character study - a murderer

Gibrant kills for money because he knows it is what he is good at doing - better than most men could be. He knows how to kill with a sharpened axe, with well polished knives, with a rope. He knows how to snap a man's neck with his bare hands, the kind of instinctive knowledge that comes only from having done something many times before.

He knows how to kill quickly, and silently. He doesn't do it with any particular bloodlust or frenzy or need, the way some men - the really dangerous ones - do. He doesn't do it with revulsion, disgust. In fact, he doesn't do it with any particular feeling at all. There's always a curious disconnect between him and his target, a certain absence of emotion so that, in snapping that neck or slicing that throat, it feels no different than it would to slice open a sack of good, fresh grain - the slightest twinge of pity at the loss, and then nothing.

This makes him a very efficient - and expensive - killer indeed.

Gibrant only kills for money because, while he never feels very much at all for those whose lives he is ending he does, in fact, still have the ability to feel. He doesn't like the looks people give him when he kills, or when he enters a tavern or shop where his reputation precedes him: disgust, nervousness, anger, a certain fear-tinged awe. The witnesses are, of course, the worst. He still remembers the look a certain girl gave him: she was maybe fourteen, pretty though very small, and it was her father's throat Gibrant had been very entusiastically paid to slice open. He had done so, not bothering to pause at the man's desperate, furious begging, offers of bribes and pleas, no. But afterwards, when she'd stumbled in....the girl hadn't screamed. She hadn't cried or cursed or gone into hysterics or any of that. Instead she had stood there, backed up into a wall, shaking. Shaking and staring at him with a look of pure horror, a haunting look, a look that made it perfectly clear that in her eyes he was a monster, totally inhuman, despicable. It was all he could do, in that moment, to leave, and quickly.

No, he didn't like it, the way people that knew who he was looked at him. Neither fear from good men nor admiration from despicable ones was desireable. He didn't like being seen as something apart, something instead of someone, a force of nature rather than simply a man who was good at what he had been trained to do.

He didn't want to be a monster. In doing it for money - only ever for money - he drew a line. He was not a monster but a mercenary, a professional. If someone attacked him, even viciously, sneakily in an alley or pub, he would only disable them, knock them out, perhaps break a few bones. But never the killing blow, no.

It haunted him, the idea that one day, if he wasn't very, very careful, he'd stop feeling anything at all, stop being a man entirely and become the thing so many people already thought him to be.

HP-World Inspired Short

... They scramble after that, the woman pulling on tights, deftly doing up the laces of her boots. The man fumbles a bit with the buttons of his new robe, glancing over in her direction every so often in spite of himself. He wishes there was a way to make these last moments last, to somehow slow time so that he could enjoy the way her hair falls into her face, wild-like and amazing, the way sun filters into the room through the blinds, illuminating them - the last moments of this private reality before...

But there isn't, and she is running about as efficiently as if the place was her own, tying the hair back, cursing as she almost stumbles over some book haphazardly strewn on the floor, cursing some more as she gathers the last of her things, wand in wand pocket, eyes meeting his, glance at the clock, throat cleared meaningfully. The little blue man with the balloon in the hallway painting chuckles behind her.

He's locking the door when she mentions it.

"This won't work, you know."

"What?"

"This. Us. It will be awkward. One look at you and the others will bloody well know."

"What do you mean? I.."

"Your face is an open book. Everyone knows it, and even if they somehow didn't see, we're a team. This changes things. It could be dangerous for everyone."

"Well, what do you... I mean..."

"We could obliviate each other. Just this last night. It really wouldn't be much, you know, just a few hours..." His face registers shock.

"I really don't think that's a good idea.." he begins, but she cuts him off, insists, knowing that she shouldn't bully him so, with that puppy-eyed look he gives her, but then that look is the whole damned reason they are in this situation, the reason she should of known better than to agree to go for another drink with him in the first place.

He agrees in the end, with utter reluctance, a look that says he might change his mind at any moment. On three, then, they agree, wands pointed at each other. Just the last few hours. We had a drink and went home, agreed?

"One. Two..." And then a crack, a stunned look as the spell hits him. The woman knows she is even more unfair for this, for not waiting to the third number, for the lie . The deja vu feeling she's had since waking up,  her knowledge of her own nature - she is near-certain that this isn't the first or even the second time they've done this. Clearly, erasing her own memory doesn't stop her from making the same mistake again and again. This is only necessary. This time she will know better. Really, there's no reason at all she shouldn't be able to stay away; he's only a colleague, after all.

"See you in the office, then." she whispers, swallows hard, and dissaparates.

The man's eyes slowly travel up the white-flecked ceiling above him.

How in Merlin's name did I get into the corridor?

untitled short bit

They name their ships after the disasters they wish to avoid: Shipreck, Catastrophe, Mutiny, Arson, Infidelity and Scurvy can all be found docked in the ports of the larger cities of the world. If you name your ship after something, they say, that's almost like asking for it to happen, and everyone knows that the things you most want, the things you long for, are the things that will be lost, the things that will perversly wriggle out of your grasp right when you think you finally have them, the things you will always glimpse but never own. To them, a ship is a most sacred thing, home in a way other nations can't will never grasp. Such a name is the greatest protection a man can give it, they will insist, laughing. They usually laugh at the stories behind the names too.


They laugh a lot, the Sea-Riders, as they are usually called by men who go out to sea once or twice in a lifetime at most. When one of them dies they share out his things according to his wishes and throw his body into the waves with the most minimal of ceremony. Then they dance, and bring out the funeral-minstrels and jokers and mimes. Up to a third of a crew has a minstrel or joker suit for such occasions. They drink and dance and fool, laughing until their bellies hurt from the strain. To them, the somber mood and tears of the landed nations' funerals are incomprehensible: of course you are sad at the death of your relation, your friend, your shipmate. Must you show it off then, get together to compare who can show their pain most clearly, who can sob loudest and longest of all? That pain is yours, for yourself and those closest to you. In the open, with others, it is best to remember what is lost and what you still have, to live in the moment and laugh deeply as you breath in a salty night breeze.


They laugh, too, when they tell their history to their children, each generation passing the words on to the next. More bitterly, perhaps, but they do, when they tell of the island they once called their own, with the lush trees full of fruit whose nectar they could trade for a fortune, the villages and long, narrow homes. They laugh when they tell of the mountain that suddenly exploded into ash and flame, that poured smoke so thick it choked whoever was caught in its cloud, the liquid fire that smothered everything, everyone but those few skilled or lucky enough to pile onto the small fleet of trading boats. And too, about their journey half across the world, from one capital to the next begging for refuge and shelter and being denied until they finally decided to make those boats themselves their land, their shelter, the only place in the world they belonged. The dark waves and his final snort, giggle, or weak grin, is all, each Sea-Rider knows, that will be his in eternity.

"Denouncement" - Old Prompted Free-write

Revised writing prompt from 12/2008. Setting is loosely based on Stalinist era USSR.

Wordcount: 1073 
Prompt: 'photograph negatives'
--


He held the envelope out to her silently. Elena stared at it. His hand remained outstretched, ramrod straight, and slowly, finally, she reached for it. Inside were photograph negatives. The woman flipped through them quickly, first with curiosity, and then with shock, fear, and creeping up her throat like bile, rage.

“What is this, Rudolf?” she asked, her pale blue eyes rising to meet the man’s darker ones.

“You know I like the both of you. Osip was my friend as much as he was your husband. I was as surprised as you were when I….found these. I wish I could throw them out. You know I do. But I can’t, Elena, I just can’t. Do you know what they would do to me if they found out that I did?” Elena knew exactly what they would do. Failure to denounce was, after all, a well known and serious infraction of the criminal code.

“Why are you showing me these?” she asked after a long moment of silence. Tears rose to her eyes, but the woman fought them back, schooled her expression into as neutral a mask as she could manage. It was what everyone did instinctively, it this modern age.

“I like you, Elena, I do. I wanted to give you a chance to…report this…before I have to.” Rudolf said. She understood immediately. Failure to denounce was viewed as a serious crime indeed by the authorities. For her husband to be arrested for such…activities…they would, of course, assume that as his wife she had to know something. That she knew and didn’t say. They would probably arrest her too, if not right away then soon after they came for Osip. She could of course protest her innocence, insist on her ignorance, but… On the other hand, if it was she that brought them the photos, she who denounced her husband’s illegal activities, then well, that was a different story altogether. She looked up again at Rudolf wordlessly.

“You have two days, Elena. Those are the negatives. I have the originals. If you don’t…in two days, I’ll have to. I wish I didn’t, but….two days.”

“Thank you.”

“I have to go now. You have my number, if you need to ring me for anything. Otherwise…well, try to enjoy your afternoon. The weather really is wonderful.”

“Yes, it’s very warm. Have a nice afternoon too.” She said, and shut the door carefully behind him. Afterwards, alone, Elena leaned back against that now dead-bolted door and slowly slid down until she was sitting on the floor. She wanted to cry but now that she had the privacy the tears would not come to her eyes. Her entire soul wanted to retch.

How could he how could he how could he? How could he be so stubborn and stupid? How could he not know better? And now what was she supposed to do?

She could of course destroy the photos, but Rudolf had the originals and would tell and then she really would be screwed. Ten years at the very least. What was she supposed to do, murder the man? She laughed as she imagined herself sneaking into his bedroom in the middle of the night with a steak knife, a clothesline-turned-garrote. No, Elena had been called a ruthless bitch on more than one occasion but murderess she was not. 

She could tell Osip about the photos, tell him to run. But then, of course, when Rudolf told, they’d come and ask where he was. Missing, what the hell do you mean, missing? Men just don’t go missing! How the hell did he know? Who did you tell? Just the bitch? Traitorous cunt warned him, did she? Well, what are you looking at me like that for? Arrest the goddamn bitch! We’ll make her talk! No, if she warned him to run she would have to go with him. And then what? Exist in the wilderness for twenty years? Live off scraps and stealing and melted snow? Elena couldn’t live like that. She wouldn’t. And why should she, for him, when he didn’t even have the decency to tell her, warn her, ask her about the danger he was putting the both of them in?

If she told they would praise her. She would keep all the property. A divorce would be easy to obtain if she wanted….and necessary if she didn’t wanted to be branded as an outcast, a prisoner’s wife. She would be safe and comfortable and he, and he…

Elena ran to the bathroom and retched bile until her teeth tingled and gums burned. Then, hands shaking, spent, she went to prepare dinner. By the time Osip came home her expression was again schooled into an expressionless mask of calm and neutrality. She felt like a doll or a machine as she kissed him on the cheek.

“What’s the occasion?” her husband asked, and it was only then that Elena realized she’d made him his favorite meal. She couldn’t remember cooking at all.

“Oh, nothing,” she said with a small grin. “I got a good deal at the market today, is all.” It was hard to believe, in that moment, that she was only twenty four. She felt ancient. She felt eternal. She watched him eat. The food in her own mouth tasted like lead. It grew stuck in her throat. It was hard to breath. She stared at him, stared, but he didn’t notice, too busy eating and reading the paper.

It’s a good thing we don’t have kids, at least, she remembered thinking.

That night they made love passionately. She kissed him and kissed him and insisted on more, what’s gotten into you, he said, not complaining, and she wanted to tell him that she needed to make herself feel something for him, that she wanted to feel something that would stop her, that would stay her hand and stay her lips but instead she felt everything but nothing and nothing at all.

The next morning, after he left for work, she made a bouquet of wild roses in a vase on the kitchen table. He’d given her such a rose on their first date. One of the thorns cut her hand. She sucked on the blood as she carried a white envelope to the police station. Later, when she tried to remember that day, it was always the taste of iron on the lips was mostly all she could recall. 

A Parade - Prompted Free Write

Prompt: A parade

Wordcount: 837

written today

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The black boots, shined to a uniform, gleaming perfection, stomped down against the still-frosty earth, again and again in tandem, in waves. Row after row of black and khaki-clad men moved forward, pulled inexorably by unseen force towards the center of the city. They clogged up the bridges and streets: automobiles and bicycles were nowhere to be seen, nor pedestrians making there way to the stores or their jobs. No, today there was only the steady thrum of footfalls, marching soldiers, and on the sidelines, slightly less uniform in appearance, a long line of drummers working diligently at their craft. There were bright banners and oversized flags strung up on the outer walls of nearby building and on lampposts – words of encouragement and lithographed images of smiling children and of Him, always Him, printed just so and clearly visible above all others.

The sidewalks along the main route were crowded, filled with less-than-enthusiastic bystanders. Some, though not all, had stupidly exaggerated grins plastered onto their faces and waved small, cheap flags with a modicum of energy. The rest stood alone or in small groups, bundled up in thick coats, huddling together in attempts to keep warm. Their eyes darted only occasionally towards the procession. Here and there groups of schoolchildren stood dressed in their school colors, most more intent on gossiping or fooling around than on the proceedings; their matronly teachers stood near them, some giving the children grim, reproachful looks, though many others seemed apathetic.

Karl, like most of the other men and woman shoved out onto the sidewalks at the crack of dawn, longed to be elsewhere. It wasn’t even the cold that bothered him, for the makeshift laboratory where the man spent most of his daylight hours was a drafty space with cracking windows that offered little protection against frigid winter temperatures; Karl was well used to the sensation of cold that chilled down to his very bones. No, for Karl, it was the noise, the obnoxious drumming, the whistles of the so-called Peace Officers making sure everyone stayed in line, and of course, the thumping of the boots. They were heavy boots, those, and Karl could still remember viscerally the pain they caused when one was kicked with them, over and over, right in the center of the gut. Karl remembered broken ribs as well.

More precisely, really, Karl wished that he could disappear. It was almost possible – his current project, the one on invisibility, was progressing well. Invisibility could be obtained, in a very limited way and for very short periods, but the current side effects – a particularly painful and persistent rash of the skin chief among them – were such that its use on such an occasion was still far from advisable.

Sighing, Karl shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat and looked up, his eyes drawn to a particularly large and colorfully illustrated image of His benevolence hanging from the roof of a nearby storage depot. What would He, His minions, do if they knew what Karl was working on – that Karl was in fact still working, if secretly and quietly now? Nothing good, certainly. Invisibility was, after all, a very promising technology with many possible uses. Yes, they’d like nothing more than to get their greedy paws on his work. He’d taken certain measures, however, to ensure that this would never happen. Karl had learned from his mistakes: he was careful now, cultivated the image of the doddering, broken old man, lean from years of just getting by, his overcoat always dusty and increasingly covered in mended patches. He almost never spoke with strangers anymore, beyond the vaguest of pleasantries (no one who had sense these days did, come to think of it) and he dutifully allowed himself to be herded to these parades without protest. It was painful, standing here, watching this for what felt like the millionth time, and terribly tedious, but worth the sacrifice for the guise of anonymity it allowed him to maintain.

In the afternoon, after all was said and done, the officials back in their villas and the soldiers back in their barracks, Karl would make his way carefully across the city to the little cellar where he worked. He would meet with his apprentice, who would be waiting (hiding) for him there, and together they would work out a solution to this latest riddle of chemistry and mathematics. She had a mind, that one, and he would train her to be something even better than himself. She would never waste time, years, tricked by His words, by their lies. She would perfect anything he didn’t have time to complete, and well – how much easier would it be, for an assassin to succeed if that assassin was bless with a certain invisibility? The possibilities were astounding.

So Karl remained, standing, perhaps even limply waving a little flag when one was thrust at him by a passing officer, and the soldiers kept marching, marching past in their black boots, their robotic motions.
----

'A Kindness' - prompt based short story

I suck at titles... 
re-written/edited/expanded version of a writing prompt from 4/2010 
original prompt: "Choosing to hurt someone close to you"

--

They climbed out onto the cavetops together. Today, Relanna was acutely aware of the feel of the blueish rock under her fingertips and feet as they moved skyward. As always, the first cold burst of wind was a pleasant shock, a dramatic contrast to the stale, vaguely metallic air of the caves. As they made their way to the nearest launching perch, Relanna’s gaze drifted over the vast, rocky expanse of the surface, desolate as always of any real trace of life: on this world, living things were nurtured deep within the earth, not above it. She tried not to think about conversation she would have to have in a few moments. Like so many things, it had haunted her thoughts for days.

The particular cavetop they had been climbing tapered off slowly to a jagged edge the jutted out over a long canyon. Relanna looked up at the sky. It was dusky and rich, orange with just a tinge of purple and a particular milk-foggy quality to it that never quite went away. The moons were hidden behind that fog, and the stars. She stood at the edge of the cliff, stretching a bit and then standing with the particular stiff, upright ease of a trained soldier, her gaze still focused somewhere far into the distance. After a few moments of this, she turned to the man who had followed her and they both outstretched their wings. Hers were clearly a marvel in comparison: the wingspan was nearly doubled, the quality stronger, vastly superior – even in the dusky half-light, they shined. His were plain, little better than the utilitarian pair that all the free cave dwellers had wielded into their backs when they came of age. More out of habit than any real necessity, Relanna inspected her wings with a critical eye, searching for any flaws that needed repair, any features that could use an upgrade and, of course, anything that could lead to danger in the upcoming flight. Satisfied, she turned her eyes back to her companion.

“Halim” she said, speaking softly, drawing his attention away from his own, much less detailed inspection of his wings. “Halim,” she said again, this time for herself, running the two syllables gently across her teeth. “Halim, Halim, Halim…” she said again and again, but now only in her own head as his gentle eyes rose to meet hers, as his eyebrows rose expectantly. What was she to say to this man who was her cousin, but so much more - a brother, a lover, her oldest, closest friend? What was she to say when she her lips were sealed with the strictest of orders, when all that needed to be said was unspeakable?

She looked up again at the sky. There were so many things that see wanted to tell him. I am going to fly to the moon. I am going to fly into war. Half my body is welded with soldier’s implants, just look at their metallic brilliance, their power: look how far this cave rat has come. Do you remember how we used to run through those old tunnels, how we used to crawl, our hair always sullied with ash, dirt? Now I can fly, further and faster than you could imagine. I still dream, cousin, those dreams that horrify, but what does it matter when I can fly now, fly all the way there to death and moon, as far away from these old caves as I can become. She wanted to talk and talk, to tell him everything so that she could breath normally again.

“This is the last time we’re going to fly together,” she said instead, matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean, Rel?” the man, Halim, asked. He seemed frail now, so slow and breakable, defenseless in the face of all the dangers that lurked in the skies, beyond the fog. She wondered how it could be that once, he’d taken care of her so completely.

“It’s…just how it is. I don’t have time for these things anymore. I got an offer to move to another lode, closer to the Center. Honestly… these flights are a bore. You can’t keep up with me anymore, Halim. I need more,” she said, careful to keep her tone merely bored, knowing how the words, the accompanying lack of emotion would grate. She knew him well enough to know what buttons to push: injure his pride, make him feel insignificant.

“Rel…”

“I’m serious. I don’t want to drag this out. This is goodbye. We both need to find ourselves people more….on our own level.”

“I see. So I’m not ‘on your level’ anymore,” he said, a bitter, taunting tone creeping into his voice. Pain. Relanna said nothing. She remembered the taste of his lips on hers, giggling madly in some old crevice of the rocky blue walls, his hand wrapped around her back at the waist. She remembered how safe she felt when he held her, when she woke up from the dreams gasping. You can’t protect me now, she wanted to scream. She shrugged.

“It’s better this way,” Relanna said.

“Better this way? Are FUCKING serious?”

Once, she used to dream of her mothers death, the way the falling stone had crushed and split open her skull, spilling out blood and a grey mass. She used to dream of that terrible shaking. Now she dreamed of her own death. She dreamed of her many possible deaths and the aftermaths, the tears, the screams. She dreamt of him, Halim, screaming till his throat was raw, dry heaving uncontrollably. Yes, Relanna was far too familiar with the effects of loss not to know what would happen afterwards. Those images played over on her eyelids even now, waking, as she once again tearlessly shrugged.

“I should go.” She was all she said in response.

“Yeah, go, wouldn’t want you to waste your precious time with the likes of me. Selfish cunt.”

She wanted to hug him. She wanted to feel his body one last time, pressed against hers, to touch his skin. She wanted to take the pain and anger out of his eyes. Instead she launched herself off of the cliff and into the endless tangerine sky. Her hair flew up as the wind wrapped around her small muscular body, chosen and endlessly tweaked by the engineers who gave her those glorious wings. Halim’s figured retreated into the distance, growing smaller and smaller, becoming nothing.

You can’t protect me anymore, but I can protect you.

If there were tears, no one would see them up in the skies. The wings shined brilliantly.

---

An Older Short Free-writing Prompted Exercise

This isn't really complete, but I do like the atmosphere of it, something to potentially expand on later on...

Prompt: “The golden harp...”
Wordcount: 530

written 07/2010

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The golden harp loomed over the left half of the castle’s antechamber, polished, shining, and as always untouched. It was said that the thing was a relic from another age, from when giants ruled the earth or, alternatively, when the kingdoms of man were still so great that a man’s fingers were large and strong enough to pull at its taut strings. These days, there were few brave enough to touch the thing, never mind actually using it for its intended purpose. These days, it stood only to awe and intimidate, kept in near-pristine condition by a good half-dozen overworked servants.

         

In that it was mostly successful, drawing stares from many of the less familiar faces among those milling around below it on some official business or other. It even affected Fiddle, who was perched atop it, though in his case it was excitement, rather than fear or awe, that raised his pulse above its usual steady rhythm. Fiddle was, among other things, a rather musical creature, and even now the young man’s fingers itched with the urge to try to make the old instrument sing. He could almost imagine the shocked, then appreciative looks of his audience – gratifying, yes, but sadly impossible. Fiddle, you see, happened to be invisible at the current moment, a state that granted him the freedom necessary to go about his business unharassed. The enchantment he was wearing cost quite a bit of coin to have cast, and would be quite ruined by an explosion of music in one of the castle’s most frequented chambers.

         

So the young man sighed, gave the golden harp one last forlorn glance, and scurried onwards, silently making his way to the core of the castle, where the most serious of city matters were being conducted. Among the many talents that the young man possessed, by far the most lucrative was his skill as a spy: Fiddle, the boss liked to brag, could not only get you any and all of the information you required, but also do it so the target would never suspect a thing. Spying wasn’t the funnest of activities – not nearly as nice as playing his lute on a street corner or even a good if not-so-honest game of cards, but as far as coin was concerned, nothing else came close. These days Fiddle could easily afford all kinds of nice little luxuries, chief among them these solid invisibility chants that stayed on for hours and didn’t wear off at the slightest hint of stress or moisture. Of course, Fiddle still tried to stay dry and calm, out of prudent habit if nothing else, but it was nice to have some leeway, a bit of just-in-case wiggle room and the like.

          

All that success did have its downsides – these days he had much more to lose if he failed, and the subsequent high-stress background to the missions was almost enough to make the man go back to selling his music for pennies in the street. Almost. “Well, I suppose everything in this world has to cost you something,” he told himself whenever thinking too much about the state of things started to give him a headache.

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