The Twister

I have heard tales of the old ones, who came from the darkness between the stars and ruled before the concept of light could even be understood, and died long before man took its first steps. I know of their worshippers who, even to this day, devise ritual after ritual to give strength to their lost gods, to bring them back. I know of their minions, who still cling to the shadows, stroking the madness that lies at the edge of our collective unconsciousness.

But the Twister is not one of them.

I have heard of the gods, who were there when humanity took its first steps. Tall and proud, these dieties proved that gods were as fallable as the humanity they served, as impractical and unpredictable. They threw mountains, waged war, and committed terrible acts of genocide, and their subjects worshipped, feared, and mocked them. They were driven into the nothingness by the stubbornness of mankind, which insisted that gods had to be beyond understanding, beyond fallability. Some of them still lurk among mankind, with a fraction of their power and almost no followers. They wait for the day when they will be needed again, when humanity will need them. That day may never come.

But the Twister is not one of them either.

I'm not sure what he is, really. Even as I sit in his lair. He is almost human, ten feet tall and skeletal. He is wearing a suit, though I have no idea why, and he avoids eye contact. He has long black hair and wears a talk thin wrinkled hat over it. He seems to have fallen straight from the eighteenth century, though I know he was around before then. There are rumors about him that come from the roman times, stories that attempt to make him into something understandable. They attempted to make him a god, or a demon, but he is neither. He's something greater than the dieties, and something less than the old ones. And he's sitting across from, looking nervous.

"I need your help," he finally says. His voice is harsh, ancient. He draws the words out, hissing and grunting. I don't know what I'm supposed to say, so I say nothing. He stares off into the shadows, shifts, and gives me a quick glance. "I have heard you know of the dreams."

The dreams. It's an ominous declaration, to be sure. Several of my patients had mentioned them six months back. Each dream was unique, but they were connected. Elements seemed to coexist in the subconsciousness of my patients. Of course, they couldn't see it. They hadn't been told the same tale six times from different points of view.

It starts with a series of flashes, every where in the night sky. The stars exploding one by one, or just explosions. Then streaks of falling light, as if the heavens were burning and falling to earth. Then the darkness. Heavy breathing, and a man with a guitar walking down the street. The buildings around him are turning to ash, and people are jumping out of the windows to avoid turning to ash as well. Behind the man, more darkness, and things creeping and crawling, clicking and growling. The ash covers the globe, reducing the green to gray. And then golden birds fall down to the earth. They land on this barren world and they are pleased.

I had written a paper on it, which my colleagues didn't believe. Looking at the Twister, I had the odd feeling that he did.

"Are you dreaming as well?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. No." He coughed deeply, bending over in his chair, then stared at me for the first time. His eyes were black, swollen. "I'm dying."

Zendel

Cassius' shop was in its usual state of repair, but for once wasn't quite empty of customers. A gentlemen dwarf was assembling something that could, possibly, have been a weapon. It looked like an oversize pipe, covered in runes, with a pistol-grip handle, and six runestones along its side. The top was lined with a pair of flat metal plates, each decorated with dwarven text. The dwarf seemed pleased. Cassius looked like a proud parent.

At the sound of the door jingle, both of them glanced up at me, my presence shattering the mood. The dwarf nodded his thanks at Cassius, mumbled something quietly, and wrapped the item in some rough-knit gray cloth. The package safely tucked under his arm, he gave me half a nod as he stepped past me out through the door. Cassius continued to smile as he cleaned up the paperwork from the sale.

I took the moment to remove my hat and rub my arm across my forehead. It was blistering out there.

"What's on your mind, Greyson?" Cassius asked as I slowly made my way down the steps.

I rubbed my cheek, then tossed my hat on the counter. "I just came to say you were right."

"Great!" Cassius proclaimed, snapping shut the leather suitcase and tucking it out of sight somewhere behind the counter. "About what?"

"The assassin," I said. "Just an elf with a toy, nothing more."

"Yeah, I figured as much," He said without coming up. "No one can simply teleport. It's just not the way the world works."

"But here's the part where I get confused, Cash," I said. "In that Theo Jungle there are recorded, documented sightings of a flickering monkey. It's able to warp from location to location, exactly like our elf."

"Yep. The Flickering Monkey, Shade Deer, Kennans, and Yurin Sponge are all teleporters," He said, standing again. He was covered in dust.

"What were you doing down there?" I asked, worried about derailing the conversation, but at the same baffled to the point of curiousity.

He nodded towards the door, grinning. "The dwarf was a preferred customer. Lots of paperwork that needs to be kept hidden." He grabbed a rag and used it to rub clean his hands, either unaware of the dust on his face, or unconcerned. "But let's not get off track," He said, gesturing. "What's your question?"

"How come animals can teleport, but the sentient races can't?"

He grinned. "Have you heard of the Zendel?" I shook my head. "They were a race that lived on South Liena, back when that area was largely unclaimed wilderness. They actually fought with the Zanti, back in the day."

The Zanti were a dead race, reaching their prime before humans set foot on South Liena. Before the dwarves, even. I whistled. "That's surprising. I thought the Zanti basically had run of the continent."

"Of the habitable continent, yeah," Cash said. "But South Liena was and is still mostly a jungle. Too dangerous for large scale habitation. The Zendel live at the edge of the forest, and like your flickering monkey, they were teleporters.

"However, unlike them, and most of the races alive today, they were also sentient. It made fighting them difficult, and the Zanti never really did more than harass them. Of course, the opposite was also true. The Zendel were able to flicker in and out, but once they arrived at a place, they were just as easy to kill as the Zanti they surprised. For a long time, that stalemate persisted."

He took a long drink of water and I waited, then clearing his throat, Cassius continued. "Now, this changed dramatically one day."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Humans arrived," He said with an ominous grin. "The Dwarven nations had already set up shop to the north, preferring the slightly chiller climates. Humans came south, encountered the Zanti, and defeated them."

He was summing up five hundred years of prolonged conflict in a few quick sentences. I was impressed. He wasn't done, though.

"Now, after the battle of Fin Xixi, the whole of the Zanti land essentially laid in human hands. Colonists flowed out, set up shop, and began to grow crops. It was then that the Zendel attacked.

"At first these attacks were devastating. Human settlements burned by the dozen. As quick as a farmhouse or mill could be constructed, the Zendel would attack, and it would get burnt down. This went on for ten, twenty years maybe."

"And then?" I prompted, just to feed his ego. He smiled.

"And then the humans burned down the forest, and slaughtered them whole sale. The Zendel teleportation only worked over a set distance, so the humans created tactics that essentially forced the Zendel to leap into traps. And the Zendel eventually, were wiped out."

I waited. Cash took another sip of his water.

"And then?" I asked, when it became clear we were waiting for nothing.

"That's it. Teleporting sentients, and they were killed off. Every last one of them. Even the Zanti fared better."

"Okay. Why did you just tell me this?" I asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" He said. "The  Zendel had one thing they did well. They teleported. Who knows what price this took, what cost it put onto their shoulders. Teleporting is tricky, and from an energy point of view, very very expensive. We can get away with it magically because we cheat. We tap into the earth, or the heavens, or even the ether to help power our devices. Heck, in a pinch, you can extract a good amount of mana from gasoline, if you burn it just right. The Zendel evolved to teleport, which meant they also had to evolve all the necessary supporting bits for it to happen, in the same way a bat had to evolve hollowed wings.

"Now, all this work to make them teleport means they relied on it. From a survival standpoint, being able to teleport was amazingly useful. However, humans, dwarves, elves, skithan... we defy evolutionary advantages. We're adaptable. We can use sticks, stones, guns, swords, magic, technology. We can do whatever we can, and we can find ways to let us teleport. We can also find ways to eliminate that as an advantage.

"In short, Mr. Greyson. There are no sentient races with magic powers because every time they show up, we, the collected jackasses of the world, find a way to kill them. We let the monkeys live because they don't threaten us." He was grinning in a way that made me want to hit him. "Isn't it beautiful?"

I shook my head, then placed my hat back on my head. "No, Cassius. That's terrible."

He shrugged, tossed his rag away. "That's the world we live in."

Leery's was a small bar about a stone's throw from the middle-most pier of Cardonia's sprawling bay. It catered, largely, to travellers arriving a night, promising good booze, a good night's rest, and good company. I had heard that of those three, only the middle was true, but after weeks at sea, the other two were oft considered "good enough." I wasn't seeking any of the three though.

I was dressed plainly in my grey suit, cut in the modern fashion. Samuel Archer, my former mentor and, for the moment, client, was in a similar getup. It was useful as it allowed us to walk through busy streets without looking like fugitives from the law. Twice we passed bored cops without them so much as glancing at us. Once, possibly out of spite, Archer stopped and bummed a cigarette from one of them. He tossed it away moments later with a shrug. Despite being delcared an enemy of the Empire, Archer didn't seem to be actively pursued.

Still, I was nervous. Our suits didn't afford us nearly the invisibilty out here among the docks. Our suits were in harsh contrast to the blue uniforms most of the dock workers wore, and even the managers tended to shed the hat and jacket, preferring a white shirt and blue tie. Customers and clients wore suits, but they were unlikey to be prowling around outside Leery's at the Prince's hour.

I gave Archer a quick nod, and stepped out of the comfort of darkness, aiming to seem perfectly at ease as I strolled under the amber crystlamp. Archer walked beside me, looking carefully at ease. It wasn't true, but it made for good copy, the two of us strolling along as if the world was at peace.

We reached the door without a shout and slipped inside without incident, and I paused at the doorway to enjoy the moment of relief. While it was possible we'd still be arrested, Leery had paid his bribes (much like every responsible brothel owner does), and the police were apt to respect his privacy. If any of the RPF were here, they'd be clients, not constables.

Archer scanned the place, his calm still covering up his tension. "I don't know where we're going, Greyson," He said after a moment. "But I don't think it suits us to be standing here."

I let that slide. Archer was feeling sufficiently better, and had begun to resume his role as boss. Nevermind that I had quit working for him months previous. Nevermind that I had moved my business north to Xen Lenora, had my own caseload and my own clients. I even had my own secretary. Archer was used to being in charge, and was used to me following his lead. It was aggravating, especially when I was busy saving his life.

Instead, I made my way casually to the bar and rapped my knuckles thrice on the table. After a pause, I rapped twice more, then I looked away and waited. Archer waited too, but I had no idea if he picked up on the code. My goal had been subtlety, but Archer was like a hawk when he wanted to be.

After a moment, the bartender came over. "Can I help you gentlemen?" He asked with a gruff voice.

"I need to see Leery," I said quietly. "I got a shipment for him."

The bartender nodded, then moved away. He returned with two mugs filled with beer. "Third table on the right," He said. "I'll let Leery know you're here."

I handed one of the mugs to Archer, then walked casually over to the third table. Once seated I took a deep drink. Archer looked at his drink disinterested.

"Have a drink," I said.

"I don't care for beer. You know that Greyson."

I sipped again. "Have a drink, Sam. You're being observed."

He stared at me for a fraction of a second, disbelief evident in his face. Then, casually, he took a sip, then set it down.

"Yep," He said. "Still beer."

"Good beer," I defended. It wasn't, really. "But more importantly, cursed beer."

"Cursed?" He asked, looking a little alarmed. I grinned.

"Nothing major. It's just how Leery conducts his Aura read. There's a marker in the beer which makes allows him to focus on us. Likewise, we're sitting in a good place to be observed."

Archer looked around without looking. "Seems elaborate."

"Has to be," I said. "Now be a good boy and have another drink."

He had another sip, followed by another wince. "So, where are we going?" He asked, trying to change the subject.

"Old town," I said. "A friend will be meeting you there and getting you relocated."

"Meeting us," He corrected me, then after a pause. "You're going to, aren't you?"

It was a logical assumption. Our occupations were identical, after all. The Imperial Council had, that morning, passed a law banning non-guild investigation services. Snidely, some in the Council Hall had named it "Archer's Law," and it was even referred to that in the Chamber Archives while discussions were being held. Archer had solved an important case, a high-profile case, and his client had decided to pay him back by being exceedingly critical of the local police, the Bureau of Truth, and the Empire as a whole to every news organization that would listen. The response, issued the next day, was to discredit Archer's achievement in editorials and using planted evidence. After that, the Imperial Council quietly set about to shut him (and all non-guild detectives) down.

Archer's Law would apply to any one who offered investigative services on an independent basis. It was publicly stated as a way to help strengthen the integrity of the field, but really it was just a way to shut out anyone who might reveal anything unpleasant about the Empire. The guilds, all of them, were under the thumb of the government, and they were given a very narrow path to follow. Archer and I were both the type to reject these constraints.

Now, it seemed like my path was to flee the city. Perhaps that was why I shook my head in response. "I can't go," I said. "Or I won't. Take your pick."

He stared at me, and I avoided his gaze. "Why not?" He finally asked.

"I can't walk away," I said. "Not yet."

"What's stopping you?" He said it calmly, but I knew there was more to the question, left unspoken. What would exist that would keep me but still require him to go.

"I can't go into it," I said. It was an hour of explanations when we had five minutes. My business was secure, my true occupation covered up by a nice legal front. My clientele was increasing, both in number and discretion. By avoiding the lime-light, I had found a niche. In addition, I had contacts, in the governments, and to some degree, I knew how the council thought. I was using these connections to connect sympathetic council members with "rebel" leaders. There was a chance that all of the insanity could end. All it would take was for the tide to shift, and the council could, potentially anyway, swing back to the realm of sanity.

Finally, there was Aleea. I couldn't tell him about her.

We shared an uncomfortable silence. A minute passed, and another slowly ticked by. I sipped more of my beer, and Archer pushed his away. I scanned the crowd, hoping to see something more interesting than sailors getting drunk and being propositioned by the street walkers. Archer continued to stare at me.

Eventually, a door behind the bartender opened a quarter, paused, and then slipped open completely. A dark elf, ashen grey in color, strolled up to us, wearing a dirtied white apron. He snatched a chair from another table, turned it around backwards, and sat, giving us a good grin.

"Some tension here, eh?" He said by way of saying hello. Archer glared at him, though I don't know if it was because he was a dark elf, or because he was an ass. With Archer it could be possibly both.

"Hey Leery," I said. He gave me his customary grin.

"Thomas Greyson, man of the hour, so I hear. Police reports have been put out for someone matching your description, leading fugitive Archer. They don't know where you've gone." I nodded, but didn't otherwise reply. Leery grinned even wider. "I assume you're here to make use of my gateway, then."

Archer gave him something resembling an affirmative. Leery chuckled. "I know what's it's like man, I'm right there with ya." Archer was unmoved by Leery's attempt to bond; fortunately Leery wasn't the type to care much. "Now you know the price. I'd normally double it because you're fugitives, but I like you two, so we'll just add a more modest twenty-five percent."

I slipped out six King Franks, and laid them on the table. Leery stared at them fondly, then moved his hand over them, sliding them up with a smooth motion. "That's what I like about you Thomas, you know how to please a man." He rolled up the bills, then paused. "One ticket?"

"He's staying behind," Archer said, his voice held steady. "Can't say why."

"Maybe he can't afford me," Leery winked. "If you'll just come with me."

I started to stand, but Archer put his hand on my wrist and pulled me back down. "We'll be right there, Leery." He said quietly.

Leery shrugged, and said, "I'll be waiting for you two at the bar. Don't keep me waiting too long."

"You're sending me off," Archer said after a moment. "Why?"

"Because I need you alive," I said. "Because Archer's Law is about you. There's no bribe I can pay, no official I can blackmail that will change that. The rest of us rats can go to ground, avoid the spot lights, but you're a walking target right now. You get caught, you know they're going to use every dirty trick they know to get you locked up for a potentially long time. They're not going to mess around, because Archer's Law is worthless if it doesn't shut you down."

"But if I leave, I'll be shut down," He said. "You'll have finished what they started."

"Stop it," I replied. "You're not dead. You're out of sight. This gives you back the freedom they're so keen to take away. This allows you to live again."

"For what?" He spat. "Away from my job, my life, my city? You think freedom is worth all of this?"

"This?" I said. "Your city just sent cops to your house. Your life has been spent in a Red Amber haze for the last three years. Your job..." I looked away. "You are your job, Archer. Wherever you end up, Archer, you'll keep on doing exactly what you've been doing. That, more than anything, is the point."

"Why won't you come, then?" He asked, after a heavy sigh. "If you're going to force me to start over, the least you could do is help.

I smiled, knowing this was coming. I had my answer ready. "I don't work for you, Archer. Not anymore."

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. His face was set in a scowl. He slipped his hat back onto his hat. "I'll see you around, Greyson." And he walked away, I made to follow, but stopped and watched instead. He went to Leery without looking back, exchanged a few words, and Leery gave me a hesitant glance. I shrugged, and he returned it subtly.

Then shaking his head, he pushed open the back door and let Archer through. Leery gave me one last glance, then let the door close. I took a deep breath, and sat back down in my chair. My beer was nearly empty. Archer's was barely touched. I stared at those two glasses for a while, then slipped my own hat on.

It was time to go home.

The Haze

Mother says we should never get too close to it, but parents are all like that. Tommy's mom says the exact same thing. The Haze is dangerous, they say. Dark things lurk out there. It's just waiting for you to wander into it and then Snap.

But it's not true. Tommy and I threw rocks into it, and the haze puffed slightly as it accepted them. Later, we tried using sticks, both of us pushing against them until they pierced the skin of the haze and disappeared into nothingness, and then pulling until the end came back. The stick was always unharmed, though it was cold to the touch. If something was lurking there, we would have seen it. The fact is that the haze doesn't want us. You have to throw a rock as hard as you can before it'll disappear, and it took both of us to get the stick to pierce the skin.

One thing that's fun to do is to throw yourself against it. It feels almost like a sheet made of ash. It'll stop you, and push you back. Tommy and I did that all day once, taking turns sprinting towards it and throwing ourselves upside down into it. We stopped when Tommy's mom caught us. She freaked out.

She's different than my mom. My mom grew up in Old Town, and didn't ever touch the haze, play with it. Tommy's mom, though, grew up near the haze, and she learned all about it.

The haze, she said, is where the Distant City ends. There is nothing beyond it, and the haze is just a barrier that keeps us safe and alive. It's designed to protect the whole of the city, so it will accept things that are pushed hard into it, because the shield would sooner be pierced than risk failing. Apparently, if it failed, we'd all be thrown into the nothingness.

Tommy isn't so sure. He has seen men in suits who are able to enter and leave the haze at will. He's tried to tell his mom, but she doesn't listen to him. He wants us to follow them, and discover what really is on the other side.

I don't know what to believe, so I'm leaving you this note. If I come back safely, you can just ignore it. I'll know by then what's on the other side.

But if I don't come back, please don't come after me. It's possible Tommy's mom is right, and if she is, I think we'll be dead.

I won't want to be dead, but I do want to see what's on the other side. Wish me luck.

--Roger Ian Post, Age 10

The Murder

"Do I know you?" The RPF's voice barked out from his yellow hooded raincoat. The storm was making a mess of the light, so the question may not have been as sarcastic and hostile as it sounded. I smiled politely.

"Just the guy who found the body," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. The Cop nodded, shaking free a small spray of water from his head, and looked at his clipboard. A small attractor burned blue, and water that would have fallen on the board collected there instead. It was an expensive trick, but useful on days like this.

He scanned down the page with his finger, then said, "Greyson?"

"That's me," I said. "Thomas Greyson, man of no real importance."

The cop grunted at that. He made a mark on his clipboard, flipped to a new page, then said, "Alright, so what happened?"

"My," I paused and looked over at Rynna, who was leaning against the lamppost looking board. She was dressed in tailored elven explorers garb, which consisted a customized leather jumpsuit and black shoes. She had more pockets on that then a peacock has tail-feathers. Most of them had knives. Words continued to fail me, and when I finally grasped at something, I knew it was a poor choice. "My date and I were walking home from the movies, when we came upon two individuals fighting in the street. I had her wait while I rushed forward to stop them. As I approached, the first gentlemen ran, and the second," I said pointing to the corpse, "Collapsed. I tried to administer first aid, and Rynna called you guys."

The cop wrote this down with quick strokes, then said, "What's your full name?"

"Thomas Greyson," I said.

"And your occupation?"

I stopped, cleared my throat. "I'm unemployed."

"Really?" The cop said quietly. "Unemployed." I shrugged. There was an uncomfortable pause, then he said. "So what did you do?"

"I was mostly recently working for the Harbo Guard Service," I said. "But that was a few years ago. Before I came into money."

"Money?" He perked up.

"Do you want me to describe the individual?" I asked.

"Maybe in a moment," The cop said. "Let's talk about the money. Where did it come from?"

"My uncle," I said. "He worked some plantations up in Arana, and split them among my cousins and I. I sold mine off."

He looked at me. I looked back. I was lying and we both knew it, however there was a chance he'd let it go.

It was a small chance, apparently. "Good land up in Arana," He said, making a mark with his notebook. "Lots of grain."

I shrugged. "I'm not much of a farmer," I said.

"So what are you?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I could see Rynna getting inpatient. "I'm the guy who saw someone commit murder," I said. "You remember the murder, don't you?"

The cop glanced at the body, then grinned at me. "Doesn't look like he's going anywhere."

Rynna pushed herself off the lamppost and began to walk over.

"Look, officer," I said, making one last ditch effort before Rynna arrived. Things had a tendency to get worse when she got involved. "I think the man who ran was a member of the Rothi Crime Syndicate. I'm reasonably confident that this was a hit."

"Oh are you?" He said, crossing his arms. Rynna moved to stand behind him, but his attention was focused squarely on me. "And how would you know anything about the Rothi Crime Syndicate?"

It was too late. "Look, just be gentle," I said, looking right at the cop.

He laughed. "I'm just asking you some-"

There was a thump, audible over the sound of the rain falling. And the cop collapsed. Rynna looked at me, holding the knife backwards so that its weighted hilt made contact with the back of his skull. "Gentle enough?" She said.

I shook my head, then bent down and ripped the cop's sheet from the clipboard. Then for added measure, I took his wallet and and gems, including the attractor. Freed from it's focus, the gem darkened and water started dotting the remaining pages on the clip-board. I tucked it all away and stood. "Shall we go?" I asked.

"About time," Rynna said. "Why did you bother calling them in anyways?"

I shook my head as we began to walk off. It was difficult to explain to Rynna, a child born and raised in the Etherrealm, knowing everything of the Distant City and little beyond. "I'll tell you about it later."

We walked into the rain, the silence between us heavy.

Writing Prompt: That was when I invented it

Cassius Carson leaned back in his chair, and flicked a copper strand into the air. It sailed with a practiced ease into a pile of similar junk. He grinned and templed his fingers. "So what exactly are you looking for?" He said, rolling his head to face me.

"The White Guard are seeking someone named Daniel Craigsen. They seem to think he was involved in Zelena's death."

"Danny boy?" Cassius scoffed. "Danny's a simpleton, a coward, and a gentlemen besides. If he had anything to do with Zelena, it was likely a setup."

I shrugged. There was too much evidence pointing both ways for me to feel comfortable committing to a side. I said as much to Cassius.

"Greyson, you're a sap. Look, if you accept the official story that Danny did it, you have to explain who's working so hard to make him look good. On the other hand, if Danny's innocent, and someone's trying to make a chump out of him, then you only have to explain who'd benefit by putting the guilt onto his shoulders."

He had a point. I didn't know Daniel well enough to assume he was innocent, but I knew Cassius. Cassius had a good sense for people, even if no one ever got along with him.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said. "But I'd still like your help finding him."

"I don't know where he is." Cassius said with a shrug.

"He's fled to the Northern Wastes, actually." I said quietly. "Humphry thinks he knows the tribe, but we need help locating them. They move around a lot."

"So, if I might skip ahead a little, you need some artifact that could track Danny, or more likely, you want something that will speed up the searching."

"Yeah, and-"

"And," Cassius continued, holding up a hand, "You need something that will be immune to the Chaos Storms, even though nothing is immune to them."

I smiled. "Cassius, you're the best."

"No, well, yeah." He leaned forward. "You're lucky, I happen to have something almost exactly like that."

"Really?" I sputtered. "I expected this might take you some time."

"It did. About six months ago. I was studying the storms, and discovered a few things of note."

"Why were you studying the chaos storms?"

He stopped, then grinned. "No reason." And whistled as he led me down to his lab.

Writing Prompt: Hopefully the batteries would run out and he would stop talking soon.

The phone rattled in its cradle, the buzzer struggling to rattle the rusted joints. I poured some coffee into my cup, and stirred it with a dirty spoon. There was a pause, then it started again. Humphry leaned in close, resting his tan cheek on the dirt-stained desktop, his eyes going cross-eyed slowly as he stared at it. "What does it want?" He asked quietly.

Humphry was originally from the northern wastes. Because of some nasty chaos storms, artifacts largely didn't function there, and those few that did had a tendency to overload. The Gremlin Nomads made their homes there, and were fascinated with the technological marvels of their southern neighbors, and often collected broken scraps to study and trade around. This obsession gave their camps the appearance of mobile junk-yards, and there was a popular rumor that Gremlins sought to break things so that they could be taken back North.

Realistically, Gremlins weren't cursed. When it came to technology, though, they were curious and just the slightest bit clumsy. Humphry was more careful than others of his tribe, though likely that was due to experience. He had been exiled from the Northern Wastes many years before, and had lived comfortably inside the Empire, both above ground and in the under-city. Still, the most random things struck his fancy.

"It wants me to answer it," I replied, watching him carefully. The phone was not in the best of shape, and was just about to join its brethren in a Gremlin Camp. I had kept it going with a bit of luck and some small skill, because without it, I would likely be out of a job.

"Are you going to do it?" He grinned. "I would. It seems excited."

"Not this time, no." I went back behind my desk and collapsed into my chair. My feet went to their comfortable place on the corner, just a few inches shy of where Humphry crouched. The coffee was excellent, sweatened in the Jakara style, with red berry jam, cocoa powder, and the tiniest bit of rum.

"Why not?" His oversized eyes quivered with the rejection, and he looked like he was going to cry.

"Because it's the King's hour," I replied. "And only one person ever calls me during King's hour."

"The phone?" He asked innocently.

"The phone is not a person. It's just an artifact for communication. Someone is using another phone, somewhere, to contact me."

"Oh." His face curled in thought, "So it's like shouting, or smoke signals."

"Mystical shouting, but you're not far off."

"What a wonderful trick!" Humphry clapped his hands with excitement.

"It's... It's a good trick," I finally concurred. Let him enjoy the mundane. The buzzer began to clatter again, and Humphry went back to staring at it.

"I think the person wants to talk to you," He said quietly.

"I don't want to talk to the person, though. I'm allowed to not answer."

"Can I answer?" He asked. "If you're not going to."

I stopped just shy of stopping him, then grinned. "Sure Humphry, answer the phone. But you must swear to tell her I'm not here."

He thought for a moment, then nodded. "It's a deal!"

I gestured my acceptence to him, and sipped from my cup as he scooped up the phone. He balanced the phone in his hand, then carefully put it up to his head. "Is anyone there?"

Even from where I was sitting, I could hear her reply, "Where's Greyson."

"He's not here." Humphry announced, then winked at me.

"Where is he?" Her voice was harsh, and Humphry winced.

"I don't know." He replied, then, "I have to go."

He slammed the phone back onto the cradle, then sat back in the wooden guest chair. "I didn't like her." I nodded, and he grinned. "But I love this! Can I do this more?"

His eyes were practically glowing, and despite myself, I nodded. "Sure, as long as you're staying here, you may as well make yourself useful."

And that's how I Humphry the Gremlin became my secretary.

Writing Prompt: What a day to start daydreaming.

It was a midmorning when the cab dropped me off in front of Archer's place. He lived in one of the two-story brick houses that clustered along Cardonia's south wall. It was given to him as his reward for service during the Cabal Wars, and he treated it with the reverence such a gift deserved. The yard was over-grown with weeds, the stone steps were cracked and neglected. The house was covered in soot, and the bush was overgrown to the point of absurdity. A small wooden sign was staked into the ground, and glossy black letters read:
SAMUEL ARCHER
INDEPENDENT INVESTIGATIONS
**NOT GUILD CERTIFIED**
Below it were several smudges where, originally, he had scrawled his daily prices. He had tried to remove them, though I never found out if they were too low or too high.

I took the steps two at a time, nearly tripping as one came loose under me. His front door was never locked, and opened into a waiting room, which as far as I know had never been used. Beyond the waiting room was the door to his office, which usually stood open. The fact that it was shut implied that he had a client, and protocol implied that I should then wait to see him. Protocol was, at that moment, a complete waste of time. I threw open the door prepared to apologize, but unrepentant.

"Archer," I said, then stopped. He sat alone behind his desk, twirling a burnt out crystlamp on his desk with one hand. His other hand clutched a glass of Red-Amber spirit, the last from the bottle that sat on the floor. He didn't react to my sudden entrance, his gaze fixated on the inside of the sphere.

"Archer," I said again approaching. "Damnit, this is important!"

"I heard," He replied, his voice calm. "You don't need to get so worked up, Greyson."

I disagreed, of course. "You heard? I just came straight from the chamber. How could you have heard?"

He smiled, weariness in his eyes. "These kinds of decisions are made long before anything is proposed in the Chamber. " He sighed, then a flustered look crossed his face. "Where are my manners, can I get you a drink? The bottle is empty, but I have another stashed in my desk."

He pulled it out and gave me a conspiratorial smile. "Always have a stash , Greyson. Always. If you've learned nothing else from me. Learn that. It makes everything better."

"Damnit Archer, I don't want your liquor!" I went to the window and looked out, but couldn't see the street from where I was. "I need to get you away from here. Maybe put you down in the undercity, somewhere."

He had returned to staring at his burnt-out crystlamp. "Do you know, we still used torches and laterns when I was your age?" He said, grabbing the sphere and holding it up. "These were known to exist, but the common man would see them only in palaces, temples, and other very wealthy buildings. Now, even I have one. The same is true for the cars, the pistols. I have spent my years opposing the Cabal, but I can't help but feel that maybe they were right."

Archer let the sphere roll from his hand. It bounced on the desk, flickered slightly as it obsorbed the kinetic energy and attempted to convert it, one last time, into light, then it rolled onto the floor. Archer watched it roll, wobbling, across his floor. "I think it's time, Thomas. They want to arrest me, then fine." He leaned back in his chair, his girth stretching his stained shirt. "I'm too old and too tired to care. Let them come."

I wanted to scream at him, but he had taught me to control my anger. I wanted to drag him by his hair down to the curb, but he had taught me that strength was always a last resort. Instead I drew my pistol, calmly, and put it to his forehead.

"Sam," I said quietly, forcing him to looking into my eyes. "You're drunk, and you're a screw up, but you're my friend. Get your coat."

He stared at me, and sighed again, then snatched the bottle from his desk. "Why are you doing this to me? Why can you let me die in peace?"

I forced a grin. "I know you. You'd rather go out in a blaze of glory than rot away in a cell. You're morose now, but as soon as you hear those sirens, you'll fight. You'd never survive, of course, but you'd do it anyway, just to be spiteful."

"So? What's a few coppers, more or less?"

"I don't care a bit about coppers, but there will be a much better battle for you to die fighting for. I promise."

I held the door for him as we left through the back. We heard sirens as we followed the wall away from his house. Immediately, he scowled. "Greyson, I do believe you were right. There's something about that siren that just pisses me off. Who do they think they are?"

I wanted to reply, but nothing came to mind. Instead I pushed through a bush out onto a sidestreet. Archer followed, life returning to his step. "Gods, but it does feel good to be alive!" He exclaimed. "If for no other reason than to show those sons-of-bitches. So, what now?"

Archer stared at me, and I realized suddenly our roles had become reversed. For a decade, I had followed his every movement, learned every trick he would teach. Now he waited patiently for me to lead. It was unsettling.

"Let's get you out of sight," I said, trying to project confidence.

He nodded. "Good idea. There's an entrance to the undercity near the gate."

"It's too well known," I said, looking up the street. We couldn't stay here. I began to walk west. "We'll have better luck at the docks."

"Docks it is, then." He said, falling into step beside me. It was almost like old times.

Almost.

Let's Call You Cara (Flash Fiction)

Let's call you Kara.

You're beautiful. I think I tried to tell you that once. We were at a party, and I had probably a little too much to drink. I wanted to impress you by not using a pick up line, so I started to make my way over to you. You were sitting on the second-floor balcony, your legs dangling carelessly over the party below. I sat down next you, and smiled. You turned your head slightly and returned the smile. I don't think I ever said the words I wanted to say.

Let's call you Mary.

You're a genius. At least, from my perspective. We shared a class one semester, and during tests I would race to finish before you. Sometimes I did, and sometimes I didn't. You always got the better grade, though. I asked if I could borrow your notes on the day I was sick. You said no, but you said it with a smile.

Let's call you Sarah.

You're unique, dressed in a green gogo dress, with furry artic boots in the middle of september. Your sunglasses were star-shaped, and glittered in the pale light. Your backpack had SoundWave stuffed in a mesh pocket, and I asked you politely if he still transformed. You replied that he did, and played music besides. I envied you.

Let's call you Jennifer.

You helped me jump my car in the parking lot, even though I had no cables and no way of showing my appreciation. It was well after last call, and most of the other patrons had gone home. I was having a bad day, and the battery dying was almost the last straw. You were smiling, showing me where to attach the cables. You drove away when it was all done, and I felt much better, even though I didn't make it home.

Let's call you Alice.

I heard you were getting married, and I'm sure it's going to be great. The man, from what I hear, is simply fantastic. He's nothing like me, and maybe that's okay too. Your wedding should be spectacular. I've always imagined you'd have a rockstar life.

Let's call you Diana

I've never told you how I really feel, even after we slept together, and I've never let anyone know who you are. That night, while you slept, I tried to stay away, drinking in every moment. You were having a bad week, and needed release. I was a quick lay, nothing more. I knew this, and so I held you and eventually slept. You were gone when I woke up.

Let's call you Wendy

Maybe we'll see each other again. And maybe I'll find someone who can erase all these beautiful memories. Until then, I'll let myself think of you just before I sleep, when everything is quiet, dark, and hidden. I hope you're happy now, wherever you've wandered off to. I want you to be.

Writing Prompt:
I didn't understand what she was talking about and I didn't care.

She wore high heels, bright pink and covered with splatters of ink. Her legs bore the standard mark of an elf: low muscle, sleek, and long. She looked like a child, her red silken dress obviously designed for a human frame. She smiled, though, and it glowed. She held a cigarette in an extender, its plastic gleaming under the flickering neon lights.

"Telama nu?" She purred. I shrugged.

"I don't speak elf," I replied quietly.

She blinked, and looked the slightest bit hurt; her oversized eyes glistened. "Nola Ellanna?"

I sighed, and pulled the faded photo from my pocket. A warlock friend had given it a few passes in color, but the rain and moonlight was sapping it back to it's natural amber hue. The girl in the image was human, in her Sunday best, and smiling like nothing in the world would ever be wrong. I hoped that was still true for her, though the job seemed to imply that it wasn't. While some people did simply disappear, fleeing to a neighboring kingdom or even into the mist, all the signs pointed to trouble.

And in Harbro, trouble was most likely to be found in the underground.

"Have you seen this girl?" I asked the elf. She took the picture, glanced at it and rubbed the back of her neck in thought. A car passed on the cobblestone road, its tires cutting a streak through the puddle; its engine purring seductively. The elf flinched at the sound, then smiled apologetically and again stared at the picture.

"Decono, elma... Nola ryo mana," She finally said, passing it back.

"You haven't seen her?" I asked as I tucked the image back into my raincoat.

I don't think she understood my words, but she caught my drift and shook her head. "Ryo mana, nola."

I nodded and passed over a KingFran. Her eyes lit up at the bill, small through it was. She held it up to the streetlight, grinning visibly. I nodded politely at her and stepped past her into the neon-lit doorway, following the long dark stairway into the underworld.

Another Writing Exercise

To this day, I have no idea how to court a woman. Do they even call it courting anymore? I went to a bar once, with a group of friends. They suggested I go talk to this girl, because her eyes sparkled like blue fire gems. I didn't want to, but I figured this would be something I'd need to learn, so eventually I let them drag me over.

Her name was Kimmy, and she worked as a teller at a bank. She had a cat, which gave her a lot of cat-related tales to relate. I nodded politely, joked a little bit, and then walked away. It wasn't unpleasant, and I did get to know Kimmy better, but it's not like she was ever going to be the one. She didn't know anything about computers, even though she used one daily, and jokes I made went completely over her head. She believed that that the monitor and the computer were exactly the same.

This is making me sound like a snob, isn't it? I should start again.

There was a girl named Manadepessive, and she was the first girl I ever really loved. She was a Mage (obviously), and we met on the plains of Rindole, a mid-level region on the continent of Gonnora. She was a human, exotic in the elven rich zone, and she was everything I could have wanted. She was smart, easily smarter than me. She was clever, and let none of my jests by without an equally witty rejoinder. We joined a guild together, named the Conquerors of the Ancient Road, and soon after both of us became officers.

Now obviously, Manadepressive wasn't real. Which is to say, that her name wasn't Manadepressive, but was actually Tanya. Likewise, my named wasn't Jimixia, but that's just how we met. It was possible, and even likely, that Manadepressive was actually a guy, but my suspicions were eased during a raid on some mid-level dungeon, when our guild leader set up a voice chat. Tanya had a beautiful voice, and her laugh (when I could make her laugh) was rich and full. I would have gladly done anything to hear that laugh again and again.

I had started playing Majestic Realms because I was bored. Soon, I was playing it for the sake of her. We spent many hours raiding, pushing deep into computer-generated, monster filled tunnels, questing after some misplaced armor, or the king's crown, or whatever the gimmick was. The story was less important than the journey, the quest deeper and deeper into that forbidden zone. The journey soon became important because of the time I spent, chatting with ManaDepressive and using my rogue to scout out the next big trap, the next challenge. Mana, in turn, was almost giddy when she made the bad-guys burn. We made a good team, especially when working with other guild members.

And better, I learned more about Tanya, the girl behind the mage. Tanya was about my age, and lived almost within driving distance. That would've been awesome, had I a car. She was in advanced studies in her school, and was essentially getting a chance to pick her college. She had a sister, Stacey, who was not into games, and her parents were divorced.

Her favorite movie was The Empire Strikes Back, though she later confessed to hating all of Star Wars, on account of Lucas selling out. After that, she proclaimed her new favorite movie to be 2001. She had a Super Nintendo, which she had inherited from an uncle, and she played it nearly every night. Her favorite book was Foundation, and she had read everything Asimov had written, including the non-fiction.

We talked and disagreed about the works of Phillip K. Dick, Poul Anderson, Orson Scott Card, and others. It was beautiful, geeky, and fun.

And then one day her dad's credit card expired, and she never logged on again.

Writing Exercises

Prompt: A brass door handle, three oranges, and a chocolate doughnut. (not used at all)

Maybe I should have stayed in bed. It's a nice thought. The rest of my apartment was covered in frost, cold and blue-toned for no identifiable reason. My feet crunched the carpet, and microscopic shards of ice stabbed into me with each step. I tried to ignore it, though. It seemed unimportant.

The window was broken, and the wind outside whistled against the glass. The sound was constant, entirely unwindlike, and at a tone and volume which was very distracting. Outside the world was dead, neglected under the frost. I could see, just barely, the broken shell of a car, it's roof collapsed and its insides gutted.

My breath was cold, cloudy as it surrounded me. I watched it hang in the air after each exhale.

**************************************
Prompt: "Write a post-apocalyptic story"

I woke in the false night of noon to the sound of a dog barking. My back was hurting, complaining from a long night slept against a wall, and I was sorely tempted not to move. Instead, though, I pushed through it, wincing, as I got to my feet. My world shifted uncomfortably as I stood, and I resisted the urge to cry out. A second dog had started barking. I pushed myself into the back room of the apartment, and favored a quick glance out of the window. The sunlight faintly illuminated the ground below, and the dogs' forms were spots of blackness against the ash. They were searching, scavaging for anything resembling food.

That, unforunately, included me.

I checked my pistol's ammo, then tucked it away. If there were more than three of them out there, I'd be out of luck, and besides, I had plans for those bullets.

I've been using twitter to post my results for NaNoWriMo (I'm at 13020, and about 200 words behind).

So I thought I'd use this blog to post some thoughts about what I'm writing.

My main character, Jason, is going insane. Or he thinks he is. I'm taking after Phillip K. Dick and some of his more psychological mind-f*ck stories, so it should seem very confusing.

However, I know exactly what's going on, a fact that pleases me to no end.

Speaking of endings, I don't have one yet. I know eventually Jason's going to figure out what's going on, and at that point, he'll have to choose... does he go back to how things were, knowing full well that at least some of what he sees is a lie, or does he push on, going somewhere entirely knew (and possibly work with the antagonist to find a solution).

I'm not sure if I know the answer yet. I'm not even sure if I want to know.

For now, where we are in the story, his brother's coming in to help him. This should get him actually exploring his dilemma and unraveling it. Can they figure it out, or will Tom get sucked in to the madness as well?

:D I'll find out tomorrow.

Keyen

Keyen.

The knock came suddenly, midway between the first and second sunset. Kayen growled and turned away from the cave's entrance, pulling the shabby cloth closer to himself, and shifted his exoskeleton in a futile attempt to ward off sudden wakefulness. The knocker, undeterred, knocked again, and Kayen swore.

"I hear you in there, Kayen," The creature intoned. "Come out. We need to speak."

"Leave me be, monster!" Kayen shouted, sitting up. He gestured angrily with his long thin fingers, though he knew he couldn't be seen. "Come back when both the suns are high in the sky, or not at all if it suits you."

The creature outside sighed, and Kayen let himself believe that his argument had succeeded, and collapsed with a sigh back onto the mat. His cave was not large, and he wasn't allowed to leave, and this made Kayen very happy. He wasn't one to make friends, and cared little for the outside of his cave. He had been living here for many days, too many for him to count even if he had wanted to. In that time, his location had become noticed by the outer world. They would come, and they would ask him questions. He would answer and they would leave. It was a pleasant experience. In the more recent days, Kayen had instituted a new rule: questions came only when the sunlight from the red and blue shown into his cave. The rest of the time (the red time, the blue time, and the black time) he was to be left alone.

It was a pleasant experience.

Just moments before he was asleep again, there came something of a shake, much like an earthquake. Kayen knew about earthquakes from a different planet, and a different time. He did not care for them, and had never come to his cave. Panicked, he sat upright, and checked to see if his cave was in danger of collapsing. The dust fell, but the wall seemed stable enough. Blackness suddenly enveloped him and Kayen screamed. Insticts, from a time when such things were needed, kicked in, and Kayen took to the air, seeking to fly up and out of danger. He bounced off the ceiling, collided with wall, and landed in a heap on the floor, his legs tangled in his blanket.

And still the shaking continued. Kayen covered up his eyes and shiverred, too dazed to attempt to fly, and too scared to do much else. He held himself close, his exoskeleton shifting into it's most defensive form. And he sat like that while the world continued to shake.

He didn't die.

Kayen was suprised by this realization. The shaking had stopped, and he was still alive. He looked around, but the blackness was still thick. Still, Kayen could tell his cave was not destroyed. He was still alive, for one, and though there was some dust in the air, there wasn't nearly enough to indicate a cave in. So he was alive and, for the moment, he was safe.

And nearby someone was pulling on the void. He could sense it with his antenne. The void was being shaped. The void was something Kayen knew a lot about. It was what existed between the planets and suns, and at all times tried to pull all the matter apart. There was magic that could hold reality together, and there were some who could craft the void, pulling matter and energy from it as a one might pull dirt from a pot. It was a skill beyond Kayen, but one he understood well. A world-builder was outside his cave.

Kayen made his way to the mouth of the cave, something he had not done in many many days. He took a deep breath, and glanced out, expecting to see the faded void, with the thick black clouds of reality squirming through it. Instead, there was just black. No light at all. Kayen reached out, hesitantly and tried to probe the blackness. The atmosphere near the edge of the cave was painfully shallow, and his breath came in short labored breaths as he groped for the edge of his reality.

Instead, his fingers touched something cold and clay-like, which covered up the mouth completely. He recoiled, then tried again. There was some give, much like the fleshy parts of some creatures. He touched a third time, and was bathed in a purplish light as the creature's hand pulled away. Kayen winced and covered his eyes, blinking with both sets of eyelids to let them adjust. Finally, dropping his head, he beheld the creature.

Kayen knew his world was not large -- he preferred it that way -- but the creature was several times larger. It floated in the void, with arms and legs (2 of each) and a set of wings that vaugely resembled a bat. It looked at him calmly, it's body somewhat sillohuetted by the two suns which now hung in full brilliance in the sky.

"Now," The creature began. "The suns shine into your cave. We need to talk."

Kayen stared at this creature, then glanced at the shadow it was creating on its wall. "Yes. Yes I know you. We have spoken many times. You are the one known as Pik."

"I am." Pik said. "And we need to talk."

Kayen smiled, grimly. "You are a world-builder, Pik. If I refuse, I do believe you could destroy my home, forcing me to flee... again. I do not wish to lose my home. So we will talk."

"Good," Pik began, "It started-"

"No!" Kayen called. "I must sit. I do not like the light. We will speak as we always have." And with that he stepped back into the depths of his cave. The creature waited while Pik pulled his blanket onto the floor and sat cross-legged upon it. "Now, World-builder Pik. Tell me what has happened."

"Very well," Pik said, and began...

Creatively, I'm drained.

It's really hard for me to talk about myself without feeling like I'm climbing up onto a soap-box and proclaiming that I hold some deep knowledge that everyone is going to be wowed by. I don't feel that way, and I don't mean to project that self-assured, cocky, know-it-all vibe. It always happens, though, and it bugs me.

That's not really what this blog post is about, though. I just wanted to preface what I was going to say with that, or rather, letting my mind wander, that was the first thing that I thought to write. I'm trying to just let my fingers and my brain do the talking. The rest of me is kinda numb.

Usually when I sit down to write, I have some little idea I want to write about, or some scene that's just begging to get onto paper, or some odd and abstract setting that I want to scribble about. I don't tend to take my writing very seriously, and I do it often without even thinking about it.

Except when I'm stressed out. When I'm stressed out, the time I spend writing is, at the same time, time I'm trying to spend mentally relaxing. I carry a lot of stress in my head, and the more crazy I get with work and my home life, the more difficult it seems to let the creativity flow. I want to be writing every day, but right now all I really feel like doing is laying down. I fight it because I know I'll never write if I let myself get away with that, but at the same time, what I write in this frame of mind is usually not that useful.

The last four times I've gone off to write, I've started something new that I didn't feel like working on later. Each of the things were interesting in their own way, but none of them linked very well to anything else. They were just thoughts without ending and sometimes without beginnings. Some of them were fictional, and some of them were decidedly autobiographical. None of them are suitable for consumption by the masses, which has made me a little depressed. It's been a month since I wrote anything worthwhile outside of my comics.

Even now, as I'm writing this blog post, some part of me is trying to make me find out what I need to do get Jaimee's contacts reordered. It's not a process I'm at all familiar with, and it's exasperated by the fact that when we last got her eyes checked, we didn't leave with a prescription. For some reason, Firefox doesn't seem to believe that didn't is a valid word (except now it does), and now it's assuming that "doesn't" isn't a valid word (except that the second time it accepted it). My computer is going all kinds of weird lately. Ah well.

I just want to be writing now, but some part of me feels like I have nothing worth saying. Part of this stems from the fact that I cannot write sci-fi. Or, rather, that I'm scared to. I am not a physicist, and though I keep myself pretty well read, I am very much a layman when it comes to what the future is going to be like. I hate the feeling that people will read my work and scoff because it's not "hard" enough, and that I neglected some all-important development that's almost guaranteed to happen.

And part of me knows I'm just being silly (it's in the same vein as worrying about the hard-core fantasy buffs who want something to be exactly like Tolkein but exactly different from it as well, or even me who wants the system and process of magic to make sense). My goal should be to write, and not worry about what people might say. But when I'm stressed, it seems to be all I think about -- the audience. Who will want to read what I write? Who cares what I have to say? What can I say that's in any way unique?

These fears are stupid. I know they are, and I should just stop.

... I kinda wish it was that easy.
--Joe

(I'm gonna see about getting those contacts now).