I wait
in the in between space
where you and I
don’t think that the answer is,
where you and I
imagine that there is a world
that doesn’t need answers,
so long as it never
runs out of new questions
Questions
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Never learning
I don’t want
to face the fact
that I am too old to dream
and too young to die
so I will angrily crush
the love of everyone around me
and run from
anything resembling opportunity.
That is the price
of early success and fearlessness:
never learning
to be gracefully afraid.
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DeathWatch No. 108 – Was There Anything Left?
This is Issue #108 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
When the horse came to a sudden stop, Jules lifted her head; the officer laid a gauntleted hand against the back of her neck, saying quietly, “Seruate.”
She knew that one easily. Stay down. She turned her head to look for the others, for Kieron and Hana, but could not see them for the crowding of Ilonans.
Another horse was galloping toward them quickly, and came to a stop, rearing up. Jules could see the soldier astride it was a woman, and based on her uniform, she was of a higher rank than the officer who had her.
“Another toy, Legatus?” the woman laughed, her Ilonan musical.
So he was a Commander, like her. Jules listened sharply, to make certain she understood as much as possible.
“This one will be useful, Summus Nixus,” the officer responded.
And she was a top cavalry officer. The Ilonans had this much cavalry simply waiting around in farmlands? Was it a terrible coincidence that so many were here or had their forces grown so big so quickly?
Nixus snorted, rolling her eyes. “Aren’t they all? When you’re done with it, I’ll want a report in the war room.”
“We aren’t headed back to the capital?”
“A delay of three days, no more. The wreck of the Eburneis Dea will prove useful, for materials and intelligence.”
Jules knew they meant the Jacob — it had been the Ivory Goddess when it belonged to Sha’s brother, but she changed the name of it when she applied for the commission. She knew it was somewhere in the distance, a burning carcass of nothing, except perhaps the tomb of her lovers.
“Was there anything left?” the Ilonan commander wondered curiously.
“Enough that two Westlanders walked out of it,” Nixus growled. “They’re being questioned. Like you should be doing with your toy, there. Unfortunately, one of the Captains thought it important to kill as many Westlanders as possible — they fired on the wreckage. It will take some time to figure out if anything is salvageable. But if any maps survived or any intelligence remains, we must collect it, of course.”
Jules stiffened, and tried to control her breathing. Two. Two others walked out. She wanted to scream a thousand questions at the arrogant bitch who talked about her as though she wasn’t there, but instead she laid against the officer’s horse like a piece of meat, and waited.
“But won’t the Prince want these brought before him?” The Ilonan’s words were innocent enough.
The woman who outranked him seemed irritated as she answered. “We’re only staying just a little longer. Two Domitors will return to Ilona and herald our return. There is no rush.”
“But if we do hurry,” Jules’s captor said, “We could bring them as wedding gifts.”
Jules could tell that for one brief moment, the Summus on the horse near them was rather furious with the other officer’s challenging reponses. “Have you been listening in on private channels?”
“You leave the speaker open, and you prefer I do not question you,” the commander answered, almost playfully.
Nixus sighed, loud and long. “This is true. Plans have changed, then. The sun has set, and the storms will only be getting worse through the night. Camp should be set. Alert your runners to flag the ships and send the signal. We’ll ride for Ilona at dawn. Any wormskin that can’t walk will be put down and left to green the farmlands they blackened,” Nixus growled.
“Affirmative, Soror,” the Ilonan officer said, sounding solemn.
Jules’s eyes widened as she stared at the muddy, trampled ground. Sister? Perhaps it would come useful to know.
“It’s a wonder I don’t have you flayed for insubordination,” the woman said, rolling her eyes, her voice sounding dry and irritable. “Go. Tell the others.”
Jules’s officer nodded, wheeled his horse around and took off quickly. She bounced and shifted, slid. For one, brief, wrenching moment, she felt herself slip from the top of the horse, and knew she would fall beneath its pounding hooves. She exhaled, closing her eyes, and did not try to hang on. It could all be over. I could just give up.
A strong hand seized her flightsuit and hauled her back up and over the horse’s spine, saying, “Do not think you can get away from me so easily, Centralite.”
At being grabbed, her survival instinct kicked back in, and Jules’s eyes snapped open. She hissed and snarled like a cat cornered by a hound, flailing briefly. “No? What if I commanded it of you? You take orders well from women, yes? Or perhaps just your sister?” she said, spitting the words, waiting for his reaction, wondering if he’d let her fall. If she could survive being trampled. If she could get away in the confusion. She felt herself begin to slide again.
He snorted, rolling his eyes, saying, “Summus Nixus is my commanding officer. You’re my prisoner. There is quite a difference.” When she slipped that time, he jerked the horse to a stop and grabbed hold of her, simply wrestling her briefly until she was sitting in front of him in the saddle. It was uncomfortable, still, but far better than being laid across the horse. He grabbed her chin and turned her face to look at him. He peered down at her over her shoulder, and in his eyes Jules was stunned to see concern. “Are you trying to provoke me?” he wondered.
Jules stared up at the man, her already pale eyes faded in exhaustion. She forgot, for a moment, why she’d nearly let herself fall from the horse and instead, tried a different tactic to keep the conversation on her own terms. “Who survived the crash?” Jules asked, breathless. “The Jac–the Eburneis Dea? Who walked away from it?”
“I would not know. Nixus will handle them. They are not of my concern,” he explained, shrugging. “Now hold on; I must deliver this message, and then perhaps I will be able to question you properly.”
Something about the lightness in the man’s tone was enough to make Jules’s stomach turn; she jerked her chin back out of his hand and faced front, gripping the braided mane of the horse beneath her. “Ride, then,” she said dully. “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
Posted in Deathwatch, Fiction, Serial
Tagged battle, Coryphaeus, death, deathwatch, fiction, Ilonan, Jules, Nixus, serial, writing
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Thanks
A sigh of contentment;
you are all I need
after a long day,
a hard week,
a dulling month,
an exhausting year
(a torrential lifetime).
It is hard;
things are hard
(the bed is soft),
but we will rise above,
s l o w l y,
even as we slog here
under the mud (along the bottom of the ocean,
with the peaches and the crabs).
It may get harder yet,
for all we know.
It may grow deeper, still —
there may be further yet to fall.
We never know these things,
but all the same,
your hand in my hand
(I don’t need both
for the road),
and we will enjoy
the little things that matter,
and let slide off
even the bigger ones that don’t.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged life, love, marriage, poem, poems, poetry, relationships, some poems are more real than others, writing
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This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things
They don’t all die. In an infinite universe, an infinite number of them die, but an infinite number, just as well, live. This one never had a chance at a fancy School for the Gifted, nor was she picked up by any fanatics within a Top Secret Government Organizations.
This one is just as scarred as all the rest, just as scared, just as furious, only she’s never known anyone, those who might’ve been friends, or even just teammates.
This one is currently locked in a battle of fists and hate, her expression twisted into a grimace of fury. Her full lips are parted, revealing a snarl, her teeth wet with blood, some of it dripping over her chin. A long multistriped scarf is clenched up in her fists and wound about the neck of a pasty-skinned man three times her width. He looks astonished, himself, and is struggling to kick her, to bring her down, his own expression twisting into red-faced agony and eye-bulging determination, but she is tall and daddy-long-legged, and can mostly stay out of his way, dancing around, twisting him this way and that.
More than a few blows land on her, however–and it looks, from the ragged tears on her clothing and the bloody knife on the ground was once his–that she’s beginning to lose the struggle.
“He was three,” she growls at him. “Three fuckin’ years old, Kevin–”
“I don’ give a shit,” Kevin snaps, half-bluster, half-fury of his own.”
She talks right over him, as though he were silent. “–and you gave his ma somethin’ hot–”
“Fuggin ho can’t handle her shit, not my fault, y’crazy bitch!” he yells.
Still, she keeps talking, almost calm, her voice low, her voice angry, and only for him. “–an’ she strapped ‘im inna fuckin’ chair, an’ she sewed his fuckin’ mouth shut–”
The big man chokes, looking like he might vomit, and gurgles out, “Fuggin’junkiewhore ain’ my fuggin problem–”
“I’m MAKIN’ IT YOUR FUCKIN’ PROBLEM KEVIN!” she shrieks, giving him a tooth-rattling shake, and then her voice goes low again, calm and determined. “Three years old. His name was Dion. They found him Four. Days. Later, Kevin,” she says, using his name again and again, as if to drive home that she is talking to him. Handing over this guilt she found, she feels, she knows belongs to him. Here, I noticed this belongs to you and I feel like you should have it back.
“She was dead on the fuckin floor ’cause her heart gave out, and that fuckin three year old got himself outta his chair and laid down on his momma, his momma who fucked him up after you fucked her up. She’d been clean for Eight. Fucking. Months, you piece of shit. He curled up with his momma, and he fuckin’ died on the dirty kitchen floor,” she hisses, tears rolling over her cheeks, streaking through blood. “His name was Dion. Say it, Kevin. His name was Dion. SAY IT.”
He gurgles again, twisting, trying to kick, and she actually lets go of him, of the scarf, doubled over as though to catch her breath. She lets him fall back to hit the wall of the alleyway, and push himself up.
“Say it,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her fingerless gloves. “His name was Dion. You killed his ma on purpose, n’just as on purpose, y’killed him. Say ‘is fuckin’ name, Kevin.”
“Ain’ sayin shit,” he rasps. “Ain’ sayin shit. Dirty fuggin crackho momma ain’t my–” And then his face goes even more pale, and he seems to lean back against the wall, flattened there. “–th’fuggyou doin, crazy bitch?” he gasps.
The girl, all blood and tatters and a wild mane of beaded, braided, ribboned, natted hair looks up at him, and the tears from her eyes darken, and turn red, spilling, looking like warpaint. “Say his fuckin’ name,” she whispers.
“Dion,” the man wheezes. “Dion Travers. Name’s Dion Travers. Dion Travers!” he says, his voice going high as he begins to panic. “Fuckyoucrazybitchwhatyoudoin? DION! I SAID IT! DION!”
She looks weakened, but watches him as he writhes on the wall, as a no-wind-no-sound touch begins to stir up the debris and garbage in the alleyway. The world crawls with unseen pressure.
“Whattayougonnadonow?” he whines, still struggling.
She spits blood, and stands, slowly, her face a mask of dead, despite the bared-teeth grin curling her lips. Her eyes are reddened, bloody, and she says, her voice toneless, “When you get to hell–”
“No you don’t, you fuckin crazybitch–”
“–I really, really fucking hope–” she says, taking a step toward him, lifting a hand.
“–fuckfuckfuckfuckYOUgoddamncrazy–” Full on panic, now, and he gags and his eyes roll as he struggles, violently, against nothing and no one. A dark stain spreads down the left leg of his low-slung jeans.
“–that you get to feel this, forever. You know? Because this is what he felt–” and she takes another step closer, and lays a hand on his chest.
“–NoNONO!–” He howls, but the sounds are covered by cars honking, sirens wailing, brakes squealing, whores calling, gangs shouting, kids playing, feet walking, tires squealing, dogs barking, every bit of life the city itself has to offer, a symphony to cover his fears and her sins alike.
“–while he cried to the one person who could’ve saved him. Just like you’re doin now–” she says, her voice low again, quiet.
“I’m sorry! I’M SORRY! I’M SO FUCKIN SORRY!” Kevin bawls, nearly incoherent in fear and misery.
“–t’me. I know,” she says, spreading her fingers out over his sternum, splaying them long and wide. “His name was Dion. And I get that you’re sorry, Kevin. I do,” she says, and her hand flattens against his chest, and all the strange pressure, the strange touch that moves through the alleyway coalesces, and there is a shockwave that seems to move through Kevin, and his last shriek of protest dies in his throat as he jerks, as something in him gives, as the front of his chest caves in with a startlingly wet crunch, and the wall behind him becomes slickly painted, deep red and glistening pale as his insides become his outsides, front to back.
She lets him go, then, drops the refuse of his leftovers against the alley floor, and stands there, staring down at him, at it.
“But sorry ain’t good enough.”
Posted in Fiction, Flash
Tagged baby, blood, cat, cat jones, catastrophe, catastrophe jones, crackwhore, crime, death, Dion Travers, drugs, fiction, fight, flash, flash fiction, jones, Kevin, punishment, revenge, vengeance, writing
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