Friday, September 23, 2011

Reflection

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I think about you
And how you changed me
Long were the days I spent waiting for my own courage
And you made them worthwhile
It's silly, I know
To let myself be awash in feeling
Over an encounter so short-lived
(I don't deserve such indulgence)
But for that time
My world was perfect
Visions of the future appeared in the foreground
And I painted you in them for my amusement
But even still I am insatiable
Seeing how you've changed, moved on
Adapted
It weighs heavily upon me
The dark, bitter tumor in the blood
That chills like ice
I can't shake the death rattle
No matter how long I wait
Or how strongly I numb myself
The paintings come back
And you're still there
So the loathing returns
Perhaps I need another to show me courage again
And for the cycle to repeat
I want to be happy for you
I can't.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

How To Feed A Piano


The musician stares blankly ahead. The studio has gone quiet. He has learned that great art requires a deep, crippling emotional investment. This piece is devouring each and every one of his waking moments. He is so close to greatness, but cannot be sure how to take the final step.
By this point, it is easy to blame his lack of an answer on his instruments. They are old, but well-tuned. Former possessions of very dead people. He wants to hack away at every last splinter of wood or taut cord of steel, but he knows better. Destruction would be too easy. A coward's escape from achieving perfection. Only by remaining in this personal struggle will he ever be free. His true salvation lies in creation.
That's where the new piano came from. All of his time, money, resources; every part of his material being is bequeathed to building the perfect instrument. Of course it isn't enough. They say that Rome wasn't built in a day, but it also wasn't built by one man. The musician needs help.
The smoke and filth of the city outside. He lurks in dark alleys, identical to the night sky. A weak-willed woman crosses his path. He grabs her wrist. She screams. It's over.
Back in the studio. Her soul now indistinguishable from his, he harvests what he has claimed. Each night, his victim sings her melancholy tune. Bones make the sweetest music.

To Fall

Disappointment is heavy on the senses
The eyes refuse to believe it
Over and over
They joyfully relive the message
Perhaps this time it won't have really happened
Quick, quick
Cover the tracks
Never to be acknowledged
To only live in the mind
The constant reminder

Far From This Place

Far from this place
Exists the unattainable
And the unthinkable
And the unimaginable
Far from this place
Are marvels yet to be understood
Art yet to be made
Beauty yet to be harvested
Far from this place
Idle summers lie
Held in inscrutable secrecy
A glass orb
The mind of a child
And the dreams you grew out of
Every fantasy
Every indulgence
Every passing imaginary delight
Is far from this place
The search may seem impossible
But it is fitting
For such impossible rewards
Let us never give up the search
Never forget
What is far from this place

Monday, May 30, 2011

25 Bastards


I dwell in a cave
With 24 bastards
Light from the monitor
Guides the way
Each one in file
A queen
A gambler
A philosopher
A comedian
A thinker
A diplomat
A witty mute
A poet
A pontiff
A paragon
A voice of reason
A smooth talker
A caretaker
A wanderer
A seedling
A killer
A heartbreaker
A tinker
A hermit
A crusader
A fool
A navigator
A watcher
A mystery
And me.

Fade Out


There, once clear in my mind
His face, once vivid
And his voice, no longer clear
Time passes ͡҉҉ ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ ҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑ ͡҉҉
It is gradual
Yet I am unworthy to be
His m ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ ҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑ ͡҉҉ nument
Time's ineffable sands
Fall with him
I am not fit to be sentinel to your memory. ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ ҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑ ͡҉҉

Deepdown


(Another Norte Region related post. Don't mind me...)
Cirocco Jones sits in her laboratory, casually flipping through one of her many textbooks. Today, she is choosing to learn about chemistry. She is stretched out across her throne in as luxurious a pose as she can possibly strike; legs hanging over one arm of the chair, her head lolling about with the book in front of it over the other. She runs an alabaster hand through a contrastingly darkened mess of short, militaristic hair. As she does, it shimmers with the same unknowable darkness as the city at night. A spattered lab coat hugs her body.
The battle she has just lost still rings angrily in her mind. Five upstarts from Greenhorn Town. Four young girls and what Cirocco assumed was their hired muscle. They may have been rookies, but there was something special about them. Even Nox, her prized Trubbish, had been dispatched effortlessly. Cirocco was confident in her strength. Those kids were tremendous.
She twitches her mousy nose to move her glasses back into place. The good thing about Deepdown City is that she rarely gets interrupted from her reading.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

The Norte Region



I wrote the following opening for a Pokemon: Tabletop Adventures campaign I'm GMing:

In the faraway region of Norte, humanity has fallen by the wayside. While crime and debauchery ravage the region, civilization's impact encroaches upon the rural and natural realms of the world. As both the government and police lose control of the quickly dissenting populace, rumours of a war with Kanto are whispered amongst the many impoverished peoples. A shadowy criminal organization known enigmatically as Team Rapture threatens the very rule of law in the land and their impenetrable motives are known to no one but themselves. You are a beginning trainer, living in the quickly dying Greenhorn Village. The village elders have deigned you eligible to represent your home at the Norte Pokemon League and leave your mark on history. A world of grand adventure awaits! Let's go!

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The Ten

[I am in an upscale restaurant on the far side of town, waiting for the subject of my interview to arrive. It is getting late. I am wondering if they have decided to stand me up. I curse myself for thinking this story would go anywhere. Just as the third basket of bread is brought to my table, however, a suntanned and spindly-limbed individual with thick glasses and a cream-coloured ponytail enters the restaurant and is shown to my table. I notice as he sits down that the rain outside has stopped. He shakes my hand. The interview begins.]


Before we start, I must thank you for your kind invitation. [He is clearly nervous.] I, uh, I didn't catch your name.


Mark Deschamps. What shall I call you?


[He sighs and shakes his head.] I hate answering this question. Being a part of our society means – [he pauses to think] – relinquishing one's identity. I avoid using my given name wherever possible simply because names don't really mean anything anymore. I've used more fake names and aliases than you can count on both hands. It's not something you're forced to participate in, but once you're one of us, you want to.


So, would you rather I not call you anything?


Sorry, sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. I am Number Two of the Covenant of Ten.


Alright, Number Two. If I may ask, what does your number denote? Rank?


No. It just means I was given the second relic. [He shakes his head with condescending derision.] I guess you wouldn't know what that means. Well, in our society, the Covenant or the Ten or whatever name pleases you, there are ten of us. Each one carries a relic. They are each numbered and we take on the numbers as our names.


Why?


I told you. I don't know. It just feels right. Looking at your relic is like looking at a piece of your soul. You don't know how you lived before you could hold it. You keep it with you at all times. We build our lives around protecting these relics and we keep them from getting lost.


Forgive me for being so bold, but you're being incredibly cryptic. Can you show me a relic? What do they do? Where do they come from?

Here. Look at mine. [He pulls up his shirt sleeve to show me a bracelet of wooden beads held tightly around his wrist. There is a large, square bead in the centre with a “2” emblazoned on it.] It looks just like a useless trinket you'd find at a flea market.


Is it?


Absolutely not. The bracelet changes the weather. Wherever it is, the sun is always shining, without fault.


[I am incredulous.] Can you seriously defend that claim?


I haven't seen a drop of rain in forty years. We can go cause a drought if you need proof. Anyway, no point in trying to make that point. The relics are self-evident. You asked where the relics came from. Number Seven gave them to us.


[I decide to humour him.] And what is the seventh relic?


It's gone. Gone forever. Not squandered though. Number Seven had all the relics when we met him. He selected us based on his own arcane observations and contacted us through letters. He tried to keep us apart, but the relics are drawn to each other. I still keep in contact with Number Three and Number Eight and One and Five got married, but that's ancient history. I probably couldn't tell you if they were still alive.


Do you know where Seven got his relics?


No. He is miles more cryptic than I am. The only thing he ever explained to us outright was what his did. That was part of the pact. We had to partake of his gift to receive our own. It was strangely altruistic.


So what was it?


A chocolate bar, segmented into twelve pieces and wrapped up in gold foil. I remember that each piece was branded with a big 7. When you break off a piece and eat it, you are frozen in time. Immortal and changeless for a hundred years.


Immortal? [I chuckle with disbelief.] How old are you?


One hundred and three. I still have another sixty on the clock before I turn to dust. [He laughs this time.] Three has it rough, though. She was much, much younger than I when she was chosen. She's been seventeen for the past forty years. Can you imagine how frustrating that must be?


Honestly, I'm having a great deal of trouble imagining anything you're saying. Wouldn't nigh-eternal youth attract negative attention?


A century is hardly “nigh-eternal.” The relics, like anything else, come with downsides. People like Three and myself need to move around a lot. Not because I look young, because I don't, but because I don't want to cause a natural disaster. Three tends to cross the country every decade or so to remain inconspicuous.


[I feel slightly put-off by what I'm being told. Number Two speaks with the solemn face of a man on trial for murder. It's absurd.] How about we turn to the subject of the Covenant's practices as a group, rather than its individual members. Do you have meetings or reunions?


We used to. But some people began to regret their inclusion. They drifted away. I don't know for sure if they're still in possession of their relics, but there's a good chance they are. A relic is like an addiction.


What was so awful about the Covenant that would make the others leave?


They couldn't handle their powers. Keep in mind it wasn't a total dispersal. I'm still well-adjusted. So are most. It was Number Four and Number Ten that had it the worst.


What relics did they have?


Four got the perfume. An unassuming little bottle with “No. 4” on the label in fancy script with an endless fount of sweet-smelling magic inside. The perfume made Four wildly attractive to nearly anyone.


Nearly anyone? Who could resist the magic perfume?


The perfume repulsed the people he loved. It was a curse certainly, but I think he might have been better off. When Seven took notice of him, he was just a scared, shy little kid. Picked last for gym class, all the cliches. Seven spent a long time watching Four, looking for the perfume's caretaker. It had to be a real special case. Seven waited until Four was all grown up before letting him have it.


Four was special?


Four deserved it. His relic showed him how to be well-adjusted and he lost his social anxiety issues. The only problem was that Seven misjudged him. I'm just taking wild guesses, but I don't think that a life of wild, meaningless partying was what that little bespectacled nerd had in mind. He put the Covenant behind him decades ago.


[I can feel hostility rising in Number Two's voice. Am I probing too much? He shouldn't make the story so enticing if he doesn't want me to be genuinely interested, albeit extremely sceptical.] You also mentioned Number Ten. What happened to them?


Ten started off as a nice guy. He was without a doubt the eldest member. Seven gave him a dog.


[I have to interrupt at this point.] A dog? The “relic” is a dog? [Scepticism is thick in my voice.]


Yes. A great big sheep dog. Named Decamus.


How appropriate.


Indeed. He had a little golden name tag hanging from his collar with a big 10 on it. Anyway, this dog makes gold.


Excuse me?


The dog produces gold. Every morning, it'll hork up a huge ball of precious metal. Ten got rich. He retired and lived on the little “investments” Decamus left him. He developed a taste for studying history. He needed something to do with all the free time. So he got Three to help him.


[I'm finding myself more and more engrossed in the mad fantasy of this man. I'm practically kicking myself for almost thinking he stood me up.] You keep mentioning Number Three. What was special about her?


Three got a necklace. A silver chain with three pearls at the centre that is still as beautiful as it was on the day she first wore it. As long as it's around her neck, Three can merely touch a book and learn whatever knowledge is kept inside. For Ten, Three was a much a pet as Decamus. Anyway, Ten eventually went mad from greed. He's retreated to an island in the South Pacific for the rest of his life. He doesn't want to see the Covenant ever again. So, in answer to your original question, we used to meet up to talk about our lives and be normal people decades ago, but Four and Ten have since estranged themselves.


I see. I think we've established enough background on the Covenant of Ten. Let's get to what I'm really interested in hearing about: you. How does this affect your life? [I don't even believe that these words are coming out of my mouth. I'm letting myself get absorbed.]


I'm fine, just as long as I don't stay in one city for weeks on end. I've been blessed with the obligation to become a jet-setter. I don't call it a privilege because I don't have a choice. My bracelet makes the weather balmy and beautiful. There isn't much of a downside. Although, I used to spend a lot of time worrying about the others when I was first inducted.


Tell me more about that. [Why am I believing everything he says so freely? Number Two has superhuman charisma.]


Despite my number, I was one of the last to be found. I'm surprised that Seven felt the need to go to great lengths to find the one man worthy of never getting caught in the rain. After I ate the chocolate, Number Eight took a liking to me. He was a bit too friendly to not be suspicious at the same time, but I entertained the friendship. His relic was this huge gas lantern, like the kind you go camping with. If he lit it and held it up to a wall, he could see inside. He loved to take me on little joyrides around the suburbs, watching people eating dinner, fighting, fucking, whatever. He was a little weird and depraved and I worried about his mental health. He was the Lex Luthor of Peeping Toms. [Another derisive laugh. He turns his gaze to the ceiling, as though lost in his own memories.] Those were the good old days. We felt like a secret club. It was kind of funny; I always thought we'd end up being superheroes like in comic books. Now, that just feels like a dumb, youthful delusion. The gifts we possess are more suitable for personal gain than actually helping people.


You said you still keep in contact with Eight. Why?


Because it's hard to forge relationships when you live like me. Eight understands why I live the way I do. Three understands because she does it herself. They're friends of convenience. I'll take what I can get.


Do you have any regrets about joining the Covenant?


Wouldn't matter if I did or didn't. I don't, by the way. I certainly was resistant at the time. The whole thing felt too weird. I had as much disbelief in my heart then as you must now. I certainly would not have wanted an “average” life. I can't be sure how many of those exist, anyway. [He pauses for a moment to think. He slowly starts to speak again.] How did you find out about the Covenant of Ten?


[I am taken aback. I didn't expect him to ask about my sources.] No one special.


I can tell that's a lie. You think no one special would be aware of us? Of me? Who told you? [His tone is rising. I am growing fearful. I worry that the interview needs to be cut short.]


[I sigh. I've lost the will to hide anything from this man.] A woman came into my office at the newspaper. She said she had something she wanted me to write a story about. I agreed and followed her to an alley behind the building at her request.


And you didn't find this strange?


[Suddenly I'm the one on trial.] Yes, I did. That's why I went after her. She refused me every time I asked for her name. She said she didn't want credit. She just wanted the story told. [I pause for breath. I'm worried that I'm toying with forces I shouldn't be.] Anyway, when we got to the alley, she gave me a hammer and said to wail on this old TV she found as hard as I can. I tried to ask her why but I could only get the same predictable refusal of information. I complied, if only to see what she was planning. I completely destroyed the thing. She then, totally wordlessly, pulled a small brass bell from her purse. She rang her little bell and, and I have no way of explaining this, she fixed the TV. The plastic and glass and little bits that were all over the ground were once again a television. Then she scribbled down your info in case I wanted to learn more and left.


[Number Two is clearly enraged by this.] Number Six! That bitch! I don't believe it. What did she think she was doing? [He takes a deep breath.] I should have seen it coming. She was capricious, always liked to push people. Me especially. Eight and I used to joke that she liked to collect the looks on people's faces when she was done with them. Was this her idea of fun?


I don't know.


[Number Two is quiet for a moment. Then, he rifles through his bag. After a brief search, he produces a remote control. It is emblazoned with the number 9.]


For you. The chocolate made us immortal, but not invincible. Nine was killed. This was his.


Why are you giving it to me?


Just try it. Seven said it lets you change your appearance to whatever you choose. Nine loved it. He took the impersonations too far, though. That's why he's dead. Don't do that.


Why are you telling me this?


Seven's been watching you, Mr. Deschamps. Six may have spoiled the surprise, but Seven assured me that you're the right fit for the Covenant. I guess what I said is true. The Ten always find each other.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Falter

The house was ancient and vaguely familiar, as though I had seen it in a dream sometime before. The paint on every wall was faded and shriveling into little grey strips, peeling their way up the wall. Some of the windows weren't entirely there and the carpets were invariably discoloured and occasionally wet.
When I found the old place, it looked as though the previous inhabitants had left without much warning. Despite damage from regular exposure to the elements, the furniture had been left mostly intact and right where it should be.
I hadn't been expecting to find a ghost town here; it wasn't marked on the map. What was left of the surrounding area was sparse, desolate, and tiny. The omission from my maps did not surprise me. I have no idea why I chose to get out of my car and put everything on hold to look around the decaying ruins. Something about it seemed to invite me.

Spider

Rays of sunlight pierced the window and hung off the web, dangling dreamily. The spider, bulbous and coloured like fallen leaves, thoughtfully and industriously wraps its prey in a shell of gossamer to enjoy later. The spider drags the doomed morsel ever closer to the edge of the web, just out of view under the window's top ledge.
With only its latest catch for company, the spider merely exists to wait for its next meal. It scrambles across its structure, constantly perfecting its work. Deftly, and with shocking dexterity, it maneuvers its way around its silky edifice, forever perfecting its macabre waltz.

Morris

Yes, Mariah, I am aware that this is a JPEG. The ship creaked and squealed under the weight of the storm. The air was crowded with the noises of sails ripping, men screaming orders, and the unrelenting din of the storm itself thundering above. At the time, I was hiding from my duties in my cabin, deep within the ship. Secretly, I found the situation thrilling.
I will concede that on more than one occasion, I sometimes imagined the sort of adventure I might have, shipwrecked and alone on a deserted island. There was a morbid romance to it.
I heard another crash outside. More and more men running past my door and shouting unintelligible things. I was beginning to grow worried. I gathered up my belongings in my trunk, should I need to evacuate with any great haste. Just as I was about to lock the trunk, I heard a high-pitched and peevish whine from under my desk. I turned around to find the source of the sound: Morris, the ship's cat. He was a graying and grumpy old beast, but he had taken a shine to me.
"Terrible, isn't it?" I asked him.
He replied with another meow and rubbed his face against my lower leg affectionately. He hopped across the room and bounded his way to atop my trunk.
"Don't worry, old man, I won't forget about you," I told Morris, soothing him as best I could.
I'm sure that if he could, he would have responded favourably.
There was more commotion outside. I was certain that I had pulled the phrase "Get to the lifeboats" from the cacophony.
"Come on, Morris," I told the cat, shockingly calmly despite the present circumstances, "I think it might be time for us to leave."
He came down from the trunk and followed at my heels. I dragged my possessions out of my cabin and in the direction of the lifeboats. Morris stayed close by at all times. He was a pleasantly simple creature; he had no earthly items to worry about bringing along.
My final moments aboard the ship remain a blur. I do know that Morris and I made it to a lifeboat and I know that we were alone aboard it. However, all that remains after that is a terrible cracking noise, the loudest either of us had ever heard. Past that, my memory is blank. I awoke surrounded by foggy ocean with only Morris for company. I was grateful to have him. I found a cache of water bottles and dehydrated rations that might last us a few weeks.
The cat looked up at me forlornly as if to ask "why us?"
"I don't know, Morris. I just don't know."
We were adrift for days. Sometimes, just for something to do, I would shout at the fog that hung all around us. I begged the sea itself for mercy. Of course, nothing came of it.
I was thankful that Morris was a light eater and a heavy sleeper. While I spent my time hollering at no one for help, Morris was doing the smart thing and saving his energy. He was much wiser than I originally thought.