Twenty Eight

wild ride off the deep end.  I'd seen nothing like what I'd seen in the last three days; not sure I would ever recover, or if I even wanted to.

When I finally said "Goodbye" to everyone who helped me take down the Co-op, it was with a few tears and a lot of promises to keep in touch. I'm pretty sure we all knew that was a bunch of bull, but it helped cut the pain.  I looked them each in the eye and promised how much I would miss them.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky a gorgeous pink and blue.  I got on my Vespa, cranked the engine (as much as one can on an Italian scooter,) and rode off.

It would have been more poetic to ride off into the sunset, but I was heading east, and was low on gas.

Twenty Seven

but his truck would never be the same.  The claw marks served as a badge of honor, signaling his triumph over a monstrous creature capable of tearing a man apart as easily as Aaron would tear open his lunch bag.

He looked down at the crimson sword in his hand, admiring the fine engraving running up and down the edges of the blood groove.  Outwardly he pledged never again to use the blade, but inwardly he knew that was not true; there were other monsters dwelling in the Forest, and he was all that stood between them and the small village he now called “home.”

A small hand touched his as it gripped the hilt, his knuckles white with tension.  He looked down and saw Dara’s piercing grey eyes gazing into his.  There was something about the child that frightened him, but it was his duty to protect her, and he would not fail.  Behind that frail exterior was power he could not begin to imagine existed, at least not before these last two weeks, when his world was turned upside-down.  He would keep her alive, at least until they could reach the Jade Temple.  After that, she would most likely have to keep him alive.

“Let’s go home, now,” she said softly, urging Aaron in the direction of the village.

Aaron stole a moment to look back into the Forest, sighed heavily, and turned back to Dara, saying, “Yeah…let’s do that.”

Twenty Six

and his pants would never again see the light of day.

Sandra took his hand in hers, the softness of her skin not escaping his notice, and looked into his eyes. “I’ve seen stupid before, but that was Stupid with a capital S.”

Peter would have argued the point, but he knew she was right. As they sat next to each other on the stonewall fence, he scratched an abstract pattern in the dirt with the toe of his right foot. He would tell her he loved her, but not right then. There were too many things hanging over them, and most of them were his fault; he would wait until she could focus her attention on him instead of his mess.

Peter looked into the looming sycamore tree across the street and said with painfully clear regret, “I’m gonna miss those pants.”

Twenty Five

lowly bastard of a soldier has the gall to look me in the eye and call me a murderer.  His crony lolls there against the doorframe, nicotine-stained fingers scratching at the gristle of beard on his leathery neck, accusing me with his eyes.

I know what had happened; they believe in their tiny little minds that I therefore declare my guilt.  They know nothing.  The Seers did what had to be done; they have no right to pass judgment on us.  We are the Keepers of the Devices; we are the Seers of What Is to Come.  The litany rolls through my head, buffering me against their heresy.

“I wear the Ring; I Know the Future; I am Seer.  I hold the Vision; I Speak the Truth; I am Seer. None shall Know what I Know; none shall See what I See; I am Seer, they are Nothing.”

Another impudent accusation is hurled at my face by the brute in charge.  Refusing to grant him the honor of my gaze, I stare into the Abyss and repeat, “You are Nothing.  He is Nothing.  Those who died were Nothing.”

I know they will eventually tire of this useless charade and put me through the meaningless ritual of a public hanging, all to satisfy their bestial blood-lust, their craving for “vengeance.”  To a Seer, death means nothing. Who did they think they were, meting out “justice” on me?

Who did they think they were?

Twenty Four

bolted out the door and fell to the ground after missing the last step.  Kaitlin scrambled up and ran from the asylum, leaving behind the bracelet Danny had given her, its magnetic clasp sprung from the force of her tumble.

“Come on!” screamed Danny, standing fast and holding out his hand, beckoning desperately to Kaitlin. “They’re right behind us!”

Kaitlin risked a glance back into the darkened hallway of the abandoned state asylum and heard what she feared most: the aching moan of the Lost, the Tormented, the Insatiable.  She knew they must keep running, keep running until the air in their lungs burned and their legs threatened to collapse beneath them.  If they stopped, they would be devoured by the darkness. Forever.

Danny grasped her hand firmly and pulled her along, his stride never faltering. He didn’t look back. He knew what he would see if he did, and he knew it would lead to madness.  He must get them as far from the grounds as possible, and never look back.

But he failed to account for the determination of souls longing for the sweet taste of Life.  They yearned to engulf the two in their icy grasp; Danny and Kaitlin would never leave the grounds.

Twenty Three

So Branches and Francois shambled down the street toward their home. Hopefully Susie and Billie would be waiting, dog biscuits and cat treats at the ready.

Branches looked down at his reluctant friend and said, “You know, kitty…I had an awful lot of fun today!”

Francois stopped, sat down and began to lick his paw. After a moment of quiet he looked up at the big dog and said, “Y’know something? I did too.”

The sun settled into the west as the two companions wandered onto the front lawn of 225 Maple Street. There, sure enough, were Susie and Billie, treats in hand. It was a Good Day.

Twenty Two

The planet spun slowly in an elegant ellipse around the dying sun, the only remaining witnesses possessing neural nets so primitive they would never register the beauty of the dance.

As Petra and her crew shunted their ship across a million paper-thin quantum universes, she fought a loneliness that permeated her being. She had left three of her crew behind; frozen bodies buried in shallow graves, each topped with a marker no one would ever read. She had disobeyed orders which, had she carried them out, would have left more behind.

What troubled her most was what she would do next. Her orders from Starmada were explicit, and if she failed they would cancel not only her life, but those of everyone under her command. Then they would find some other heartless bastard to carry them out anyway.

Safely ensconced in her own quantum universe, she prepared to activate the Superstring Engine; a heinous device which would collapse every other parallel universe to a quantum singularity. Starmada had enough enemies to contend with; they would brook no trouble from elsewhere.

As Petra contemplated the horrific and unforgivable crime against the Universe she was about to commit, a thought presented itself: What if a Petra from another continuum was about to do the same? She smiled quietly to herself, deactivated the Superstring Engine, and reengaged the Shunt Drive.

She may end up dead in another universe, but she didn’t care.