Writing Prompt: Go someplace, use all five of your senses, and for thirty minutes write about the place you’re in. Not the people though. Just the place.
---
Sapel waited in a small café that overlooked the busy street. The quaint little store was run by a young couple who had thrown their life savings to bring a glimpse of the western world to a bustling city utterly preoccupied with itself.
He ordered a cool drink to fight off the humidity of the summer day and took the stairs up to the balcony that overlooked the bustling marketplace. It was clear to him that the owners had worked hard to create an image of a western home. Oversize sofas were intermixed with hand-carved wooden benches, giving a sense that nature itself was accepted the invitation of peace offered here. Potted plants and trees were scattered throughout the balcony to provide shade for customers who were now huddled underneath the cool shade afforded by their branches.
Sapel sat on a bench apart from the other customers, some of whom made no effort to hide their surprise at his cultural slight. In a country so densely populated the sign of greatest arrogance was to claim solitude. Sapel knew this, but one can only endure the same conversations, questions, and frustration their dialect posed for only so long.
Music wafted up from the lower café, the lone musician plucking a quiet tune on his instrument providing a contrast for the sellers hawking their goods steps away from him. It was as if this place waged a war to keep the chaos of the eastern culture at bay, with mixed success.
The musician added his voice to the sound of the lute, and Sapel smiled. It was a harmony of an western instrument playing a western tune, but was threaded with the warbling voice now popular here, holding little concern with matching the key of the instrument.
The drink arrived in a tall glass, condensation already budding in the heat of the mid-morning sun. He took a sip and relished the taste of home, a deep richness of the chocolate balanced by the slightest hint of bitterness. The wooden bench he rested on, while beautiful to look at, lacked any real comfort. Privacy was worth the cost, with the comfortable chairs already claimed by the early morning patrons.
As he was looking out onto the chaotic street below he heard a crash come from behind him in the direction of the bar where the drinks were made. Sapel sighed, and as if on que the musician below reached for a note he had no chance of grasping. The patrons of the store roared with laughter at the distraught server who had dropped her tray, her week’s wages surely now lost to pay for the glasses shattered on the floor.
He forced the bitterness down that welled in his stomach and raised the glass to his lips to distract himself from the scene, searching for the semblance of the aura that had driven him here in the first place. Casting his eyes about the balcony his eyes fixed on the potted tree nearest him. Sapel wondered at how such a tree, 4 meters high, could survive with such a small pot. It was bearing flowers common in this area, with waxy leaves that drew his attention further.
Restlessly rising from his chair, glass in hand, he made his way through the crowded balcony towards the tree. Indeed, the leaves had a glossy look to them, and now as he was closer, not only the flowers but also the bark itself appeared as if coated and sealed with wax.
He realized with a start that the tree was dead, frozen in time. It must have been dug up somehow submerged in wax to provide the appearance of life, when in fact life had long departed.
In his growing frustration he filled his mouth with the drink, hoping to drive away the anger, but he tasted only imitation.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Writing Excuses 6.10: Idea
She stormed out of the kitchen, fists held tightly to her side it balls of rage. Another refusal. Another year of mystery. Another year alone in the prison of nature. The young girl flung open the door, the thud of the wood on wood reverberating through the small cabin.
“Wait, Scarlet!”
She barely heard the pleas of her mother as she found herself run into the safety of the woods that surrounded the homestead. Scarlet let her feet carry her where they willed, the miles surrounding her home were as familiar to her as of a crib to an infant. The ancient oak and elm were all she had ever known, and she felt the tension of the captive’s revulsion of their cell with the sweet familiarity of home.
To be refused permission to wander past the old familiar boundaries hadn’t shocked her. That particular battle was one she had all but lost hope of ever winning. But the reason had always been the same. There is no one else. There is no safety, no one to see.
Then she had found the painting.
Never before had she seen a work of art, let alone one that seemed a wisened image of her own reflection, so carefully studied in the quiet eddies of the stream than ran behind her home. Scarlet had suspected there were family members that existed outside of the quiet valley, but her mother had always fervently denied such claims. After this conflict, Scarlet refused to let herself believe anything her mother said.
Who was the old woman in the photo? And why was her mother so quick to deny her existence when it was clear she had taken great pains to keep the painting safe?
“Wait, Scarlet!”
She barely heard the pleas of her mother as she found herself run into the safety of the woods that surrounded the homestead. Scarlet let her feet carry her where they willed, the miles surrounding her home were as familiar to her as of a crib to an infant. The ancient oak and elm were all she had ever known, and she felt the tension of the captive’s revulsion of their cell with the sweet familiarity of home.
To be refused permission to wander past the old familiar boundaries hadn’t shocked her. That particular battle was one she had all but lost hope of ever winning. But the reason had always been the same. There is no one else. There is no safety, no one to see.
Then she had found the painting.
Never before had she seen a work of art, let alone one that seemed a wisened image of her own reflection, so carefully studied in the quiet eddies of the stream than ran behind her home. Scarlet had suspected there were family members that existed outside of the quiet valley, but her mother had always fervently denied such claims. After this conflict, Scarlet refused to let herself believe anything her mother said.
Who was the old woman in the photo? And why was her mother so quick to deny her existence when it was clear she had taken great pains to keep the painting safe?
Monday, August 8, 2011
Writing Excuses 6.10: Millieu
Writing Prompt: Apply the M.I.C.E. quotient to Red Riding Hood, and write at least one page of story per element. Wow, this sounds a lot like homework.
Millieu:
Cane peered longingly into the blue sky that taunted him from the enveloping darkness. Freedom beckoned, the faintest whisper of wind teased as it brushed softly against his ears before retreating back to dance among the trees. Freedom.
He slowly turned around to the task at hand, even more bitter than before at the task set before him. “Why are we doing this”, he growled, daring one of the pack to answer him. None acknowledged the question, but continued to dig, nose to the earth.
Humiliating.
Just as he was about to rejoin his brothers he felt the bite of something eating into his skin. Fleas and beetles were all that lived in this hole, insects that could not or would not risk their exposure of their scent. The thought of this snapped something inside the already broken wolf.
Life was all I have, he thought. Breath, choice…and I will not waste it here. I will hunt.
And so without a word, Cane left the pack. Never again would he rest beneath the earth. He would hunt. And those that caused the debasing of his brethren would be his prey.
---
This is in response to how the story ends: supposedly after red riding hood and the grandmother gets cut out of him by the hunter, they refill him with rocks and push him into a well…
Millieu:
Cane peered longingly into the blue sky that taunted him from the enveloping darkness. Freedom beckoned, the faintest whisper of wind teased as it brushed softly against his ears before retreating back to dance among the trees. Freedom.
He slowly turned around to the task at hand, even more bitter than before at the task set before him. “Why are we doing this”, he growled, daring one of the pack to answer him. None acknowledged the question, but continued to dig, nose to the earth.
Humiliating.
Just as he was about to rejoin his brothers he felt the bite of something eating into his skin. Fleas and beetles were all that lived in this hole, insects that could not or would not risk their exposure of their scent. The thought of this snapped something inside the already broken wolf.
Life was all I have, he thought. Breath, choice…and I will not waste it here. I will hunt.
And so without a word, Cane left the pack. Never again would he rest beneath the earth. He would hunt. And those that caused the debasing of his brethren would be his prey.
---
This is in response to how the story ends: supposedly after red riding hood and the grandmother gets cut out of him by the hunter, they refill him with rocks and push him into a well…
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Exploring Magic
This is simply me messing around with a magic system. Catch is I cannot figure out the 'cost'. Concentration? Too simple. Faith? Huge issues, and Brooks kinda already hit it. Dunno. 'Fatigue and natural limitations' seems to generic. So we'll see. Other than that, I like the scene, Levinti's character, etc.. I do need to go back and deal with the 'camp' part at the end, how no one actually enters the shed during / after the confrontation.
Levinti could feel his muscles quiver, the tension refusing to leave despite his best efforts to slow his breathing. In the quiet dark of the woodshed, the sound of his heartbeat, a beast that railed in fear within him. He could hear the shouts in the distance as the camp roused itself, a beast that had been roused. That he had roused.
What was I thinking?
The shouting grew nearer, and Levi forced his heart to slow, recalling his training.
Rest.
All is known.
Peace comes.
The words of hope that had been ingrained in him, braced against the wave of doubt he knew would accompany the coming chaos.
Eyes opening, he unclenched his fist, to reveal the goal of this endeavor. A small leather pouch rested quietly in his hand. Was this really worth the cost?
Levinti hoped it was. And then knew it was. The practice of calming complete, doubt was gone, sealed off to the recesses of his mind.
A change in the air. The door opened, and doubt attacked him. Wave after wave it assailed him, as he knew it would. The doubt that accompanies every dark one. Levi was not caught unprepared.
Under his breath he began the chant of earth, in the ancient tone. A change began to occur.
In the old woodshed, the dust that had coated everything, began to rise. To a normal human, the change would have been inperceivable, especially in the deep black of the early hours, the two moons having become hidden behind the veil.
His stalker was no human. Levi could feel the being tense with the sudden realization that its prey was within reach.
Before it could signal its companions, Levi, still chanting, changed its tempo and he drew more deeply into the authority given him.
The ancient words still flowing, a form of beauty that danced in his mind, he formed an image in his mind, hardening it against all doubt.
And the dust obeyed.
The harmless particles that had rested in the air slammed together and bonded instantly into a rod. His opponent seemed stunned at seeing the chanting. All knew the monks of the age were gone. Levi didn’t give him the chance to reform that belief.
Whirling out from behind his cover with impossible speed, he slipped his fingers around the newly formed staff with his right hand, continuing to spin as he crossed the distance of the shed in a single step.
Never stopping his chanting, he raised his voice in earnestness to enhance the strength of the staff. The staff slammed into the head of the opponent. The dark one shuddered at the blow and fell to his knees.
But Levinti knew he was in trouble. The blow should have ended the fight.
Rising to its feet, the warrior unsheathed its bronze sword, a deep laughter coming from its throat, chilling the night air. The bulwark of certainty in Levi held. Barely.
The attack came. Blow after blow slammed into Levi. Desperately he parried with his staff. The foe was impossibly strong, and he could feel the melded staff begin to weaken from the blows of the bronze blade.
The fight grew increasingly difficult in the confines of the smaller shed. Shifting his chant between blows, he dropped the tempo for a moment as he forged a new image in his mind. The staff became two.
The dark one grunted, changing its attack. Slamming the sword down, Levi was forced to bring both rods together to block the attack. The dark one slammed its left fist into Levi’s exposed stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
The bulwark trembled under the strain of doubt.
Defeat was inevitable. It always had been.
Sword drawn, the dark one stepped forward, kneeling to Levi’s level. He reached a hand, pulling the monk’s face up to meet his own. The hand was as cold as ice. Its voice colder.
“Tell me, singer. How did you escape the inquisition?”
Its tone was distinctly curious. And demanding.
Dawn was coming, the faintest light seemed to leak into the shed. The being had left the door open. Levi forced himself to meet its eyes as he continued grasp for air, in a vain attempt to fill his lungs. Fear…the certainty of death, raged in his soul.
What was the point?
The dark one gripped Levi’s chin, bringing the tip of the sword to bear on his chin. He could feel the cold metal slit open the skin, the warm moisture of his blood dripping down his throat.
The dark one’s eyes bored into Levi. “Tell me.”
All curiosity was now gone, replaced by a heartless authority.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the mist of early morning seeping in through the doorway. Hope surged, within, and doubt gave way. The dark one felt it, and glanced in surprise to what had caused this change. This was all the monk needed.
Levi silently chanted the song of morn, drawing the mist to himself. It raced to him, feeding hope, seeping into his skin. Giving life. Lending strength. Taking the chant, he shifted to combine the melody of morn with the harmony of dust.
The fallen rods had left two piles of dust at his side. They leapt towards his hands, coating them, gauntlets of dust as they melded.
All of this took place in a momentary glance. When the dark one looked back, he saw the steadfast hope in his victim. Knowing his mistake, he drove the sword home.
But it was too late. The chant rhythmically holding sway in his mind, Levi grabbed the blade with his left hand. The sword sliced his cheek open as it passed. Clenching his right fist, he brought it up with all his might into the chin of the dark one. With the force of both chants it lifted the being into the air, throwing him across the room.
Blood dripping from both wounds, Levi pulled himself to his feet and walked to the broken body of the fallen.
Keeping his vow, Levi let the sword lay where it was as he approached. He maintained the chant in his mind, as he leaned forward to the angel of night. “The answer, demon, to your question, is simple. I was questioned. And I lied.”
And with all of his self hatred, the monk slammed the fist into the stunned face of the demon, sending him into oblivion.
And then, Levi wept.
Levinti could feel his muscles quiver, the tension refusing to leave despite his best efforts to slow his breathing. In the quiet dark of the woodshed, the sound of his heartbeat, a beast that railed in fear within him. He could hear the shouts in the distance as the camp roused itself, a beast that had been roused. That he had roused.
What was I thinking?
The shouting grew nearer, and Levi forced his heart to slow, recalling his training.
Rest.
All is known.
Peace comes.
The words of hope that had been ingrained in him, braced against the wave of doubt he knew would accompany the coming chaos.
Eyes opening, he unclenched his fist, to reveal the goal of this endeavor. A small leather pouch rested quietly in his hand. Was this really worth the cost?
Levinti hoped it was. And then knew it was. The practice of calming complete, doubt was gone, sealed off to the recesses of his mind.
A change in the air. The door opened, and doubt attacked him. Wave after wave it assailed him, as he knew it would. The doubt that accompanies every dark one. Levi was not caught unprepared.
Under his breath he began the chant of earth, in the ancient tone. A change began to occur.
In the old woodshed, the dust that had coated everything, began to rise. To a normal human, the change would have been inperceivable, especially in the deep black of the early hours, the two moons having become hidden behind the veil.
His stalker was no human. Levi could feel the being tense with the sudden realization that its prey was within reach.
Before it could signal its companions, Levi, still chanting, changed its tempo and he drew more deeply into the authority given him.
The ancient words still flowing, a form of beauty that danced in his mind, he formed an image in his mind, hardening it against all doubt.
And the dust obeyed.
The harmless particles that had rested in the air slammed together and bonded instantly into a rod. His opponent seemed stunned at seeing the chanting. All knew the monks of the age were gone. Levi didn’t give him the chance to reform that belief.
Whirling out from behind his cover with impossible speed, he slipped his fingers around the newly formed staff with his right hand, continuing to spin as he crossed the distance of the shed in a single step.
Never stopping his chanting, he raised his voice in earnestness to enhance the strength of the staff. The staff slammed into the head of the opponent. The dark one shuddered at the blow and fell to his knees.
But Levinti knew he was in trouble. The blow should have ended the fight.
Rising to its feet, the warrior unsheathed its bronze sword, a deep laughter coming from its throat, chilling the night air. The bulwark of certainty in Levi held. Barely.
The attack came. Blow after blow slammed into Levi. Desperately he parried with his staff. The foe was impossibly strong, and he could feel the melded staff begin to weaken from the blows of the bronze blade.
The fight grew increasingly difficult in the confines of the smaller shed. Shifting his chant between blows, he dropped the tempo for a moment as he forged a new image in his mind. The staff became two.
The dark one grunted, changing its attack. Slamming the sword down, Levi was forced to bring both rods together to block the attack. The dark one slammed its left fist into Levi’s exposed stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
The bulwark trembled under the strain of doubt.
Defeat was inevitable. It always had been.
Sword drawn, the dark one stepped forward, kneeling to Levi’s level. He reached a hand, pulling the monk’s face up to meet his own. The hand was as cold as ice. Its voice colder.
“Tell me, singer. How did you escape the inquisition?”
Its tone was distinctly curious. And demanding.
Dawn was coming, the faintest light seemed to leak into the shed. The being had left the door open. Levi forced himself to meet its eyes as he continued grasp for air, in a vain attempt to fill his lungs. Fear…the certainty of death, raged in his soul.
What was the point?
The dark one gripped Levi’s chin, bringing the tip of the sword to bear on his chin. He could feel the cold metal slit open the skin, the warm moisture of his blood dripping down his throat.
The dark one’s eyes bored into Levi. “Tell me.”
All curiosity was now gone, replaced by a heartless authority.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the mist of early morning seeping in through the doorway. Hope surged, within, and doubt gave way. The dark one felt it, and glanced in surprise to what had caused this change. This was all the monk needed.
Levi silently chanted the song of morn, drawing the mist to himself. It raced to him, feeding hope, seeping into his skin. Giving life. Lending strength. Taking the chant, he shifted to combine the melody of morn with the harmony of dust.
The fallen rods had left two piles of dust at his side. They leapt towards his hands, coating them, gauntlets of dust as they melded.
All of this took place in a momentary glance. When the dark one looked back, he saw the steadfast hope in his victim. Knowing his mistake, he drove the sword home.
But it was too late. The chant rhythmically holding sway in his mind, Levi grabbed the blade with his left hand. The sword sliced his cheek open as it passed. Clenching his right fist, he brought it up with all his might into the chin of the dark one. With the force of both chants it lifted the being into the air, throwing him across the room.
Blood dripping from both wounds, Levi pulled himself to his feet and walked to the broken body of the fallen.
Keeping his vow, Levi let the sword lay where it was as he approached. He maintained the chant in his mind, as he leaned forward to the angel of night. “The answer, demon, to your question, is simple. I was questioned. And I lied.”
And with all of his self hatred, the monk slammed the fist into the stunned face of the demon, sending him into oblivion.
And then, Levi wept.
Friday, July 29, 2011
6.8a: Second Draft
Decided to try to clean up / add to the first part of what I did yesterday. May actually end up trying to use this.
------
Levi spent the rest of the afternoon in the joyous seclusion of his work, the only sound to measure the passing of time being the refilling of his pen every few lines. If only all of life were so simple, he thought. The heat of noon gradually gave way to an early grey that was lost on the young scribe, immersed in the meticulous work of copying the manuscripts.
This was his joy, though few could understand it outside of the confines of the Abby. Indeed, if it were not for the intentional work of giving alms in neighboring city he wondered what the working citizens of the realm would think of the Scribes. Although the importance of the ritual chants was common knowledge among laypeople, it was often easier to simply attribute it to ‘magic’, the generic label humanity places on that which they cannot or choose to not understand.
He knew. He had been there.
And at times he wished that blessed ignorance would return. No one tells you at university of the unbreakable link between knowledge and responsibility. Only after departure does the graduate feel the weight of truth.
This thought distracted him just for a moment in frustration, the tell-tale crunch of the feather tip breaking from the intensified pressure. Frustrated, he set the pen down, leaned back into the wooden arm chair, and checked his work.
His current work was nothing out of the ordinary. Rites of Initiation of Secondary Apprentices to the Order of Lazeara – Ingredients of Incense. Who comes up with the names of these things, he thought. Switching gears, he quickly counted the characters both across and down the page on the original and copy, ensuring the match. Each manuscript, by law, was required to have exactly 30 characters running across the page and 30 lines. This assisted the scribes in their ability to accurately and efficiently asses the document being copied. Headings were to take the space of two lines. It was exact, but none were willing to chance an error in their manuscript. Levi knew better than most the consequence of a scribe’s careless mistake.
Gathering his manuscripts together, Levi reflected on the work of the day as he carefully rolled up the scrolls. He carefully labeled each pile with a distinct seals. Each received a drop of golden wax that carried with it the authority of his office, then impressed two items: first his signet ring, in effect binding them as his to ensure their authenticity, and second with the appropriate seal of their destination. After muttering a brief chant over the seals the process was complete. Each scroll was secure until opened either by himself or one holding the seal of its destination. The second stack of scrolls he labeled as herja, to be taken later that evening and returned to the Vault by a 3rd year student. The first pile he carefully set on a wooden tray that would be taken down to the second floor for the priests to send to the designated monasteries.
It had been a long day. The demand for the manuscripts had picked up since the beginning of the war. For the 49th time that day he wondered at the correlation. Why would the enemy waste the energy on the destruction of the scrolls? The most recent reports stated that the culprits were often well-respected, long time priests, monks, and diakonos. Levi suspected the office of Seekers were truly pressed, researching backgrounds to uncover how deeply the conspiracy had spread throughout the Clergy.
He sighed as he tightened his sandals. The rain outside had provided a gentle chorus throughout the day. The sweet rhythm of the rain had flushed away the unbearable humidity that reigned the region recently. It was, like so many things, a blessing and a curse. Despite his prayers, and working hours longer in hope of a break in the clouds, it appeared as though his night would be spent washing mud from the road off his single set of robes.
It is ordained, Levi thought smiling, though sometimes I wish I would have a larger input.
Rising from his small desk he felt the complaint from his limbs. He blew out the sad remnants of a single candle that had provided light when the sun had hid from the world. He made his descent through the tower, largely silent given the lateness of the day. Most scribes began at the break of day and worked until the heat of day. This schedule allowed the afternoon to work the kitchens throughout the city. Since the Felling poverty had spread, an infection whose cure remained a mystery. The stairs wound haphazardly throughout the tower, designed intentionally to encourage the clergy to meet with each other in passing, forcing the introverted culture to interact with each other. In spite of such intentional architecture, Levi met no one.
And then he heard the chanting.
At first he thought nothing of it. Priests chanted regularly. Healing, bonding, and imprinting, all often called for chants of various kinds. This, however, was something else entirely.
It was not the earthy hum he was so accustomed to, nor was it the soft pitch of the diakoness’ harmony. This was a rasp, primal and unrefined. Its distinct grating noise instantly struck fear in his soul. He had heard this sound before.
Possible explanations leaped to his mind. Was there an attack? Impossible. Was it a foolish prank from of the students? None would be so foolish. Taking up the enemies chant was tantamount to treachery, punishable only by excommunication.
Levi realized he had stopped breathing.
The sound of the single, rasping voice, the unmistakable power of the enemy continued.
Falling to a crouch, Levi slipped his cloak off his back, loosened his sandals, and crept barefoot towards the door. His senses heightened as his feet felt the cool moisture of the stone floor. Ever so slowly he made his way forward, searching for the source.
And chanted, so softly that the breath barely slipped from his lips. In stark contrast to the rapid harshness that continued to grow in volume, he continued from memory. Fear raged, adrenaline filled his limbs. This was what he dreamed of. This was his nightmare and hope, melded in a single dreadful experience.
He felt the familiar fire kindle in his stomach. The familiar words continued to flow, as he began to replace to words of truth with those of passion and judgment.
------
Levi spent the rest of the afternoon in the joyous seclusion of his work, the only sound to measure the passing of time being the refilling of his pen every few lines. If only all of life were so simple, he thought. The heat of noon gradually gave way to an early grey that was lost on the young scribe, immersed in the meticulous work of copying the manuscripts.
This was his joy, though few could understand it outside of the confines of the Abby. Indeed, if it were not for the intentional work of giving alms in neighboring city he wondered what the working citizens of the realm would think of the Scribes. Although the importance of the ritual chants was common knowledge among laypeople, it was often easier to simply attribute it to ‘magic’, the generic label humanity places on that which they cannot or choose to not understand.
He knew. He had been there.
And at times he wished that blessed ignorance would return. No one tells you at university of the unbreakable link between knowledge and responsibility. Only after departure does the graduate feel the weight of truth.
This thought distracted him just for a moment in frustration, the tell-tale crunch of the feather tip breaking from the intensified pressure. Frustrated, he set the pen down, leaned back into the wooden arm chair, and checked his work.
His current work was nothing out of the ordinary. Rites of Initiation of Secondary Apprentices to the Order of Lazeara – Ingredients of Incense. Who comes up with the names of these things, he thought. Switching gears, he quickly counted the characters both across and down the page on the original and copy, ensuring the match. Each manuscript, by law, was required to have exactly 30 characters running across the page and 30 lines. This assisted the scribes in their ability to accurately and efficiently asses the document being copied. Headings were to take the space of two lines. It was exact, but none were willing to chance an error in their manuscript. Levi knew better than most the consequence of a scribe’s careless mistake.
Gathering his manuscripts together, Levi reflected on the work of the day as he carefully rolled up the scrolls. He carefully labeled each pile with a distinct seals. Each received a drop of golden wax that carried with it the authority of his office, then impressed two items: first his signet ring, in effect binding them as his to ensure their authenticity, and second with the appropriate seal of their destination. After muttering a brief chant over the seals the process was complete. Each scroll was secure until opened either by himself or one holding the seal of its destination. The second stack of scrolls he labeled as herja, to be taken later that evening and returned to the Vault by a 3rd year student. The first pile he carefully set on a wooden tray that would be taken down to the second floor for the priests to send to the designated monasteries.
It had been a long day. The demand for the manuscripts had picked up since the beginning of the war. For the 49th time that day he wondered at the correlation. Why would the enemy waste the energy on the destruction of the scrolls? The most recent reports stated that the culprits were often well-respected, long time priests, monks, and diakonos. Levi suspected the office of Seekers were truly pressed, researching backgrounds to uncover how deeply the conspiracy had spread throughout the Clergy.
He sighed as he tightened his sandals. The rain outside had provided a gentle chorus throughout the day. The sweet rhythm of the rain had flushed away the unbearable humidity that reigned the region recently. It was, like so many things, a blessing and a curse. Despite his prayers, and working hours longer in hope of a break in the clouds, it appeared as though his night would be spent washing mud from the road off his single set of robes.
It is ordained, Levi thought smiling, though sometimes I wish I would have a larger input.
Rising from his small desk he felt the complaint from his limbs. He blew out the sad remnants of a single candle that had provided light when the sun had hid from the world. He made his descent through the tower, largely silent given the lateness of the day. Most scribes began at the break of day and worked until the heat of day. This schedule allowed the afternoon to work the kitchens throughout the city. Since the Felling poverty had spread, an infection whose cure remained a mystery. The stairs wound haphazardly throughout the tower, designed intentionally to encourage the clergy to meet with each other in passing, forcing the introverted culture to interact with each other. In spite of such intentional architecture, Levi met no one.
And then he heard the chanting.
At first he thought nothing of it. Priests chanted regularly. Healing, bonding, and imprinting, all often called for chants of various kinds. This, however, was something else entirely.
It was not the earthy hum he was so accustomed to, nor was it the soft pitch of the diakoness’ harmony. This was a rasp, primal and unrefined. Its distinct grating noise instantly struck fear in his soul. He had heard this sound before.
Possible explanations leaped to his mind. Was there an attack? Impossible. Was it a foolish prank from of the students? None would be so foolish. Taking up the enemies chant was tantamount to treachery, punishable only by excommunication.
Levi realized he had stopped breathing.
The sound of the single, rasping voice, the unmistakable power of the enemy continued.
Falling to a crouch, Levi slipped his cloak off his back, loosened his sandals, and crept barefoot towards the door. His senses heightened as his feet felt the cool moisture of the stone floor. Ever so slowly he made his way forward, searching for the source.
And chanted, so softly that the breath barely slipped from his lips. In stark contrast to the rapid harshness that continued to grow in volume, he continued from memory. Fear raged, adrenaline filled his limbs. This was what he dreamed of. This was his nightmare and hope, melded in a single dreadful experience.
He felt the familiar fire kindle in his stomach. The familiar words continued to flow, as he began to replace to words of truth with those of passion and judgment.
Writing Excuses 6.8
My writing prompt always explodes in length. oops. Unfinished version.
Writing Prompt: Your agent is actually a warlock using magic to make your book sell. Unfortunately, something about your book means this process is going to go horribly, horribly wrong.
Gathering his manuscripts together, Levi reflected on the work of the day as he carefully rolled up the scrolls. He carefully labeled each pile with a distinct seals. Each received a drop of golden wax that carried with it the authority of his office, then impressed two items: first his signet ring, in effect binding them as his to ensure their authenticity, and second with the appropriate seal of their destination. After muttering a brief chant over the seals the process was complete. Each scroll secure until opened either by himself or one holding the seal of its destination. The second stack of scrolls he labeled as herja, to be taken later that evening and buried by a 3rd year student. The first pile he carefully set on a wooden tray that would be taken down to the second floor for the priests to send to the designated monasteries.
It had been a long day. The demand for the manuscripts had picked up since the beginning of the war. For the 49th time that day he wondered at the correlation. Why would the enemy waste the energy on the destruction of the scrolls? The most recent reports stated that the culprits were often well-respected, long time priests, monks, and diakonos. Levi suspected the office of Seekers were truly pressed, researching backgrounds to uncover how deeply the conspiracy had spread throughout the Clergy.
He sighed as he tightened his sandals. The rain outside had provided a gentle chorus throughout the day. The sweet rhythm of the rain was a sweet break from the unbearable humidity that reigned the region. Despite his prayers and working hours longer in hope of a break in the clouds, it appeared as though his night would be spent washing mud from the road off his single set of robes.
It is ordained, Levi thought smiling, just sometimes I wish I would have a larger input.
He made his way through the tower which was largely silent given the lateness of the day. Most scribes began at the break of day and worked until the heat of day to allow the afternoon to work the kitchens throughout the city. The stairs wound haphazardly throughout the tower, designed intentionally to encourage the clergy to meet with each other in passing, forcing the often introverted clergy to interact with each other.
Levi met no one as he walked, in no hurry to fight the torrentous downpower and the roads now steeped in mud.
And then he heard the chanting.
At first he thought nothing of it. Priests chanted regularly. Healing, bonding, and imprinting all often called for chants of various kinds. This, however, was something else entirely.
It was not the earthy hum he was so accustomed to, nor was it the soft pitch of the diakoness’ harmony. This was dark, the rasping chant of the enemy. Its distinct grating noise instantly struck fear in his soul. Danger.
Questions flew through his mind without ever pausing to consider the one before. Had the M’s captured a prisoner? Was there an attack? Was it a foolish prank from of the students.
Levi realized he had stopped breathing.
The sound of the single, rasping voice, unmistakably in the enemies dialect, continued.
Falling to a crouch, Levi slipped his cloak off his back, loosened his sandals, and crept barefoot towards the door.
And chanted, so softly that the breath barely slipt from his lips. Fear raged, adrenealine filled his limbs. This was what he dreamed of.
He felt the familiar fire kindle in his stomach. The familiar words continued to flow, as he began to replace to words of truth with those of passion and judgement.
He felt the fire seep from his soul down his arm, forming into solid form at his fingertips.
It became solid, a blade wrapped in flame.
Holding truth and judgment incarnate before him, Levi stepped through the door to meet the intruder.
The rasping stopped. The room was indistinguishable from any other throughout the tower. Cold granite walls framed a single window on the far side of the room. The soft sound of rain against the stained glass grew to overtake the vacancy left by the course chant. Bent over the table was a figure robed in white, face hidden by a deep hood. Its presence filled the room, the brilliance of its white robes wrapped in contrasting shadow.
And still the rain fell, as Levi waited for some acknowledgement of his presence. None came. Vainly attempting to subdue the quiver in his voice the lone scribe whispered, “In the name of the Commander, what is your intention here?” His voice was barely distinguishable from the sound of the water breaking on the pane.
Still, the white figure wrapped in shadow stared at the manuscripts arranged neatly before him. A sigh, like a teacher interrupted from their lecture by a student who had clearly missed the point of the lesson.
“Sit down and shut up. Or leave. I do not care which. But if you interrupt me again I will take that pretty blade of yours and instruct you in the frailty of truth.”
His answer actually caused Levi to blink his eyes in confusion. Confusion. True, he had never actually used a blade in actual combat. The closest he had ever come to an actual fight was crossing broomsticks with Jachin. Still, it had to look rather impressive. Still fighting the fear within, he said so.
“Not many would take a Dual-Blade so lightly.”
“And I am obviously not many. Sit. Maybe you’ll actually learn something”, the figure said dryly, eyes still fixated on the manuscripts that lay before him.
Levi had heard of stories told from veterans from the front. Of rumors whispered among initiates, tales of those brave and righteous enough to do battle with the dark. This encounter was not going as anticipated.
Doubt crept on the fringes of his mind. Lowering the blade, he asked, “You are a warlock though, correct?” Immediately he regretted the question, realizing as soon as he asked that in spite all of his posturing, his naivety was starkly obvious.
However the expected laughter did not come. For what seemed like an age, all that could be heard in that room was heightening of the storm outside.
The accused finally looked up to meet the young man’s eyes. What he saw chilled him to the core. Tattoos were blazened across his face in horrific designs, vague imitations of effects left on imprintors. These however, instead of the familiar curves and soft worn by those of the Realm, a jagged blackness was seared into the skin. Beneath the hood of the cloak Levi could feel hatred emanate through the room.
“Oh yes.”
And finally, Levi noticed a critical detail. The manuscripts, like all those throughout the tower, held the seal of their author. His seal. The sword extinguished, his inner chanting stunned to silence.
“Ah, and finally the boy understands his part.”
This time he was unable to keep the fear from his voice. Levi whispered, “What are you doing with my work? What have you done?” His work was insignificant. A simple replacement of damaged and lost works from throughout the realm.
The warlock gently picked up a manuscript.
“You see this? It is your work from yesterday. Quite excellent. Quite accurate.” The Lock coughed quietly to himself, as if politely concealing the humor in the situation, lost on Levi. “At least, it was accurate. Our war with the Realm isn’t fair, you see. As long as you people can draw from Him,” here he spat, as if even the idea of the one referred to was poison, “we are quite helpless. And so consider this our little plan to…even the odds. Here, have a look.” Still keeping his distance, wary of any tricks, Levi carefully took the offered document.
It was chant of healing, one of many, particularly designed to counter the internal bleeding of the stomach. Nothing extraordinary. He skimmed it quickly, remembering how this particular document was ordered by the town of Fraechiel. Levi had completed it first thing this morning. When he reached the final paragraphs, there was an itch in his mind, like when one walking into their home to discover a new arrangement of flowers, or an extra plate set on the table. Something was different. It was wrong. It was not what he had written. But there it was. This manuscript, his manuscript, had been changed.
The pieces clicked into place. The reason for the attacks, the destruction of the books, was all to require replacements. Modified replacements. Inaccuracies that would have ripple effects throughout the Realm, caught only when it was too late.
Levi felt passion of justice begin to quell inside, matching the wind that was now steadily rising.
“How did you do it? How did you break the seal? Documents are protected…”
“Ah yes, your precious seal…”, the warlock rasped, and slipped away the hood.
It was the woman from all those years ago. The one night no one would ever know about. And she was holding the pledge of payment: a signet ring.
Writing Prompt: Your agent is actually a warlock using magic to make your book sell. Unfortunately, something about your book means this process is going to go horribly, horribly wrong.
Gathering his manuscripts together, Levi reflected on the work of the day as he carefully rolled up the scrolls. He carefully labeled each pile with a distinct seals. Each received a drop of golden wax that carried with it the authority of his office, then impressed two items: first his signet ring, in effect binding them as his to ensure their authenticity, and second with the appropriate seal of their destination. After muttering a brief chant over the seals the process was complete. Each scroll secure until opened either by himself or one holding the seal of its destination. The second stack of scrolls he labeled as herja, to be taken later that evening and buried by a 3rd year student. The first pile he carefully set on a wooden tray that would be taken down to the second floor for the priests to send to the designated monasteries.
It had been a long day. The demand for the manuscripts had picked up since the beginning of the war. For the 49th time that day he wondered at the correlation. Why would the enemy waste the energy on the destruction of the scrolls? The most recent reports stated that the culprits were often well-respected, long time priests, monks, and diakonos. Levi suspected the office of Seekers were truly pressed, researching backgrounds to uncover how deeply the conspiracy had spread throughout the Clergy.
He sighed as he tightened his sandals. The rain outside had provided a gentle chorus throughout the day. The sweet rhythm of the rain was a sweet break from the unbearable humidity that reigned the region. Despite his prayers and working hours longer in hope of a break in the clouds, it appeared as though his night would be spent washing mud from the road off his single set of robes.
It is ordained, Levi thought smiling, just sometimes I wish I would have a larger input.
He made his way through the tower which was largely silent given the lateness of the day. Most scribes began at the break of day and worked until the heat of day to allow the afternoon to work the kitchens throughout the city. The stairs wound haphazardly throughout the tower, designed intentionally to encourage the clergy to meet with each other in passing, forcing the often introverted clergy to interact with each other.
Levi met no one as he walked, in no hurry to fight the torrentous downpower and the roads now steeped in mud.
And then he heard the chanting.
At first he thought nothing of it. Priests chanted regularly. Healing, bonding, and imprinting all often called for chants of various kinds. This, however, was something else entirely.
It was not the earthy hum he was so accustomed to, nor was it the soft pitch of the diakoness’ harmony. This was dark, the rasping chant of the enemy. Its distinct grating noise instantly struck fear in his soul. Danger.
Questions flew through his mind without ever pausing to consider the one before. Had the M’s captured a prisoner? Was there an attack? Was it a foolish prank from of the students.
Levi realized he had stopped breathing.
The sound of the single, rasping voice, unmistakably in the enemies dialect, continued.
Falling to a crouch, Levi slipped his cloak off his back, loosened his sandals, and crept barefoot towards the door.
And chanted, so softly that the breath barely slipt from his lips. Fear raged, adrenealine filled his limbs. This was what he dreamed of.
He felt the familiar fire kindle in his stomach. The familiar words continued to flow, as he began to replace to words of truth with those of passion and judgement.
He felt the fire seep from his soul down his arm, forming into solid form at his fingertips.
It became solid, a blade wrapped in flame.
Holding truth and judgment incarnate before him, Levi stepped through the door to meet the intruder.
The rasping stopped. The room was indistinguishable from any other throughout the tower. Cold granite walls framed a single window on the far side of the room. The soft sound of rain against the stained glass grew to overtake the vacancy left by the course chant. Bent over the table was a figure robed in white, face hidden by a deep hood. Its presence filled the room, the brilliance of its white robes wrapped in contrasting shadow.
And still the rain fell, as Levi waited for some acknowledgement of his presence. None came. Vainly attempting to subdue the quiver in his voice the lone scribe whispered, “In the name of the Commander, what is your intention here?” His voice was barely distinguishable from the sound of the water breaking on the pane.
Still, the white figure wrapped in shadow stared at the manuscripts arranged neatly before him. A sigh, like a teacher interrupted from their lecture by a student who had clearly missed the point of the lesson.
“Sit down and shut up. Or leave. I do not care which. But if you interrupt me again I will take that pretty blade of yours and instruct you in the frailty of truth.”
His answer actually caused Levi to blink his eyes in confusion. Confusion. True, he had never actually used a blade in actual combat. The closest he had ever come to an actual fight was crossing broomsticks with Jachin. Still, it had to look rather impressive. Still fighting the fear within, he said so.
“Not many would take a Dual-Blade so lightly.”
“And I am obviously not many. Sit. Maybe you’ll actually learn something”, the figure said dryly, eyes still fixated on the manuscripts that lay before him.
Levi had heard of stories told from veterans from the front. Of rumors whispered among initiates, tales of those brave and righteous enough to do battle with the dark. This encounter was not going as anticipated.
Doubt crept on the fringes of his mind. Lowering the blade, he asked, “You are a warlock though, correct?” Immediately he regretted the question, realizing as soon as he asked that in spite all of his posturing, his naivety was starkly obvious.
However the expected laughter did not come. For what seemed like an age, all that could be heard in that room was heightening of the storm outside.
The accused finally looked up to meet the young man’s eyes. What he saw chilled him to the core. Tattoos were blazened across his face in horrific designs, vague imitations of effects left on imprintors. These however, instead of the familiar curves and soft worn by those of the Realm, a jagged blackness was seared into the skin. Beneath the hood of the cloak Levi could feel hatred emanate through the room.
“Oh yes.”
And finally, Levi noticed a critical detail. The manuscripts, like all those throughout the tower, held the seal of their author. His seal. The sword extinguished, his inner chanting stunned to silence.
“Ah, and finally the boy understands his part.”
This time he was unable to keep the fear from his voice. Levi whispered, “What are you doing with my work? What have you done?” His work was insignificant. A simple replacement of damaged and lost works from throughout the realm.
The warlock gently picked up a manuscript.
“You see this? It is your work from yesterday. Quite excellent. Quite accurate.” The Lock coughed quietly to himself, as if politely concealing the humor in the situation, lost on Levi. “At least, it was accurate. Our war with the Realm isn’t fair, you see. As long as you people can draw from Him,” here he spat, as if even the idea of the one referred to was poison, “we are quite helpless. And so consider this our little plan to…even the odds. Here, have a look.” Still keeping his distance, wary of any tricks, Levi carefully took the offered document.
It was chant of healing, one of many, particularly designed to counter the internal bleeding of the stomach. Nothing extraordinary. He skimmed it quickly, remembering how this particular document was ordered by the town of Fraechiel. Levi had completed it first thing this morning. When he reached the final paragraphs, there was an itch in his mind, like when one walking into their home to discover a new arrangement of flowers, or an extra plate set on the table. Something was different. It was wrong. It was not what he had written. But there it was. This manuscript, his manuscript, had been changed.
The pieces clicked into place. The reason for the attacks, the destruction of the books, was all to require replacements. Modified replacements. Inaccuracies that would have ripple effects throughout the Realm, caught only when it was too late.
Levi felt passion of justice begin to quell inside, matching the wind that was now steadily rising.
“How did you do it? How did you break the seal? Documents are protected…”
“Ah yes, your precious seal…”, the warlock rasped, and slipped away the hood.
It was the woman from all those years ago. The one night no one would ever know about. And she was holding the pledge of payment: a signet ring.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
6.2
Writing Prompt: Come up with a character motivation, and then an action that character must take which runs counter to that motivation.
Once the boy was taken to the back room with the surgeon, Will was lost in his thoughts as he walked back the way he had come into the town. He slipped the weathered bandana out from under his neck and wiped away the grime left from the tears that had mixed with the dust of the road. The road that had carried him from the parents he abandoned. The friends. Yvell.
Will could still feel the weight of the envelope given to him by General Roland as he stared into the open plain before him. The road he had taken was dwarfed by the wilderness stretching to either side of the broken pavement. What was he going to do with Jac? The surgeon was confident he would not loose the use of his leg. On and on the highway stretched into the dying remnants of the sun, giving its last light in remembrance of what the he and the kid had gone through together. Reminding him of the danger that threatened beyond the horizon.
Will was so lost in thought he failed to hear the footsteps approaching. Dr. Calvs stopped and followed Will’s gaze into the west.
“The boy is gonna make it. He told me what you did. What it took to get him here.”
Will said nothing, but turned around to look into the night. The road stretched through the small one-street town and on into the darkness. Would the future always hold such little hope? How many times would he be forced to abandon?
“He also told me about what you carry.”
Will cursed silently under his breath. Jac, if he had one flaw, was that he was too trusting. He met the doctors gaze, “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t rightly know son. Probably outta tell the mayor. Sherriff. Someone.”
“They’re drawn to fear. Did Jac tell you that? How do you think this town would respond?”
The doctor was silent as he took in the town. Will followed the elderly man’s eyes to what he suspected was his home.
“Probably not too well I’d reckon. Look here young man, you know what you need to do. You have gotta get that message to the people that need it. There is a port about a day’s run from here. Our only chance as I see it is for you bring help back with you.” He paused, glancing down at the blade strapped to Will’s right side. “Crazy thing that a lefty would carry the lives of my family in his back pocket.”
Will grunted at that. Even now, here of all things, he was being underestimated. “And Jac?”
“I’ll watch him.”
Darkness gathered, the sun surrendering to the deep. Self-loathing boiled inside of him, hollowing out the last vestiges of his honor. What was the point of being a soldier when duty always demands one to turn their back to the enemy?
“Thank you.”
Once the boy was taken to the back room with the surgeon, Will was lost in his thoughts as he walked back the way he had come into the town. He slipped the weathered bandana out from under his neck and wiped away the grime left from the tears that had mixed with the dust of the road. The road that had carried him from the parents he abandoned. The friends. Yvell.
Will could still feel the weight of the envelope given to him by General Roland as he stared into the open plain before him. The road he had taken was dwarfed by the wilderness stretching to either side of the broken pavement. What was he going to do with Jac? The surgeon was confident he would not loose the use of his leg. On and on the highway stretched into the dying remnants of the sun, giving its last light in remembrance of what the he and the kid had gone through together. Reminding him of the danger that threatened beyond the horizon.
Will was so lost in thought he failed to hear the footsteps approaching. Dr. Calvs stopped and followed Will’s gaze into the west.
“The boy is gonna make it. He told me what you did. What it took to get him here.”
Will said nothing, but turned around to look into the night. The road stretched through the small one-street town and on into the darkness. Would the future always hold such little hope? How many times would he be forced to abandon?
“He also told me about what you carry.”
Will cursed silently under his breath. Jac, if he had one flaw, was that he was too trusting. He met the doctors gaze, “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t rightly know son. Probably outta tell the mayor. Sherriff. Someone.”
“They’re drawn to fear. Did Jac tell you that? How do you think this town would respond?”
The doctor was silent as he took in the town. Will followed the elderly man’s eyes to what he suspected was his home.
“Probably not too well I’d reckon. Look here young man, you know what you need to do. You have gotta get that message to the people that need it. There is a port about a day’s run from here. Our only chance as I see it is for you bring help back with you.” He paused, glancing down at the blade strapped to Will’s right side. “Crazy thing that a lefty would carry the lives of my family in his back pocket.”
Will grunted at that. Even now, here of all things, he was being underestimated. “And Jac?”
“I’ll watch him.”
Darkness gathered, the sun surrendering to the deep. Self-loathing boiled inside of him, hollowing out the last vestiges of his honor. What was the point of being a soldier when duty always demands one to turn their back to the enemy?
“Thank you.”
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Writing Excuses: 6.1
I know I was supposed to do 2. Yep. I'm a slacker, and its about time to wake up the kids:
Stepping around his desk, Cliff rubbed his eyes clear of the late night grime that had build up the past few hours. He was anxious. “So certainly, Henry, they must be hitting something.”
His chief of operations set the handheld radio down and shook his head. “Well, boss, they claimed to have counted 10,000 bodies up to now and if you cut it in half, there must be another 5,000 that they have killed that we don’t find.”
“Sure, sure.” Looking down from the 50th floor in the high-rise, the torches could be seen as cleanup began after the previous days fierce fighting. Those on the ground had the odd appearance of ants working feverishly to rebuild their mound. Desperate to rebuild what once seemed so impervious to an invader.
“Regarding the gas attacks...”
Cliff shook his head in disagreement, already knowing the argument about to be presented. He had wrestled with it enough in the quiet hours of the night without having to go through the exact same argument again aloud. Pointing his finger out across the bay, he began “Well, I’ll tell you they are being punished and they are taking heavy casualties. The #($)@ are...”
George, the CO, sat down on the plush leather couch, away from the window. Pliable but firm, the middle-aged man wondered if the furniture in the room would one day be artifacts of better days long gone. “Boss, if they don’t make it this time, they are not going to come back for two years.” George had friends in that vault. It was well stocked, but no one relished the idea of having half of their resources sealed up, incapable of being accessed if everything hit the fan.
Cliff, however, was not an optimist. “If they don’t make it this time , we’re out of the woods, but the point is that we have to realize though that our hold card is that vault.” Humanity would survive. There was little evidence that the rest of the world was having better success with fighting off the attacks than they were. Cliff thought it safer to takethe long view in this round of bets.
His employee, though, was the eternal optimist. Maybe he had to be. His daughter was in the next room. “However, that’s why you’ve got make the deal with the Russians now. I don’t want a meeting — you see, when you meet with them it’s either got to be on the way to settlement or we make a run for the vault. You see that’s the one thing I’m concerned about, these &#@!, that they will intentionally block us.” The deal with the Russians was a long shot, remnants of an agreement made years before about a targeted biological weapon. Cliff’s corporation had been responsible for the science necessary to target the zombies. The Russian side was responsible for ensuring it didn’t affect every living thing on the planet.
“They can’t ignore you beyond the 25th of April,” George continued.
“Right.” Cliff sat back behind his desk. Three more days. They had to survive three more days for the shipment to arrive at the nearby pier. If only the Russians were as good as their word. If only they didn’t have evidence of their attempt to cause a coup within his own company. He had no intention of saving the world just to hand it to the communists.
“And on the other hand, boss, the major thing now is to beat down these zombies from the north side. I told the board that you could not have a reasonable summit meeting if there were major action going on right on the docks.” Obviously Cliff thought, as George continued to ramble on about their defenses. Zombies leaping from pier to ship would hardly be a greeting that would inspire confidence in their allies.
He waited until the defense of his subordinates plan was complete before replying with the obligatory,“Right.”
“The commander understands this, doesn’t he?” George was never very trusting of the military type.
The older man grunted back a reply, “Yes.”
“Good, but we can’t go there with radiation and gas killing both the Russians and zombies. Hell, no, we’re not going to go, and I don’t give a dime for what the commander says. Those aren’t just reasonable precautions, it means there a isn’t going to be no meeting after they’re through, that’s what he’s got to understand.”
Writing Excuses: 5.38
“Hello? Anyone there?” Despite the fact that fastfood was famous for both atrocious service and the further warning of the lack of any sort of business at peak hours.
There was a pause, and then, “Yes, welcome to KFC…”
Gevar interrupted with a sigh. “Great. I was starting to get worried.”
Another pause.
“Worried about what sir?”
“Oh nothing, just that everything is okay in there”, Gevar replied absently, readying his order for the soccer team.
The reply came back much quicker this time. “Oh no sir, nothing here to be worried about. Everything in here is perfectly normal.”
“Again, good. Is it alright if I give you my order now?”. Crazy kids these days, thought Gevar. It’s a fast food joint, there is a somewhat limited amount of situations that would prevent someone from reaching a microphone for five minutes. Most involve a smoke break or teenage antics.
“Absolutely.”
“Again, great. I want five orders of the 12 piece nugget meal, 4 classic sandwiches, and 4 wraps.” Gevar paused halfway down, waiting for confirmation.
A long pause.
“Sorry sir, but we’re out of chicken, I can’t fill your order.”
“You’re out of what?”
“Chicken.”
“How is that possible!? Chicken is in the name of your freaking store! Where is your manager?” Looking down at his balled fists he realized the list was crumbled in a small ball.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience sir”, came the weak reply.
Gevar felt his bloodpressure rising as he responded, “Sorry! What good does that do me? Simply unbelievable. Do you realize how much of my time you’ve wasted?”
Another pause. Gevar assumed he had reached the next level in the hierarchy in the chicken kingdom. He took a breath as he prepared to speak to another being with common sense. Management. Of course, any adult who had freely chosen a career in the frying of chicken and babysitting underage employee couldn’t be assumed to have a full grasp on reality.
“Listen here little man. Who are you ordering this chicken for?”
Gevar was both confused and surprised by the audacity and rudeness of the manager. He ignored the insult, since clearly the manager’s sanity was, in fact, non-existant, and pressed on.
“My daughter’s soccer team.”
Raucous laughter came through the speaker. Apparently the manager wasn’t the only person listening in on this conversation.
“Aw….how cute! Daddy running errands for his little girl?”
More laughter.
Gevar’s patience was gone. No one messed with his little girl. His, “Proud father of an honors student” bumper sticker was freshly pasted on the back of the minivan, fresh from the end of last semester. If there was anything he prided himself on, it was his love and service for family. Pressing this button was too much for him. Inhibitions fled, rage took over. His voice rose to a fevered pitch as he shouted back into the mounted microphone.
“Who in the world do you think you are? Who are you to criticize me? What kind of business management ridicules people try to buy from you?”
“What kind of father talks to a 15 year old boy like he is an idiot when whether or not we have chicken is obviously not something a minimum wage teenager would be responsible for? You should listen to yourself”, the manager spat.
Silence.
Gevar stared at the kiosk in utter shock.
Never before had he been insulted, outraged, and convicted, all at the same time.
Swallowing his pride, he started, “Hold on, I’ll park then come inside.”
No pause this time, the gruff voice emphatically asked why he would do such a thing.
“To apologize to the young man. I was wrong.”
--------
Inside the restaurant, Kevin was stunned. Never before in the two years of working the drive through had he heard those words. Never had any customer even remotely apologize for words or actions.
He had seen it all. People raging about whether or not there should have been ketchup. Raging about the lack of cheese. Furious over having failed to give them a nickel in change. Kevin had been flicked off and cussed out, a verbal punching bag for patrons, the vast majority of times for things that were utterly out of his control. All of this he had grown to accept as normal. Now, on this day of all days, someone was actually wanting to come in and apologize.
The grizzled man standing behind the microphone winced, muttering a curse as he covered the microphone with his hand.
“That won’t be necessary. We’re closed.” And with that, he motioned with his gun for Kevin to turn off the microphone.
“What a mess. Alright boys, lets get out of here. Do people always treat you like that kid?”
Kevin only nodded, marveling at the irony of the situation. The first person to actually stand up for him, the first time someone would actually want to apologize, all took place in the midst of his first experience being robbed.
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