, though severely disciplined by his superior, felt the whole thing was worth it in the end.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
A note concerning Silk
Mercurial Silk leans forward with one arm resting upon the battlement. As he gazes out over the quiet harbor, he uses his other hand to effortlessly fold small origami lotuses. After each flower is completed he relinquishes it to the breeze blowing off of the bay. Freshly spilt blood still steams on his skin in the cool air. Turning his gaze from the sea to the origami, he smiles slightly as he muses, "Hmmm, my hands are staining the flowers red...perhaps I should be making poppies instead of lotuses." He releases his most recent creation and then runs his hands through his hair, cleaning the remaining blood off before returning his paper into a slender, lacquered case. "Hello. Is there something I can do for you?"
“Thrice-Damned Silk. I doubt you’ll be courteous enough to turn yourself in quietly?” says the steel-eyed man as he steps around the corpses.
He gently sets the case down and turns to look at the person stepping out onto the battlement behind him, “Have you come to play? I was hoping for more sport from this purported city of warriors. I have thus far been very disappointed.”
“This is not a game. I will stop you before the sun next rises.”
Silk stretches out his arms, interlaces his fingers over his head and arches his back. “Oh this promises to be such fun. Please don’t let me down.” His eyes gleam brightly between blood caked lashes.
“Thrice-Damned Silk. I doubt you’ll be courteous enough to turn yourself in quietly?” says the steel-eyed man as he steps around the corpses.
He gently sets the case down and turns to look at the person stepping out onto the battlement behind him, “Have you come to play? I was hoping for more sport from this purported city of warriors. I have thus far been very disappointed.”
“This is not a game. I will stop you before the sun next rises.”
Silk stretches out his arms, interlaces his fingers over his head and arches his back. “Oh this promises to be such fun. Please don’t let me down.” His eyes gleam brightly between blood caked lashes.
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