+1 Short Stories of Literacy

Wind Spirit: Little Sister

2008-10-25T01:32:00.000-07:00

The wind carried him over the land, his thoughts rising and falling with the drafts. He sped where the wind sped, through the trees, between the houses, over the roads. He twisted in the eddies and spun in the currents. There was freedom here; Father Wind carried him with strong arms. He was a wind spirit. His essence darted between the flowers, carrying the pollen. His essence herded the waves, lapping at the shores. His essence was playful, curious, but ancient.

The wind spirit began to slow. Father Wind brought him to a hovering pause high above the houses that blanketed the landscape below. The sun was creating a delightful updraft that tickled at the spirit as he waited for Father Wind to whisper a task for him to perform. The updraft subsided and Father Wind drew the wind spirit closer to the ground, slowly descending until he floated over the back yard of a single storey brick house.

There was a swing set and a small kangaroo shaped see-saw sitting in the yard. A toy or two had been left on the ground and a lawn mower sat patiently in the corner. The spirit felt a tickle spark through him, his essence glowing with joy. He darted over to the toys and inspected them, tossing them around a little. He tried to wrestle with the kangaroo see-saw but found it too static and inanimate.

Father Wind began whispering to the spirit. The deep, endless whisper of his voice always filled the spirit with awe and dread. Such a mighty presence and yet so gentle. He had seen his father gently caress the back of the wonderer and he had seen his father savage entire landscapes and flatten entire forests. Both of those aspects were present in his voice, but he felt safe there in Father Wind's embrace.

The whispering lead the spirit to the back door of the house. The glass slider was tinted and the spirit found it difficult to see through to the room inside. Father Wind gave a gentle push and the spirit began to slip through the space around the door. Inside, outside, there was no difference to the wind, where did the air indoors stop and the air outdoors start?

The air inside was warm but still, the wind, having little effect on the enclosed space, was unable to flow and refresh the air inside. The spirit began to slow, he could feel the emotions that lingered in the air like perfumes. Some where tart and sharp, others were soft and sweet. Without Father Wind to move him, the wind spirit moved as though swimming, the warm air around him was amniotic in its warmth and texture.

A little boy sat in the middle of the carpeted floor. He was gazing intently at the colourful blocks he held in his hands. All of a sudden he brought them together with a forceful clack and began laughing. His laughter rippled through the air and tingled the wind spirit to the core. The wind spirit began to giggle, intoxicated by the young boy's uninhibited peels of laughter.

Hello little prince the wind spirit whispered to the small boy.

Who are you? wondered the young boy. The spirit warmed at the child's curious forthrightness. Children always responded in kind, adults were too quick with words. Children just went with the flow, their minds far outstripping their mouths for expression. Even then, this boy looked too young to be talking much, if at all.

I am a wind spirit. Replied the spirit. What are you playing little prince?

These blocks make a funny noise when I hit them.

Do it again. Encouraged the spirit. The boy brought two of the blocks, a yellow one and a purple one, together with a loud clack. Again laughter filled the room and rippled through the wind spirit.

I'm going to have a little sister. Said the boy confidently.

The wind spirit shivered with delight. He could feel the expectancy and joy in the boy's heart over the idea of having a little sister. The spirit moved closer to the boy and enveloped him. The boy giggled but otherwise let it go.

The spirit peered deep into the boy's heart, letting the wonderland of the child's soul draw him in. He saw a lush green rain-forest, an ancient and spectacular place. The wind spirit entered the image and revelled in the scene's natural glory. He flitted from flower to leaf, leaf to rock. There was a gorgeously clear stream running through the middle of the scene. The rocks had been worn smooth and seemed to beg the spirit to jump from one to the other.

The spirit let the breeze catch him, bouncing him down the flow of the stream, the sound of the rock pools pouring into each other soothing him. He came to a larger pool, one where the water had time to sit and be still before continuing. On the edge of the pool, on a wide, smooth rock, there lay a King. The King was asleep, his countenance so peaceful that the spirit wanted to slumber as well.

The spirit felt the image pull away from him. There was a moment of sadness before he returned to the room with the child. A woman had entered the room and he could tell from the boy's reaction that it was his mother. She was a beautiful young woman and looked as though she had only just entered adulthood. The boy smiled at her and began to coo, going back to his blocks.

All of a sudden, the boy looked up at his mother. He looked worried, as if something had gone wrong. A moment later the woman's expression cramped as she bent at the waist. She was obviously feeling quite major discomfort in her abdomen. The boy sat and watched as his mother walked to the couch and sat down heavily.

“Hey sweetie.” she said lovingly but through semi-gritted teeth.

Is mummy okay? Asked the child.

The spirit hovered for a moment, taking in the auras of the room. The little boy's aura was a pale pink as it stretched out towards his mother. Even though the boy sat in his place and continued playing with his blocks, his aura was stretching out to her. The spirit could see the boy's little soul trying to hug away his mummy's hurt. It was at once both precious and sad.

The woman's aura was flickering. From the rich, deep, red that swam out to encircle her son, it would flicker to a harsh grey. The spirit began to shield itself as it saw the grey come dangerously close to black.

There was a third aura. This aura was tiny, barely present but immeasurably deep. At first the spirit didn't notice its presence because of where it was. It was surrounded by the mother's aura. The Aura was coming from the woman's stomach. Her womb. There was a baby, ever so young, not even showing in the woman's figure, bathed in a glorious white aura. The little prince was right, there was a little sister on the way.

The woman arched her back and her aura flashed grey again. The spirit watched in horror as the aura inside of her started flashing black.

The wind spirit kept his focus on the little aura inside the mother as it began to fade. Something wasn't right. He wanted to protect the little prince. The spirit swam over to the young boy, wrapping the small child in the spirit's own aura. The boy sighed, then yawned, then began to curl up in a drowsy little ball. He was still awake, but he was only barely aware of the hurried phone calls his mother was making.

The child was almost asleep when, as his mother lay weeping in pain on the couch, his next door neighbours came rushing in to help her. The spirit watched an older man, bathed in a deep and calm violet aura, swept up the young boy in his arms, patting him gently on the back to keep him calm. An older woman bent down to speak with the boy's mother, her face concerned but resolute.

Then everybody left.

The spirit tried to follow the young boy, but the boy was asleep now, and the spirit couldn't follow the young prince's thoughts. He tried to follow the woman, but her flashes of pain kept pushing him back.

The spirit moved to the glass doors to the back yard and slipped back through the gap. Father Wind picked him up immediately, throwing him high into the clouds, spinning him, disorientating him. The wind spirit let Father Wind take him over places he had never been before, or could not remember.

Things grew dark and the Fire Father slumbered before the wind spirit found himself tumbling back to the brick house with the glass sliding doors.

The spirit slid through the gap above the door and again swam into the room. The room was empty save for the blocks that had been left there by the little prince. There was a disturbance up the hallway as people came in through the front door. The little prince came in first, still being carried by the old man. His face was washed out and blank, his mind wondering off to another place. His aura moved sluggishly but remained the pale pink the spirit had seen before.

The older woman guided the boys mother in through the hallway and onto the couch, gently helping her sit down. The mother had been crying, streaks of hastily applied make-up painted a sorry picture on her young face. The spirit looked deeply into the ruddy ash of the woman's aura. It was alone, the tiny life inside her was no longer there. All that remained was a dull ember of what once was.

Clack!

The little prince began to chuckle as he brought the two blocks together. The spirit took his focus off the woman and went back to the small child. His pale pink aura was back to its original strength, brightening and shimmering with the goings on of the individual blocks that he played with. Each clack brought a ripple through him, followed by the same shrill peels of laughter.

There was something different in him though. The wind spirit drew in closer, peering further into the boy. He saw it, the little white aura that had once belonged in the mother's womb now found it's home in the little boy's heart.

Little sister. Thought the boy.

Government Press Release: Recent allegations

2008-09-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

I'd like to thank everyone for being here.

A year ago allegations surfaced of widespread masculinity in my government. These claims were made after the media misconstrued a leaked proposal by my office to establish what I've come to call the Global Life-Guard service. Although investigators tracked this leak back to a man that was under investigation for involvement in sports, there was no finding of a so called 'sports team' in that department.

Yesterday there were more posts made about possible masculinism within my government. I assure you all that such allegations are completely unfounded and I have instigated a full enquiry to verify this. The Gaian movement has not been forgotten. The barbarism perpetrated by males under the guise of masculinity will not arise again while I am in office. We have moved on from such ways.

I promise each and every person here that we will have peace without conflict. We will know no war. We will live without fear of violence.

I am often asked how my government plans to do more against the growing occurances of sport and violence by those that hide in the dark, by those so cowardly that they seek fulfilment through violence. The only thing we can do is to send the message to these people that they will be named, they will be shamed, and they will be kept away from society. We do not believe in treatment, we believe in solutions.

Thank you.

- Press Conference speech made by Jeffrod Marshall.

Wanting for Adventure

2008-09-30T22:35:00.000-07:00

"I wish my father had been a god.”

Tom rolled his head to the side to check Jessie's expression. Jessie was serious. The four of them, Tom, Chris, Mick and Jessie, were all jammed into the train's narrow four-seater. There were few passengers on at this time of day, a blessing if Jessie was going to start one of his conversations.

"That was vague." Chris replied.

"You know how in Baldur's Gate 2 how the protagonist's dad is the god of murder?" Jessie continued. There were nods all around. "Well, just because of that, he manages to walk around slaying heaps massive monsters and gets to sleep with practically every woman on the Sword Coast."

Tom wasn't about to dispute his logic. There were several layers of fantasy and mental masturbation that needed digging through first.

"I'm not sure if having a god as a father actually leads to getting laid man; Jesus' dad just got him nailed to a cross." Mick said. His head was tilted back and a poorly folded newspaper covered his face. His efforts to sleep under the newspaper were being hampered by the train's movement.

"Tom, what would you do if your dad was a god?" Jessie asked.

"Besides summoning a suit that fits?" Tom squirmed uncomfortably in the too-tight jacket he'd rescued from his brother's room. "I'd probably find something more interesting than working at a KFC."

"You seriously need to look into a good tailor Tom," Chris said, "you're struggling there aren't you?"

"Yeah," Tom replied. His arm was contorted painfully behind his back, forcing Jessie to lean out of the way. A wayward tag had begun to itch. "When did suits become a good idea? If my dad was a god, I'd go back in time, find the idiot that invented the suit and smack his head in."

"And then sleep with every woman on the Sword Coast." Mick prompted.

"And then sleep with every woman on the Sword Coast." Tom agreed.

The four sat uncomfortably as the train rocked on the tracks. Tom tried to concentrate on the Financial Review he'd brought but found the tunes coming from Mick's headphones too distracting. Jessie and Chris both sat quietly staring, their eyes seeking spots where they wouldn't make eye contact with the other passengers on the train.

"Did anyone find out how Nathan did it?" Chris asked.

"He hung himself." Jessie replied gruffly.

"Sorry, I just didn't feel right about going to Nathan's funeral and not knowing, I wasn't trying to be insensitive." Chris said.

"Would you res him?" Tom asked as he stared at the floor.

"What?" asked Jessie.

"If this was Baldur's Gate 2, would you use a spell to resurrect Nathan?" Tom said.

They all went blank for a moment. The silence allowing the train's noisiness back into the four-seater. Tom looked at them all, his face set.

Mick's face turned bitter. "He obviously wouldn't want us to."

"That's bullshit, if this was Baldur's Gate 2 he wouldn't have killed himself in the first place." Jessie replied.

"What, because you could go around whacking bandits with swords and rampaging through legions of elf chicks with your +5 cock of puberty?" Mick asked.

"No! Because he'd have better things to do than sit in an office all day," Jessie cried.

"Jesus Jess, we get it, you're pissed off, could you stop acting like such a woman?" Mick asked.

"I'm acting like a woman?" Jessie stood. "Since when did reading statistics and drowning yourself in music become more manly than wanting a battle to fight?" He jerked his bag out from under the seat and headed off down the carriage.

"Guys, we're going to a funeral, what did you expect? Everyone to be stable?" Chris asked.

The soft hum that preceded the train driver's voice clicked on. Their station was next. As they stood waiting at the door, Tom could see Jessie waiting at the next doors down, posture rigid and avoiding eye contact.

They left Jessie a wide berth as they got off the train. The road from the train station to the cemetery was lined with small houses with large yards, the kind of dwelling that you expect to be torn down in about ten years. There was enough space that the gap between them and Jessie looked awkward.

By the time they reached the open grass of the cemetery they had caught up with him. They all maintained their silence as people climbed out of the cars parked around them.

"Get in early for a back row seat," said Mick dryly.

The four of them stood at the rear of the funeral to give the family some room.

Tom guessed that the people filling the seats were all family, seldom-visited cousins and the like, that none of Nathan's friends would be able to identify. He watched their dry faces as they leaned towards each other making overdue greetings and insincere queries of good health. He probably knew Nathan better than they did.

Chris felt uncomfortable being around this many strangers. He just wanted to say goodbye to their clan-mate. He could have done it at home. There was nothing about this service that said anything about who Nathan really was. Nathan was a team mate, a friend and a dreamer. He could never have known Nathan as a son, but there was something horribly wrong about hearing so much about his former home life.

Mick listened to the priest go through the motions. Mick had a different eulogy running through his mind. Here lay Nathan, 24 years old at his death. He had never owned his own home, never finished his degree, never been married and never had children. He had spent the last 5 years of his life playing computer games. So had Mick. Was he wasting his time?

Jessie eyes began to redden and his throat begin to close. He stood back a step to make it harder for the other three to see he was crying. He could hear Nathan's uncle saying something to the congregation. Nathan was a loving son to his mother, a good student, a cherished sibling. Hell. No wonder he had no need for this life, it could only offer him platitudes and fake dreams. Jessie's heart gave out. Nathan was more than that. He was a housemate, he was a soldier, he was a knight in shining armour; he was a slayer of dragons, a conqueror of evil and a saviour of the world. In their world he was heroic.

When the time came for the coffin to be lowered, Nathan's mother was hysterical. Tom looked away from her just in time to see Jessie hurrying off behind a small clutch of trees, his posture giving away that he too was crying. Mick's expression was tense; Chris' eyes were fixed on the casket. His hands were tilted at an awkward angle. Tom's own stomach began to churn. He stopped paying attention to what everyone else was doing and for the first time since he'd heard the news, felt the pain he saw in the people around him.

The crowd had begun moving back to their cars. Tom saw Mick looking ready to go. Chris still stood staring at the grave. Jessie hadn't yet returned.

"Excuse me Tom?" Nathan's uncle asked as he approached.

"Yes?" Tom answered.

"Nathan's mother would like to speak with you just briefly before you go." He said.

"Okay." Tom looked around at the others. Tom approached Nathan's mother with Mick and Chris a few steps behind. She was hugging a relative, someone Tom had never seen before. She left the embrace with a tortured smile and a farewell. The instant she turned to Tom her expression fell, her face drawn under the weight of her grief.

"Why did he spend so much time with those stupid games of yours?" She cried.

Tom was dumbfounded. What did she want him say?

"Why did he bury himself in that computer? Answer me!" she had begun poking his shoulder viciously. Her hysterics were still building up.

"Nathan..."

"Ever since he moved in with you he spent more time with games than with his family! He spent more time with you!” Her ranting was now making a scene. “Why did you steal my son?"

"What?" Screamed Jessie as he stormed towards them. "How dare you blame us for what he did!"

Chris and Mick saw that Jessie was on the war path just in time to grab him and wrest him out of swinging distance.

"Those games were all that he had left! What the hell kind of family are you? How can you say you loved him when he chose death over what you gave him!" Chris and Mick began to pull him away. "If he'd had a decent real life he'd still be here! We'd still have our friend! We didn't steal your son, you bitch! You drove him to us!" Jessie screamed.

Tom turned back to Nathan's mother. She'd broken down under the tirade. Nathan's sisters crowded around her trying to calm her down.

"I'm ... going," Tom muttered.

That afternoon the four of them sat in a quiet spot of the cemetery. Tom and Jessie cried, Chris looked pretty choked up. Mick didn't cry; he stared off into the distance with an angry expression on his face.

A few hours later they stood around Nathan's grave. There was a group hug, some more crying, some words said. The enormity of the death in front of them drowned out anything they could have done there.

Mick and Chris began to walk away. Jessie couldn't move, he just broke down in more tears. Tom stayed to hold him up. Life could wait.

Death of a man

2008-09-30T07:03:00.000-07:00

Of Thieves and Princes.

The dark haired one flicked the last ember of cigarette across the filthy stone floor. Both of them just watched it roll until it hit a decrepit scrap of wood. Neither of them moved for minutes. The dark haired man was known as the thief; his profession no longer mattered. The other man; a prince.

“So that's it,” said the thief, “game over?” His pursed lips feigning self pity. He was seated; one of his knees was pulled up under his chin. His other leg stretched out into a widening pool of his own blood.

The prince squatted facing him. His cigarette was still good.

“I promise,” said the prince as he stood, “it will be quick.”

The Horizon of Eternity.

He was leaking. The realisation was not as heart breaking as he might once have imagined it. The dry dirt on his lips was warm, sun baked and light. He purged the dust from his lungs, eliciting leg-jerking pain from his mid-section. His elbows tried to prop him up. It took 4 attempts.

The sound of the ocean replaced the ringing in his ears. The primal call of that water drove him to crawl. His arms pulled him length by length towards the edge of the cliff. His life spilled out behind him.

Whether it was the shot to the gut or the fall that killed him didn't matter. He died howling at the ocean, his life now one with the heaving waves.

Traces

2008-09-29T06:54:00.000-07:00

BEGIN COMMAND BATCH:
Open all the security streams from the past week
361 STREAMS OPENED - Indiv/Batch?
Batch them together
Select all the streams with me in them
56 STREAMS OPENED - Indiv/Batch?
Batch them
Narrow it down to the ones that are after hours
36 STREAMS OPENED - Indiv/Batch?
Batch them all and stop asking me
Use ArMAda to delete them, any copies, and remove all log entries about their existance
REQUESTING ArMAda AUTHORISATION
Just do it
REQUESTING ArMAda AUTHORISATION
38935543-a3a-s1g
36 STREAMS, 481 COPIES, 56,778 RECORDS DELETED
Thanks
COMMAND NOT UNDERSTOOD

Letter to a friend become nemesis

2008-09-28T19:56:00.001-07:00

So, grumpy, that's what you do now...

It makes me more than a little insecure knowing that you've entered a place where I could never follow. Watching myself sit here and nurture a diseased art while you go on to fight dragons.

I won't lie, as time went on we became less and less alike and our friendship turned to that petty emnity that comes from having no place in eachother's lives. I am sorry; my mind has soured further; I expect yours has too.

So when we meet again, assume my prostration. At least under that assumption I may appear to hold dignity. If you see me before I see you - pretend that you didn't.

It's no longer in the pipleline, it's out for the world to see.

Regards
Misogynies.

Vignettes

2008-09-28T03:44:00.000-07:00

Emotional Apathy
All I was doing was a quick shopping run. It's perhaps 100 meters from my front door to the supermarket, there's not a lot to walk past.

I'd forgotten about the park on the other side of the intersection. It's not really that big, hemmed in as it is between 3 major roads, but it is central. I suppose that's why they chose it. The first thing I noticed was the voice on the megaphone. I looked up to spot a crowd that had gathered around a few small but colourful marquees. I couldn't see the speaker.

I heard words like 'globalisation' and 'politics' and 'your say'. I cringed. Yet another cause stirring up passions. I'm out of love with passion. To devote that energetic center of yourself to an idea has become painful. I block memories of causes gone by the wayside, taking my reputation with them.

There she lies
She'd rolled over in her sleep. This time, however, she'd managed to lose the summer blanket that had covered her. All her nakedness was still and calm on the bed. The sun was hitting the bright yellow wall of the builing beside us; the light through the window cast a golden shade to the scene.

Her back rose and sank with each breath, each of them long and drawn out by sleep. The gentleness with which her hand lay on the bed incites memories of her touch. The cool air from the window hadn't found it's way into her dreams, not yet.

The curves of her form flow easily over the sheets. It's easy to remark that they are the curves as they are supposed to be. The lines of a woman, sacred architecture constant since the garden from whence we came.

< reply >

2008-09-27T12:30:00.000-07:00

Hi Sig,

No, you're not just an 'anonymous source' to me. I've just been relly sick lately. I haven't been able to kick a bug that was going around Capricornia last month.

I have been having trouble sleeping. It's like my mind is buzzing with ideas but I just can't hear them. I can feel them though. All it does is keep me awake. I lie down and my heart rate seems to climb. I feel as though I'm forgetting something, that there is always one last chore I was supposed to do, or that I should be stressing about some big project.

I'll stop talking about me, I have enough spotlight as it is.

It's funny you should mention about wondering what happens to you between chat sessions, I was doing just that yesterday. I'll have to check the logs but you said something that made me realise you must have a life of your own. I know that sounds terribly insensitive of me but after the first time I verified the information you'd given me we just stopped communicating. We communicated, yes, but it was a more mechanical thing; you leaked information while I packaged it for a concerned populace.

Don't feel intrusive, if that's how you felt when you mention feeling out of place. I owe you a lot professionally and I think that spills over into personal closeness at some point. I'm not sure. I suppose one would call it closeness.

I'm going to go read for a while, maybe that'll tire me out. I'm not sure, there's a swarm of bees in my head that needs to quieten down.

Regards,

Nresh

Jeffrod Marshall and the political fallout of La Luna

2008-09-25T06:29:00.000-07:00

Even disregarding the extensive and calamitous physical damage done to earth, the political fallout from La Luna was immense. The Earth Federal Government (EFG) was almost universally blamed by private sector and Domain authorities alike. The La Luna incident was the first situation to cause a change of governmental structure since the inception of global government in 2134.

Both President Sarra Dornty and Prime Minister Lawrence Packer were killed in the disaster, seriously hampering the reaction speed of government rescue efforts as an unforeseen power struggle distracted the upper reaches of the beauracracy. The quickest response came from the private sector with Standard Aerospace Syndicate (SAS), mobilising their vast assets from all over the solar system within minutes of the disaster. The public would later spend a great deal of stream-time pondering the outcome had the scenario been different, but most agree that it is a waste of time, even as an academic measure. The outpouring of grief has still to run dry as our species continues to mourn the loss of over 60% of its fathers, mothers and children.

Jeffrod Marshall was at the helm of SAS during the crisis. His first public comments as the news rooms recovered from the shock were "Each and every one of us must today drop all ideological and moralistic self defence. Today we must react to something greater than our petty beliefs. Today we repair our mother world or risk losing everything we hold dear." His strong words would later lead to his unanimous and almost meteoric rise to the Presidency. His first act as President was to dissolve the existing beauracracy, a measure that nearly bankrupted the entire Sol economy. Like a lost limb regenerated, he regrew the Beauracracy in a way that has since proved reliable.

In only 5 years Jeffrod had rebuilt a working government and brought stability to the economy. Jeffrod's ability to mobilise resources and influence people has been well documented as being the foundation of humanity's survival. Jeffrod's standing in the private sector allowed him to draw upon a significant mandate after his election. The 5th anniversary of his government was marked by the first full year of positive economic growth since La Luna and the first quarter of positive population growth.

In the five years since, however, popular support for Jeffrod has waned and tarnished. His direct and often uncivilised methods have upset the vast majority of Domainistrars, Academics and Media Syndicates. His second election was won without the whitewash he had experienced previously, with many power brokers and a great deal of public support faltering for want of a less risky option.

Support for Jeffrod's government fell through when plans to establish a Global Support Service were leaked. The leaked documents outlined plans for a regimented organisation of general purpose professionals whose role would be to act as a rapid response service in cases of disaster. While the document's intention was at first glance noble, opponents of the government instantly ceased the opportunity to accuse Jeffrod of creating a military.

In the week after the leak, government officials tried to distance themselves from the documents and denying anything as barbaric as a military. Jeffrod was notably silent during that week, refusing to speak to the press. It was during this week that I was told by an anonymous source within the government that Jeffrod had in fact spent the week demolishing entire departments in a long series of firings and retrenchments. At the end of the week, Jeffrod emerged at a press conference to reassure the population that the documents had come from a mid-level academic who had since been charged with several counts of engaging in Sports and had admitted to being a masculinist.

In the year since the Masculinist scandal Jeffrod has seen his approval ratings fall to the point where most commentators think the upcoming election could be unwinnable for him. Jeffrod's direct and often paternal methods have come back to haunt him as the voting populace calms down after the shock of La Luna. It is too early to say his presidency is doomed, but the meteors will surely punch holes in his chances.

You have 1 new message

2008-09-17T01:57:00.000-07:00

Hi Nresh,

I was just poking around the casts and saw your article go up. I know your office goes in real-time; having trouble sleeping again? I know I am. It's been two hours since the post so I'll just assume you've gone to bed already.

There was something about your article that really struck me. You've been writing about La Luna since it happened and I suppose I'm just impressed that you managed to summarise all the good work you've done in one article. I'm not saying you aren't a damn good writer, I'm just questioning if anyone at all was capable of handling something like this.

Where have you been lately? I haven't seen you in the usual threads and you're making fewer public appearances. How's the book coming? I know it's a little out of place for me to be concerned, but the anonymous names of the net have feelings too, and sometimes we care. Am I just an 'anonymous source' to you? Or do you wonder what happens to me between sessions?

Sincerely,

Sig

The fall of La Luna

2008-09-16T05:29:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when it happened?

Most people have seen the horrifying and often catastrophically beautiful images of La Luna plummeting towards mother earth. Some of those images have become icons of our age, memories burnt into our species' memory. Like no other event in humanity's history, the destruction of earth's only natural satellite was shared by the masses. While a proportion of the human population wasn't present in, on or around earth when the strike occured, finding themselves stationed at or in transit to other planets in the Sol system, the event was witnessed first hand by more than 80% of the population.

Tiersonn Vann is a name that will go down in the halls of journalistic history for capturing images of the desctruction and eventual planet fall of one of the larger chunks of destroyed moon, relaying the images to an orbital server as his heat shielded domusphere rode one of the most intact parts of the moon's crust to its eventual obliteration. Few can forget the last image, his own face, completely at peace, completely ready for his fate. It is a haunting image that lives with us today, 10 years later.

Thousands of people that survived the initial explosion were doomed to wait minutes as the torn and ruined fragments of their small world sped home to the blue, green and white globe that spawned it. They watched, they screamed, they died, only to take billions of lives on Earth with them. Audio feeds, visual streams and various other attempts at communication flooded most, if not all comm bands during the disaster, leaving deep and profound emotional scars on those that survived. We still hear their screams as a species united under Sol. We still plead forgiveness for not doing more to stop it happening.

What more could we have done? The new phase of Hot Fusion Energy Nodes (HFEN) had been well tested and reliably used on Venus and Ganymede for over a decade without incident. What went wrong on La Luna? No political party claimed responsibility, no Domain declared war and we still haven't made contact with anything more than pre-sentient life, let alone any other species that could have done it. All evidence points to human error of religious proportions. Data streaming from the facilities just prior to the event have baffled experts ever since, with most theories being vague and unprovable.

I remember that day vividly by virtue of serendipitous fate. It was my first day as a content router at the Capricorn Ring Press Sydicate (CRPS), a fluke of timing that has lead to me devoting most of my career to the event. For many people, their whereabouts on that day is still a source of conversation and reflection. We found a context in which we could put our situations and really analyse how far we've come as a species. From the reversal of the horrible environmental damage perpetrated by national governments 300 years ago to the construction of the orbital rings to the colonisation of our solar system's planets all the way to the accident that caused the disaster, we have been forced to face civilisational adulthood.

The abolution of violence 2 centuries ago should have ended such death. We were wrong.

- article posted Capricornia 01062314 by Nresh Jonnes

Princess

2008-09-15T06:59:00.001-07:00

The first thing she felt was the pressure on her chest. Soon after this she realised she could feel little else. Then, slowly like waking up, she became more aware of her physical state. She felt paralysed, at least, it felt like her entire body had fallen asleep but forgotten to tell her mind.

It took her a moment to realise she didn't have all senses back. As soon as she did she tried to open her eyes. It was slow going but her mind was still groggy. The word groggy occurred to her as well, not groggy as though she'd just overslept, groggy as though she was sick, or hung-over.

“Wake up sister.” Came a gentle voice. Nobody called her sister, not even her sister. She began to feel the blood push its way back through her extremities, causing painful and uncomfortably warm pins and needles over her skin. She opened her eyes as she wedged her elbows under her. She couldn't move her legs. She saw why. They were strapped down.

“Stay still, you're still a bit doped. I drugged you to get you here.” Said the same voice. Sarah focused. There was another person there, a white blur, white and yellow blur, her sister. It was Claire, her sister.

“Wha-,” Sarah croaked, “What are you doing?” She stopped herself at saying 'let me go', either Claire would have unstrapped her already or she was the strapper.

“Duh, look around” Claire said.

Sarah looked around, sure enough her legs were tied together with a T-shirt. The T-shirt was then roped to a concrete pole that only gave a few centimetres of play. The entire room was made of concrete, the walls, the floor, the roof. It came to her, she was in the air-conditioning room of her dad's office block, the one she and Greg had used to make out.

“Why? What did I do? Mum and Dad are going to be pissed you little bitch!” Sarah snapped.

“Yeah right, they will be pissed, but not with me. They'll be pissed with you.” Claire said, toying around with a candle holder.

The room was circled with candles and cushions, yet none of the candles were lit. Let me go you little bitch. There was a harsh light on a tripod, Sarah recognised it from her dad's shed. It was one of those lights you see on a building site or shining into a car's engine while a group of greased up men stood around it with beers in hand trying to sound like a mechanic. Let me the hell out of here you troll.

“Why the hell would they be angry at me, you kidnapped me!” Sarah yelled, testing the straps for weakness.

“They'll get over it, especially once they see how badly I've been abused.” Claire said. The younger girl sounded as though the last few words choked her up, as if she were about to start crying.

“Abuse?” Sarah asked, dumbfounded. Sarah had just turned 18 and was just getting used to life outside of high school. She'd followed her 18 month boyfriend Greg into a Human Movements degree and was having the time of her life. “Claire, I know I've been ignoring you a little lately but I swear I haven't done anything to you!”

Claire leapt up, revealing a long chopping knife. She looked visibly upset. “You're so arrogant! You don't even know what you've done. You're like a different person!” Claire cried. The small girl, just turned 12, began to sob angrily. It didn't look right, as if her little body was trying to express more adult anguish but unable to do so.

“What abuse?” pleaded Sarah.

“My body! My innocence! All of it gone!” Claire sobbed.

Sarah was taken aback. Her body? Her innocence? Different person? What was going on. She'd been under a lot of stress lately but surely she wasn't repressing things. Was she? She looked over at her sister who was barely standing under the weight of her sobbing, both hands over her face, bringing the knife dangerously close to the younger girl's head. This was not a joke. What had she done?

“Claire please,” Sarah pleaded again, “what did I do?”

“Just shut up!” Claire screamed. She paused for a moment, dropping her shoulders and relaxing a little. “Don't worry,” Claire said with a mocking tone, “your prince charming will be here soon. He can rescue you.”

Greg was coming here? Sarah's body relaxed, at least her sister was stupid enough to call someone else. Greg would call the police and... Sarah's train of thought halted with that realisation.

“Claire, sweety,” Sarah's voice was steady, trying not to anger the knife wielding 12 year old. “The first thing that Greg is going to do is call the police, and when they come through the door, you're going to be arrested and sent to jail.”

“What do you care, I've been through worse and you didn't care.” Claire said as she calmed down a little. “Besides,” she said as she walked up to Sarah, pointing the tip of the knife at Sarah's neck, “I told him not to.”
---

Greg put his mobile back in his pocket. He was stunned. Claire had gone crazy. She's at your little hidey hole, she had said just moments ago, come and take her before I end her.

He looked around him, wondering if anyone else at the party had heard his conversation. The last thing he needed was for anyone to call the police, lives would end, possibly in the literal sense.

“Yo guys, I've gotta go.” he announced to the room.

“Aw what?” bawled Mick, the group's lay-about.

“Let me guess,” chided Rob, “Sarah's lonely and needs a back-rub from her handsome princy-wincy?”

“Whipped! Whipped!” Cheered the rest of them.

“Car's broken down!” He called as he turned his back. He headed out to his bike and fired it up. Once his helmet was on, he was gone like a shot, ready to save his princess from the evil witch.
---

“What are you going to do to?” Sarah asked. Her voice meek and inoffensive.

Claire looked up from the small bag she had been rifling through. She wasn't the same little girl that Sarah knew. There was something weary and almost beaten down about the Claire that was now in front of her. Claire still moved with the awkward gait of a 12 year old but her voice lacked some element of girly optimism.

“I'm going to make it look like a drug overdose,” Claire said with poorly fitting enthusiasm. “This is probably where you take drugs isn't it.” She began waving the knife at Sarah's belly. “You both do drugs here don't you?”

Sarah shook her head as if shaking it faster would be more convincing. They had come here to make out on weekends but nothing else. Greg wasn't even interested in going further than that yet. Sarah just kept looking at the knife's blade and the hellfire 12 year old pointing it at her.

---

Greg rounded the corner a little fast, his eagerness was getting the better of him, thinking about the precarious situation he was now in. He took the next corner a little slower and, as luck would have it, turned straight into a police breath test unit.

He slowed down as he approached the first officer, flipping his visor open.

“Evening officer,” Greg said, his voice unsteady.

“You've been stopped for a random...” The policeman started. All Greg's mind was awash with what-ifs. What if he was stopped here and he was too late? What if the police already knew and it was all over?

“...please blow into this tube until I say stop.” The officer held out the breathaliser. Greg emptied his lungs into it, glad to hear the steady beep that indicated he could stop blowing.

“Stop.” Said the officer as he read the display. “You can go.”

Greg's heart was racing to the point of pain as he rode away, his legs tingling with anxiety.

---

Sarah was slowly circling her ankles, the way the T-shirt had been tied didn't allow for escape but it did allow the joints to make a hypnotic clicking sound. She listened to it, letting the repetitive sound dull her, distracting her from the dire situation she was in. Why was she waiting? Greg. She wanted Greg to be here. Why? So he could rescue her. Was that important? No, Claire was 12, those things didn't have to make sense. She must have read too many fairy tales. The knife was important, it was always pointing at her.

She looked over at Claire, she was stabbing at a block of wall insulation that had been left by maintenance. Sarah thought back to all the times Claire must have been talking about, the late night pranks, not including her in girly outings to shopping centres, spanking her when she annoyed her. Had these things really gotten to her this badly? Were those things really worse than she had thought?

“I'm a monster.” Sarah sad sadly.

“What?” Claire asked grumpily, her voice muffled by her knee which had been pulled up under her chin.

“I've hurt you so bad and I didn't even know it.” Sarah continued, her voice droning in disconnected self incrimination. “My mind had just shut everything off. I wasn't even aware of it at the time.”

Claire stood up, the knife flashing as it moved through the harsh light of the tripod. “You never even tried to stop it. All those times I wanted you to stop it and nothing. Not once!” Claire yelled.

Sarah just sat and took it. There was no way of responding to that level of anger. There was no defence to that level of crime, that level of betrayal.

Sarah caught herself. The door was creeping open. Claire was still facing her, her back to the door. Sarah took a slight step backward. Claire followed, still yelling, still waving the knife. Greg slipped in through the door so quietly that Sarah couldn't even hear him over Claire's ranting.

Claire was still ranting and Sarah's eyes still looked on the 12 year old when Greg quietly closed the door. He held one finger up to his lips, a needless sign as Sarah was still unwilling to take her focus off Claire. Sarah stepped back again, Claire following with pronounced and angry footfalls. Greg was right behind Claire now, the knife ready to be snatched. He came within a step of her. Sarah held her breath.

Greg slipped his arms gently around Claire's waist.

Claire relaxed instantly.

Greg looked down into the young girl's eyes. “Hello my princess.”

Sarah couldn't understand it. Her mind started flashing with possibilities, responses. None of them made a lot of sense.

“You took too long. I was ready ages ago.” Claire said as she turned around to give the much taller Greg a hug. He picked her up instead.

“I got here as fast as I could. You've been a clever girl, I'm impressed.” He said to Claire as he gave her a too deep kiss.

“I'll get everything ready.” Claire announced happily as she skipped off behind him.

Greg raised his head slowly. “Well this is awkward.” He said as he ran his hand through his hair. “But this is how it goes down, I never would have thought myself capable of this until I realised what was at stake.” His voice croaked on the last word.

Sarah just collapsed. Her boyfriend and her little sister were about to kill her. Greg crouched down, being careful not to get too close.

“We don't have to do this,” he said calmly, “Seriously babe, I promise that if you just keep your mouth shut we can all pretend nothing is going on. I'm not even sure how you found out, but if you're so intent on telling the police,” he shrugged apologetically, "my self preservation kicks in. You die."

“What?” Sarah asked. The confusion in her voice drowning under a choked sob.

“What Claire and I have is special, I love her and she loves me, she knows what she's doing... wait, what did you say?”

“I have,” she started weakly, “no idea what you're talking about.”

Greg stood up, taking a step back. The look of confusion on his face began to morph into fear. She watched in horror as his face contorted into a look of sheer agony. A sharp intake of air and a growing howl emerged as he arched backwards before his legs buckled forward, slamming his face into the concrete floor.

Claire was standing there where he had been, crying her little eyes out, her body trembling. She dropped something. It was a syringe, just used. She collected herself and ran to catch her little sister before she fell. Sarah held the sobbing child in her arms, joining in.

“He hurt me.” Claire spluttered, pounding her little fists uselessly at her older sister's shoulders, “He can't hurt me. Not anymore.”

Sarah wailed, she understood now.

Concentrate Damnit

2008-09-13T06:54:00.000-07:00

“Do you think she'll last the trip?” Samin asked.

Dorry looked at him condescendingly. “No Samin, I took the contract hoping I'll be stranded in space for all enternity.”

Dorry poked his head back into the maintenance panel, the sensors in his fingers tingling as they found various microfractures and shorted circuits. The salesman had assured him that the subderms would cut the cost of ship repairs. Even had that been true, their puchase left no cash for new parts. In short, Dorry was pissed and only had himself to blame.

“I dunno Dorry,” Samin said, “the Neptune trip was pretty bad last time, maybe we should register the contract with Domain.”

“No,” Dorry snapped, “It was bad enough last time having to deal with those Earth Fed guys let alone having to deal with a whole bunch of strapped-up local binters. We're going cold.”

Samin sighed, their last trip from Earth to Neptune had been a disaster, yes, but they had both felt it was more to do with having an Earth AI do their Nav-typing and less to do with alcohol.

Dorry had promised to use private sector crash-navs from then on, even if it meant no insurance. This meant the possibility of unfulfilled contracts, a dangerous and potentially traumatising event for a load captain. Thankfully there was far less need for insurance when you didn't have some idiot state funded computer trying to aim you through the asteroid belt.

“So which one are we using then?” asked Samin.

“You ask a lot of shit you know that?” Dorry crawled back out of the panel, looking accusingly at a slightly decrepid looking bioswitch.

“I'm just interested is all. My life getting floated up there too.” Samin said, looking slightly hurt.

“Look I haven't decided yet, I'll probably go open this time.” Dorry replied noncomittally.

“Open?” Samin laughed nervously. “I didn't know you knew anything about Nav-typing. You do don't you?”

Dorry's shoulders went back and his chin lifted. “I know enough.”

Samin started. “Just pip a normal one, I could get one for you, I know a guy...”

“No, no, no, no, no, no. I am not going without grid updates just because you think I'm an idiot.” said Dorry.

“I don't think you're an idiot, I just think you should use a real system. This contract is important.” Samin replied.

“GR3 is a real system.” Dorry stated officiously.

“Oh roids, we're going to die.” Samin motioned.

“I'll airlock you myself if you don't help me fix this bleedin' remarker.” Dorry said.

“I just think GR3 is a little beyond you.” Samin said as he handed Dorry a PT4 jack. “This is an important decision.”

“This is not a democracy Samin, I own this jumper, I make the stupid decisions.” Dorry grumbled.

Just as Samin was beginning to respond, klaxons beat down his hearing and flashing lights dug at his eyes. Proximiy alerts flared on almost every panel. After extracting themselves from the cluttered crawlspace, the pair dodged and ducked through the claustrophobic hallways of the small hauler and spilled into the diminuitive bridge.

The scene through the main viewscreens explained the comotion.

Over the sapphire backdrop of earth, past the arc of the equatorial docking belt, the moon was coming apart. To be more precise, it was blasting apart.

“I don't think we're gonna need GR3.” Samin gawked.

A messenger came

2008-09-11T08:19:00.000-07:00

"There's a point where you decide that death isn't something you wish to avoid. Knowing that if a bus was speeding towards you or a crazed gunman was about to take you down, you're going to stand perfectly still, and calmly let it all end. It's not the same point as deciding to actively end your life; that shows a serious lack of imagination. Finding out how bad things can get is just as entertaining as a good, happy life. Sometimes.

That sometimes had run its course with me.

I was faced with the bus. Seconds turning into hours of indecision and conflict between my better judgement and my body's urge to not be killed. As I stepped back off the road and out of harms way, I berated myself for wasting a perfectly good opportunity to visit the pearly gates. My girlfriend just sobbed after seeing nearly seeing me hit by a bus. It was easy to calm her, I was feeling slightly robbed.

This is where God stood in. And I do mean God with a capital 'G', not just some vague concept of a higher power that doesn't even qualify as a proper noun. I am italian catholic after all. A couple of people had seen my near miss, all of them had gasped but one of them had seen my hesitation. So there I met Maurizio Bianchi, Morris, and a solution was provided.

My interest in dying was not without its qualifications. I would have preferred to die with meaning. Any cause would do, as long as it was less desultory than a traffic accident. Forgive me for saying this, but Morris was a crook. The way he approached his introduction spoke to his impolite motivations. He waited for me to farewell my girlfriend at her work and walked behind me for a while just to make sure I wasn't in a hurry. Smart but crooked. When he finally caught up with me, all he asked was if I had any need for money.

That was all he needed to ask.

I was depressed and not particularly interested in self preservation, but I can't remember the last time lassitude paid the rent, so when we found a coffee shop, I listened. I was already in a surreal state of mind after the bus, so if I sound like a complete idiot for following a complete stranger to a coffee shop to talk about money, understand, I was not both feet forward at the time.

We talked for a few minutes as we waited for our coffee. Morris found out I was italian at this stage. He asked 'Do you enjoy a good coffee?' and I responded that "I'm italian, when I was born they didn't spank me, they asked me how I took my espresso'. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the joke and I could see him relax. It wasn't the humor, I think he had just realised there was a certain level of understanding he could rely on when making his proposal. Family honour is a big thing for us, espcially we southerners. For some of us it's the only thing left.

He kept eye contact as he told me about his youngest son being murdered down in Melbourne. Apparently it wasn't just the greeks that were venting spleens down there. I felt for him; parenthood was probably the last territory I hadn't plumbed for misery's potential and I could only fathom it was right up there with anything I'd ever felt. He told me about the people that did it, the context, the unfairness of the situation, his child's innocence.

I don't often see grown men weep, let alone bitterly.

After he had calmed down, and saw that I acknowledged him as more than a stranger for the outpouring, he told me about his plan. He needed his eldest son, a young man about my own age, to take revenge by killing the 'doomed bastard' that did his boy in. I asked him why he couldn't just send an email, or make a phone call. 'Too tracable' he answered, 'there can be no evidence that my eldest even left italy, and the police already have it in for me'.

There weren't a lot of words said in that exchange, but my mind filled in the blanks. He wanted no hard or soft copy evidence of any revenge plot linked to him. No phone, it might be tapped. No email, it could be pulled down. No mail, it could be intercepted. A random stranger with no ties to him travelling with a fake passport for the real killer? That could work. Then I saw the problem with having a human being as the only evidence of your involvement in murder.

Then I realised that wasn't a problem in my case, but I digress.

He could see that I understood the situation, and why he had pulled me off the street with his offer. He handed me ten thousand dollars in cash and I handed him my driver's license and apartment keys. We had security both ways now.

I wrote a long letter to my girlfriend before I left, the poor thing. I hope the money makes things easier for her. The flight over was the best time of my life. I had never felt so free. I was intimately aware of the grandest and most minute schemes of life, everything tasted differently.

And that is how I came to be here."

"So that's how you know my name?"

“In a nutshell.”

"Father wants me to go back to Australia with a fake passport and kill someone?"

"That's what I said."

"But don't I have to.."

"Yes, you do, you may as well get used to the idea, you'll be doing it again soon. There's a shovel and some garbage bags in the back of the hire car."

"Ok, I'm ready to do this."

"Good boy."

Lead us not...

2008-08-19T23:12:00.000-07:00

Sandra flipped through the thick pages of the family photo album. She was so proud of her family. She and her husband had been unwilling parents at first - their first child being the result of a drunken night of passion - but both had fallen victim to the maternal and paternal instincts that claim most people upon sight of their first born. Before her 30th birthday she had given birth to three of the most wonderful children she'd ever met. She giggled happily when she realised that bias may have shaded that perception a little.

She topped up her glass of wine and lit a cigarette. She'd never smoked before today but it seemed somehow fitting now as she sat in her well cushioned living room. She'd put on some soft music and lit the room with candles whilst her husband lay peacefully next to her. Sandra stroked her husbands greying hair, wishing that it didn't make her miss her eldest son even more. Even after all the turmoil, depression and bad luck that seemed to surround him, the kid had come good and now, that success had distanced them.

She thought it appropriate that she had paused on a page dedicated almost entirely to him. Danny, the name choked her a bit. She knew what children could be like, never writing, seldom staying in contact. Sandra had a saddening suspicion that his new position would distract him from his family.

It's ok mum he had said you'll be seeing me again. It's not like I'm running away.

She laughed, he always had such a sweet and unassuming voice, especially recently. He'd been in an accident; a car had hit him as he crossed the road. The police had said that the woman had blacked out from a heart attack and lost control of the car. Sandra had been distraught at the time. None of it had made sense. The woman was only 23 and that hardly spoke to her chances of having a heart attack.

She'd been a mess when the young lady had approached her in hospital and hysterically tried to explain. She'd seen something, the girl had pleaded. She'd seen something else, not her son. It hadn't made sense to Sandra then, and it didn't matter to her now.

Danny fell into a coma after the accident. It was the worst 3 weeks of the family's life. It had been bad enough to see Danny's broken body lying there in hospital. It was worse watching him convulse with whatever nightmares he was having. The doctors had frowned; coma patients were not prone to having nightmares and less prone to responding physically. Nonetheless, he continued to twitch, moan and thrash through the hours. He would murmer. Terri, his younger sister, would sometimes come crying after hearing something mumbled.

“I don't want to say it, I didn't want to hear it.” She would say, sobbing.

They had all stayed in a hotel near the hospital during those three weeks. They had always been close and the tension and sheer lack of direction in Danny's life to that point had affected all of them. He had sunk so low, become so morbid and lethargic. They didn't dare look in his room or on his computer for fear of the things they might find.

Old wounds, however, had healed when Danny was faced with the death of a friend. Something had changed him when he heard his best friend had been beaten to death by drunken thugs on a night out. Danny didn't cry, he just went quiet. After hours spent in his room, he had emerged with a smile on his face, sagely reassuring them that he was ok. He was at peace with the cycle of life and death. He would pray for his friends soul, and that, he said, would be comfort enough for him.

They gleefully watched as Danny changed his life. In 3 months he had settled his life, had a new job and was spending as much time as he could with his younger siblings. He was especially close to Terri. So after the accident, the family had rallied behind him and lent him their strength.

It really was quite touching mother. He had said after he had risen from his coma.

She had been there when he awoke but because she was asleep, Danny had just sat on the edge of his bed, watching her sleep. She awoke to the touch of his hand on her shoulder. She had startled at first but roused quickly, sweeping him up in her arms. He felt cold, almost lifeless to her. That didn't matter to her; she wept with joy as he embraced her. She had called the rest of the family and told them to come as quickly as possible. While they made their way to the hospital, Danny had just stood at the window, bathed in the ghostly moonlight.

Look at all those lives out there mother. She recoiled suddenly, it was strange of him to use the word 'mother'. It seemed alien and distant to her. All those lives, each with their joys and their fears, all so easily swept away. A car accident, a brutal mugging, all so fragile. Yet they struggle on anyway, bravo to them. He said enthusiastically.

Sandra stood confused. Her son had always been proficient with words, always with a friendly and unnassuming, though personable voice. This, however, was different.

“Are you ok sweety?” She had said across the empty ward.

I'm... fine, mother. He said, conflicted. He slowly turned to her, then, almost excitedly, strode towards her. After all the trouble I've had fitting in here, in this world. This world with all its contradictions and lies. I've found my place in the world mother, though I doubt you'll be exactly approving of my... choice. He paused as if to consider his next words. I'd like to introduce you to my new friends.

He was standing in front of her now, though she felt uncomfortable hanging in the suspense of his words. His voiced seemed to echo, as though there were voices elsewhere in the ward murmering his words. He put his hands on her shoulders, as though about to deliver some kind of good news, though her reflexive recoil spoke to her uneasiness and burgeoning fear of her son. Where was this fear coming from?

Mother, he said smiling, look into my eyes...

She almost had to force herself, but she found a glimmer of motherly love and held onto it, pushing away her unreasoning fear. She met his eyes, and looked into them. She felt herself being pulled into them. She felt herself falling forwards, then rushing forwards. She saw a desolate landscape. An ashen volcanic plain strewn with burnt debris and torn flotsam. The ground was broken and jagged with rocks glowing red from heat and burning, throwing up tongues of flame everywhere. The heat made the air shimmer, and ash caught in her throat as it swirled through the air. Her fear felt distant, removed from her body but mutely screaming at her to panic.

Sandra looked to the sky, a swirling maelstrom of cloud and void. When she looked at it she could hear a terrible wailing, a dread chorus of voices that threatened to tear her sanity.

She could see a figure in the distance, walking towards her. She watched as the figure, though walking softly, seemed to cross the distance with eery pace. She determined features slowly, one at a time. He was well dressed, in tones of black. His coat blowing in the hot wind. He was slightly built but not small, and his stride was upsettingly familiar.

All of this, mother, is mine. Danny called over the wind, almost at her now. You see, nothing of the last 4 months has been an accident. The death of a friend, the car crash, the coma, none of it. They say God works in strange ways, and honestly, I like that. We're so impressed that we do try to keep up with his trickery. It seemed almost poetic that I should join these ranks in such a flurry of events. I'll not bore you with the specifics of how this came to pass, suffice to say that, my torment over the last 3 weeks has been preperation for this, my... graduation of sorts.

He was standing before her now. He raised his hands to her shoulders again, this time, the fear in her was anything but mute.

Mother, I am a demon.

The terror she felt in those words spoke to his honesty. Only an agent of everything evil could create such unreasoning fear.

I forget myself! Mother, meet my new friend...

Sandra's vision whirled about. Behind her, she faced a dark figure, shapeless and void of light. She fell back against her son in horror. She knew what it was. She didn't know how she could but there was no mistaking it. She stood before him, the touch of his mind felt like the sorrows of a thousand worlds were being forced on her. She stood face to face with the being responsible for all evil. As quickly as it began, it shut off and she was whirled back to face Danny.

Rejoice mother, you've been spared the fate of the rest of the world. It's inevitable, the darkness fills every void, consumes all life. Its march is unending, and here we stand at its front.

Danny swept his hand over the ashen plain beneath them. She peered out over the dark plain to see that it moved. No, the plain wasn't moving. As her vision cleared, she saw the endlessness of the darkest army, the foul creatures that moved in unison towards a giant gate of flame that towered over the landscape. Her panic began to consume her.

“Are they...?” she choked.

Yes mother, the echo of his voice now palpable as a chorus of lost voices joined his on the burning wind, they are marching towards the destruction of our world!

The wind sprang to unimaginable force and, before she could react, she found herself back in the hospital ward, Danny now dressed again in his surgical gown.

Look mother, the whole family is here.

Sandra looked to the door, expecting to see her husband, and two youngest children standing there, but it was empty. She looked around the ward and, to her horror, saw that the beds that had previously been empty were now occupied by the sleeping bodies of her family.

They're asleep, so peaceful. He said lovingly. Shouldn't we kiss them goodnight?

There was something sinister, evil in his voice, yet she felt compelled by him. She walked to the bed where her husband lay, all the while holding Danny's hand. She bent over the sleeping form of her husband, taking in the ghostly palour of the moon on his face. She bent in closer, putting her lips to his forehead, and kissed.

His body went slightly rigid as she heard... felt his last breath. She kept her lips on his skin as the beat of his heart silenced.

She pulled back and walked slowly, sadly to the bed where her other son lay, repeating the process as her tears fell onto his young face. Again, she felt his last breath brush against her cheek. Sandra's insides twisted with upset and loss.

She pulled away again, turning to her daughter Terri's bed. Danny was already there, watching over her. She stood next to him and bent over the sleeping child. Again, she put her lips to he girl's forehead. This time, however, there was no terminal breath.

I'm sorry mother, but I'd like to do this myself. She choked a sob of relief as she stepped away, grateful that she would be spared the horror of silencing her youngest child's life.

I'm sorry kiddo, Danny said, you were my favourite.

He gently put his right hand on her chest, watching his hand rise and fall with her breathing. His hand then seemed to pass into her chest. He stopped the child's heart with a touch, her young form arching upwards in silent agony before falling back to the bed.

Sandra sobbed as Danny took her into his arms.

It's ok mother. Don't cry. Such emotions are a waste in the grand scheme. They loved you, and will love you for all eternity.

Danny then held her to him and whispered something in her ears. She wept to hear it, but when she opened her eyes, he was gone, and she was sitting comfortably in her lounge room. In her home. A large photo album in front of her, her husband lying next to her peacefully in death.

Now, as she closed the album, the last words her son whispered to her echoed in her mind.

The soul of a suicide are commit to the dark for all eternity.

She looked down at the small razor on the couch next to her, a slight line of blood adorning its edge. She then inspected the delicate cuts she'd made in her wrists, and the life blood that slid gracefully from them.

It had been a few minutes, and now she felt her vision begin to darken, her extremities begin to numb. She laid back and waited for the signs release.

Her thoughts began to slow as her vision went dark. She could no longer feel her body. In her mind all she began to see was the terrible landscape of her son's new life. She could see him walking towards her again, smiling, terrifying in his demonic countenance.

He put his arms on her shoulders one more time.

So nice of you to join me mother.

The end.

Messages in the sand

2008-08-19T22:47:00.000-07:00

Greg McCormack woke groggily. He groaned inwardly as he realised that getting out of bed was going to suck, and he had the vague impression he had something important to do today. Without opening his eyes he fumbled for his mobile, hoping it was still early enough that he could sleep in some more. It didn't take long for his hand to get frustrated and start banging down on any horizontal surface it could find in the vain hope it would present itself.

Finally he found it hiding under yesterday's underwear and pulled it close to his face. He fought his sleepiness to focus on the time display on his phone. 6:30am, still early. He rolled onto his back before closing his eyes. If he'd closed his eyes just a fraction earlier he would have missed it, but they snapped wide open when he realised something was written on his ceiling.

Go to the Kitchen

He stared at it blankly for a second as his curiosity boxed with his body's urge to fall back to sleep. He groaned again as his curiosity won out. He threw the sheets off and threw his legs limply off the side of the bed. He sagged; he was tired enough that he could sleep like this. The thought was pleasant but he sat up anyway. It occurred to him that some bastard had written on his ceiling. To do that required someone breaking into his room while he slept, but that didn't annoy him nearly as much as needing to clean the damn stuff off.

He stood up and stretched before walking zombie-like to his bedroom door, on which was written:

Put some pants on idiot.

Whoever had done this was being a funny bugger, he thought annoyedly. He looked down and saw that he had slept naked again. He shrugged and grabbed the nearest pair of slacks, putting them on without underwear. If the sign-maker was going to be demanding, he was only getting the bare-minimum of compliance.

His kitchen smacked of bachelorhood. He could tolerate things growing on dirty dishes far more than he could tolerate having to wash them regularly and besides, the smell wasn't all that bad yet. There were catagories of people that needed to clean things regularly: Families, whose entire lives revolved around keeping things civil, Singles on the prowl who were too scared to bring a girl home to a giant garbage bin and finally, people who lacked personality.

Greg had a morning ritual. It was one that he was proud of, partly because it involved consuming things and partly because the sheer laxity of the ritual seemed to suit him. He opened the door and searched for the half finished bottle of Docter Pepper, imagining his tobacco burnt throat being soothed by the sweet mix of carbinated water and half an acre of sugar cain. He found it, empty, and was confronted with another sign, this time a note attached to his bottle of soft-drink.

This is not a real breakfast. Make toast.

'Arrgggh' he thought, imagining a pirate or some villianous cartoon character 'you have robbed me of my awesome-sauce'. Frowning at the prospect of being haunted by a health-freak-ghost or something, he grabbed the bottle anyway and lobbed it over his shoulder before popping two slices of raisin toast into his grubby toaster. A beer from some long forgotten party found its way into his hand. He sat down with his drink as he waited, looking around his kitchen, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to do today. It was on the tip of his tongue when he noticed that the headline on yesterday's paper seemed to read:

Your toast is burning.

He glanced back to see that, yes, there was a small puff of smoke wafting from the toaster. He jabbed at the button and the slightly blackened toast shot out of the top, one landing on the counter. He picked them both up but dropped them when they burnt his fingers. He looked around for a plate and noticed that the tin of Milo sitting in his open cupboard now read:

Butter it.

Greg now started to worry about being watched. He had to be dreaming. This was getting to him. Still, if someone was willing to put in this much effort, he may as well go with the flow. He reminded himself to query his reckless sense of compulsion some day. Perhaps he was taking the slobby aspect of bachelorhood too seriously and his mind was heading down the drain. Part of Greg was grateful that someone was paying attention to him, and, worryingly, that attention appealed to him.

He was just finishing his toast when he saw another note, this time sitting under the plate he had only put down a minute ago.

Get dressed.

He looked down but decided against being content with just pants, anticipating yet another sign having a go at him to get dressed properly. His bedroom wasn't much better than his kitchen but he knew there had to be something clean somewhere. After much searching he finally found something he was comfortable with. It was his office gear from the day before and totally out of place for a relaxed saturday but he was happy with that.

Greg checked his pockets to see if there was any cash left over and, besides a fifty dollar note, found a piece of paper.

Go outside.

The scrunched up piece of paper found its way to the floor as Greg walked out his apartment door and downstairs to the street below. 'Hello daylight, my old friend' he thought as he looked around, assuming there'd be another sign for him to follow. He was about to start walking when an approaching bus caught his attention. Surely enough, in giant letters on the front:

Catch me.

He had to jog to get to the next stop in time but luckily he had the fifty in his pocket. He just handed it to the driver without saying a word and, surprisingly, the driver handed him a ticket and his change. 'Good thing you know where I'm going', he thought to himself. He found himself a spot at the back of the bus and patiently watched the city going past outside. He spent some time trying to remember what he had planned for the day but was distracted by keeping an eye out for signs from whatever or whoever it was sending him signals.

Again, his train of thought was interrupted when he looked at his ticket and saw, written clearly under the word 'destination':

St Augustines High School.

He did a double take as he realised he was being guided back to his old school. The bus stopped and he exited out onto the familiar footpath of his old school. He looked up at the rusty old sign that sat over the main entrance and saw, again, something odd:

Look around.

He began to wonder through the campus, picturing back to the things he and his brothers used to get up to around the place. He walked past the library and remembered the time they had distracted the librarians long enough to dismantle an entire bookshelf, take it outside and reassemble it in the lunch yard. He laughed, seeing it in the new light of 'being older'. Scenes of food fights and games of handball flitted back to him.

He remembered the time in juinor high that his older brother Sam managed to get three of the hottest girls in his grade to stop and have a chat to him in the exact spot on an overhead walkway where everyone in Greg's grade could see up their skirts. He both laughed and cringed at that one, for something so funny it was a bit seedy.

There was a spot, just near the water fountains where his younger brother had been almost caught smoking until he and Sam had picked a fight with some of the older kids to distract the teacher. They'd both had the living daylights kicked out of them but it was worth it. They had, however, exacted revenge on their waywardly unhealthy brother by kicking the shit out of him at home. It was either that or tell their parents but they had stuck together and kept it a one off.

He stopped by one of the notice boards and lifted off a notice regarding detentions. He frowned as he read it.

Run!

There was a shout from behind him. Greg turned to see the angry face of a Police Officer. Greg put his hands up to explain why he was on private property but flinched. 'To hell with it' he thought as he pitched his foot and took off down the walkway at full sprint. He glanced back to see what the officer was doing, only to see him running after him. He kept going, always willing to play tag.

He rounded a sharp turn and sidestepped into a recessed doorway, pressing himself up against the door. The pounding of the officer's feet slowed as they reached the corner. The officer stood there, trying to see which way the young man had gone. Without making a sound, Greg stepped forward, tapped the Policeman on the back and said “Tag, you're it.”

The officer startled and turned, trying to grasp Greg's hand but it was too late, Greg had already bounded off in the opposite direction laughing hysterically. Ffeeling impressed with himself, he turned a corner and almost smashed into a female officer holding pepper spray. Greg nearly panicked before he saw something graffitied on a sign above her head.

Man she's hot.

He would have laughed if he wasn't so busted, but an idea dawned on him as the Policewoman started yelling at him to get on the ground. He just sood there, trying to look as calm as possible, letting a small grin appear on his lips. He gave a sly wink to the woman and blew her a kiss before he ran past her, doing a leaping sidestep to avoid her tackle. He kept running, feeling like it was just another game of tag. His brothers and he used to play this when they were younger. It was one of the few things his older brother was better at than Greg was.

Greg flew out of the school buildings and onto the main driveway just in time to see the next bus pulling up outside. He hoped that the police weren't too close behind him. He was still running when he bounded up the front steps of the bus, holding his ticket out for the driver to see.

As Greg took his customary back seat, he noticed a plastic bag under his seat. In it he found the cover of one of his favourite computer games and a reciept for...

Get off here.

He hopped off at the next stop and found himself standing in front of a strip club. He frowned at the thought of having to go in and hoped he would see a sign pointing him elsewhere. He cringed as he saw the name of the club had changed from 'The Landing Strip' to:

In here, stupid.

He recognised the place. He paid the cover charge and sat down at the bar, asking for a bourbon and coke. His older brother had been thrown a 21st and a 26th birthday party here, and he had taken Greg here when he'd been dumped by a particularly hot girlfriend. Sam hadn't expected that the slightly tarnished and entirely underdressed girls at the strip club would cheer him up, but the brotherly act of getting trashed, abusing the strippers and getting booted out of the club was hilarious. He'd woken the next day feeling better about the situation.

Greg felt a little bad about sitting in a dingey strip club watching grubby looking females thrust and girate while he had somewhere to be. He couldn't think where that was but it niggled at him badly. He got up to hit the toilets and, mid-piss, found a warning sign above the urinal saying:

Get a taxi.

Surely enough when Greg walked back out into the sun, there was a taxi waiting for him. He opened the door and hopped in. Just like the bus driver, the guy just started driving, making small chat as he did so. Greg didn't mind, he'd had a good day so far and felt bouyant after the little trip he'd taken down memory lane, even if he had been dragged through it by some unseen prankster.

He let his mind slip through the little game of 'follow the leader' he and his younger siblings had played with Sam as they grew up. He shirked slightly at the word 'leader'. It was slightly uncomfortable to think of their rather flawed older brother as leading anyone. Between the questionable sex life, worrying sense of humor and occasional bouts of letting them all down, he was the older brother and was faced with life as uncharted territory.

He reminded himself to get everyone together for dinner some time. They seldom spent much time together these days, both he and Sam worked a lot and the two younger brothers were both at school still. He considered throwing a surprise party for Sam's thirtieth in a few weeks. He missed his older brother and cringed at the thought of how far they'd grown apart.

The road they were taking had left the city and was now flanked by the occasional tree and garden stripped footpaths. They were driving past a large open park with well tended lawns and the occasional old tree. The taxi pulled into a long driveway about half way up and took him to a a small carpark turnaround where it stopped. He thanked the driver and paid him, noticing that the fare was precisely the same amount of money that he had left over from the 50 dollar note he had found.

He turned away from the taxi to read the large sign that showed the outlay of the park. He saw a dot at a place not far from where he stood. Near the dot was written:

Thanks for coming.

Greg stepped up the curb onto the grass and headed towards a group of people that had congregated on chairs, all facing a man that stood talking to them from an open book. He realised that the niggling had stopped. He was where he was supposed to be. He could see his family sitting in the front row of chairs as he walked, letting his hand drag over the stone blocks that hemmed the path he was walking. He felt choked up with the memories of the day, the fond recollections of 4 brothers making their way into the great big world. He was stifling a sob as he sat down and felt a reassuring hand drape itself over his shoulder.

He began to weep as he saw the last sign. The priest was asking if anyone had anything to say, but Greg just broke into tears as the framed picture of his older brother was lowered into the ground atop a grand oak coffin. He put his head in his hands and sobbed as the congregation begin to drift apart, some mingling amongst the other grave stones.

He could hear that his mother was crying too, and offered her a reassuring hug. He wept with her, but his sobs reminded him of the times they had all spent laughing with eachother, taking on the world together.

As they began to leave, he took a glance glance at the last sign.

Take care of them for me bro.

Not a short story

2008-08-12T06:20:00.000-07:00

Why bother dictum?

A rythm calls but does elude me,
with message wont to tell,
But message lack and lecture spent,
My speech no rise to quell.

When heart displayed and mind is told,
and rebuffed by man and fate,
A tutored dog becomes the man,
no more then prone to hate.

For debate does lose its luster,
and circular thought does test,
but the point of mind constructive,
shall have no need for rest.

House Hyrathryn: Part 1 - Caldari, Belonging, Sanctum.

2008-07-31T00:57:00.000-07:00

The two men stood, looking out of the large square window that framed them both in white light. The window looked out onto a small garden of sand, stones and small plants, beautifully manicured, gorgiously still and embracingly silent. The garden was an ancient Deteis design, built to give the garden's master a place to contemplate, enjoy peace and to lie in a zone of pure thought.

The two men were of comparible age, early thirties, both deteis. The elder of the two had just completed this, his first house as a married man. It was an important moment for the two, best friends since childhood, as one of them moved into a brave new stage of his life. His name was Yakiya Tovil-Toba, his younger friend, Atano Hyrathryn.

Atano shifted his weight, bringing his arm up to pat Tovil-Toba's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you Yakiya, there's a real sense of arrival standing here."

Tovil-toba turned slightly, smiling, "Arrival? I'm not sure I follow."

"Arrival in the sense that the way we live, the ways of the Deteis, it's coming to maturation in our own lives. The rules, the ceremony, the Caldari way of life. Everything that seperates us from the rest of the Federation is embodied in the successes visible here. A beautiful and loyal wife, a place to call home that is your own. It's a proper place from which to build your life and your interests." Atano explained.

Tovil-toba seemed to contemplate this for a second. Then he smirked.

"Heh, I'm sure you're over dramatising things, but yes, I suppose you're right. I'll be sure to warn my female executives that listening to you for too long will have them swooning with patriotism." Tovil-toba said.

They both laughed. Their smiles were hard to lose as both of them swam through memories of their childhood, all the dreams, all the promises, all the delusions of grandeur coming to fruition after too much hard work and zealous adherance to the Caldari principles.

Tovil-toba had recently been given the position of CEO in one of Kaalakiota's newest military think-tanks. The position had been a vindication of the dedication he'd shown and the successes Kaalakiota Corp owed to him. It helped that he was the best in his business.

Atano Hyrathryn was Head of Security for Deteis Security Corp, the largest non-Federation security and munitions body in existence and an integral part of the Kaalakiota family. It was the first time someone as young as Atano had held the position, and most put it to his father's directorship within Kaalakiota Corp.

House Hyrathryn: Part 1 Prologue

2008-07-30T23:58:00.000-07:00

A Caldari and Gallente walk into a bar,
the Gallante apologised profusely
and the Caldari made 10% on the deal
Matari Joke

Prologue

In the beginning there was only Gallante. He grew up alone in a cold but beautiful land and was happy. He tended the land around him and lived comfortably. Gallante was ruled by his head, and while he knew that this was what made his life stable and comfortable, parts of himself felt a creeping sensation of sadness, though he could not name the feeling.

Gallante soon forgot his uneasiness, when one day while surveying his fields, he saw a young man wondering aimlessly on the horizon. Gallante called out and waved his hands but to no avail. After running further than he had ever run before, Gallante finally met with the young man. The young man looked slightly confused, half naked and filthy as he was. After a brief moment of hesitation, the younger man straightened his posture and declared himself to be Caldari.

Seeing that the younger man was unsure of himself, Gallante offered Caldari a place in his home. Caldari saw no reason to refuse, and upon seeing the older man's house, was fascinated. So Gallante and Caldari lived together, tending the fields and living comfortably.

Gallante was greatly moved by the new situation, and the uneasy sensation of sadness took on a new perspective. After much contemplation and disagreement with himself, he decided that he should no longer be ruled by his head, but ruled by his heart, and that he should care for Caldari with his heart as he did himself.

Caldari saw things differently, he saw Gallante's house and Gallante's fields and felt a new feeling inside him, though he knew not what it was.

One day, as Gallante and Caldari were toiling in the fields, Gallante again looked to the horizon. This time he saw a strange beast walking proudly yet swiftly. Gallante, being the elder, ran after the beast, and after another long journey, caught up with it. He saw, however, that this was the first beast of many. The beasts were strange but friendly, and with some coaxing followed Gallante back to the house, one for Gallante and one for Caldari.

The next day, Gallante and Caldari decided to mount the beasts, and found that the beast was happy to be ridden, conveying them easily for great distances. It was while Gallante was riding his beast that he came across two more young men, the first named Intaki, the second name Mannar.

Again, Gallante, being ruled by his heart, offered them a place in his house. The four men lived together, toiling in the fields and living comfortably. It was in the presence of these younger men, however, that Gallante began to age, and with his age came a cancer inside him, though he denied it to himself and the others.

Caldari, being the eldest of the young men, was proud and aggressive. He would spend his spare time inspecting the prettiest of the stones they found in the fields and collecting useful things around him. He would often challenge the other young men to contests of strength and would, more often than not, win convincingly.

Gallante began to worry about Caldari, but said nothing until one day when, after having ridden for quite some distance, he came upon a house. He had never been to this area before, but he could see signs that Caldari had been here and had begun preparing the fields there behind his back.

Gallante was furious, and was like a storm when he arrived at the main house. Caldari was prepared, and having seen the elder man riding in the direction of his secret abode, had began wrecking Gallante's posessions.

“Caldari,” spoke Gallante, “What have you done? You have hidden many things from me, you have taken to my possessions, you have betrayed me and shall be punished!”

“Gallante,” spoke Caldari, “You would not let me have my own possesions! We all toil equally in the field, yet this house is Gallante's, these beasts are Gallante's, these possessions are Gallante's. You have grown sick in your age and your thoughts have soured, though you deny it to yourself and lie to us. I am leaving and will not be punished!”

Gallante was stunned by this attack of words, and in his confusion, Caldari was allowed time to escape with most of his posessions. Caldari fled to his secret home, chased and harrassed by Gallante, Intaki and Mannar.

Caldari did not have time to bring his house to order yet, as every day he was attacked or provoked by one of the other men. For many cycles of their moon and a great many seasons did the men fight. Caldari, being the strongest of them, despite being outnumbered, was able to inflict great injuries on the other men without succombing to their onslought.

Soon after the fighting had begun, however, a tall man astride a great golden beast rode up to Gallante's house. The man was grandly dressed and muttered strange incantations to the sky. Tethered to the great beast was another man, poorly dressed but powerfully built. The mounted man introduced himself as Amarr, and offered that the tethered man was called Minmitar.

Gallante, Intaki and Mannar were all weary of Ammar, for he was strange to them and must have been quite mighty indeed to have conquered such a man as Minmitar. Amarr parted on amicable terms, but the three men never forgot him and were ever vigilant to keep an eye out for Amarr.

As the seasons of fighting wore on, it became apparent that Amarr and Caldari were becoming close friends. The terrible pride and agression of Caldari spoke easily to the domineering and zealous heart of Amarr. This caused Gallante much cause for concern.

After many seasons, Gallante approached Caldari, with an offering of peace and an end to the fighting. Both men shook hands for peace, but both men resolved for later satisfaction.

- Speech given by Natoro Ishimiru 3 days before his assasination in 23321

The Titan

2007-08-07T20:18:00.000-07:00

based on the eve online universe

Space never felt safe. The endless reaches, its murderous denizens, its sheer lethality; all conspired to send chills down his spine.

The fleet had mustered in lunar orbit around the newborn station. Mere rumour of attack had drawn together one of the most heavily equipped battle groups of the war. He reached out to his weapons systems, making certain that his faction emblazoned Dreadnaught was fully functional.

Space never felt crowded. It was either loneliness or claustrophobia. With the tight array of ships nervously clustered around each other, even claustrophobia would be welcome by comparison.

Someone must have felt the apprehension keenly enough to power up their shields, as slowly, almost musically the fleet began to pulsate with active sensors; a sure sign of impending battle.

He took a brief inventory of the wing to which he had been assigned. He smiled. At the very least, if the incredible firepower sitting within a kilometre of his position didn’t protect him, there were far more lucrative targets then he.

He allowed himself to relax, paying little attention to the pre-battle banter and verbal slapping going through his communications channel.

“INCOMING!” He heard someone scream as he jolted his awareness back into his ship. He anxiously searched for a threat but couldn’t find one. Then, out of the corner of his eye he could see a small but brightly shimmering scar in the middle of the fleet. Then flashes as a small frigate began burning its way towards its escape vector.

The energy, what was it? He recognised it. It was a cyno field. Enough for one ship though?

What was happening?

He was blinded as the cyno field tore open, vomiting forth its monster. Panic ensued as the colossal form of the titan, unstoppable with momentum, crashed through an entire squadron of battleships, ripping apart their hulls like egg shells.

Klaxons screamed down at him as fleet alerts came in a deluge. He reflexively kicked in his thrusters and began a lock sequence on the mammoth ship.
He swung his view drones to get a better look at his target. He regretted it. Lines of brilliant white pulsated down the flanks of the beast. He puzzled, he’d never seen...

“All ships, BAIL!” he screamed. It was too late.
No screams, no pain, no reality. Just a brilliant flash of ungodly fire and a vicious blow to his ship. He was reeling, spinning.

The flash subsided. All he could see were the wrecks of a thousand battleships. All was aflame, yet there was no sign of the instrument that had dealt to them this indiscriminate justice.

He gawked in amazement. His comprehension was non-existant. He had no answers.

He wept. It was all he could do.

The bridge never felt safe. Despite this being the one bridge a man could feel secure on, the hideous sound of energy building up in the ships monstrous capacitors was terrifying.

This one ship, this one, gargantuan ship was built to stab fear into the hearts of gods. It moved with tidal force and had the power to determine the fates of millions.

The bridge never felt still. Somehow, though, even despite the scurrying of engineers and officers, it felt as though everyone was holding their breath. Holding it as though the slightest relaxation would cause the whole plan to fail.

Beside the monstrosity, a small frigate powered its way out to the front of the formation. its running lights indicating it was prepared for warp. In a brief flash, it was gone. It would be safe for now, protected by the small cloaking field it employed.

The enemy wouldn’t know it was there until it was far, far too late.

He heard another noise. The bridge display flickered a rapidly descending countdown. He focused, agitation would only dull his edge.

He stared at the console in front of him, waiting for the tone to indicate their little harbinger had heralded their arrival. The console blared. “We have a cyno!” he yelled over the din.
The bridge stopped, everyone stared. He could feel he will of the pilot extending to every part of the ship, gathering his will to bend it to his bidding.

They waited. He dared not blink lest he miss the whole thing. Suddenly the deck plates vibrated and the lights dimmed. Then it happened.

He felt torn from his body as the giant ship was thrown through their impromptu wormhole. He was aware of the ships inability to completely compensate for the inertia as his insides felt crushed and his head was pressed to the back of his seat.

All he could see were their headlong collisions with ships the size of cities as they smashed through them.

Then the sound came. A horrendous roar as the capacitors charged with unfathomable energies. The lights went completely dark and his console failed as every ounce of the monster’s power was concentrated inwards.

"FIRE!” He screamed. It was done.

The world through the view screen flashed to white as the righteous fury of the ship’s super weapon tore forth and smote their enemies.
The sound came again, and the giant ship lurched forward with punitive force.
It was only now that it was over that any of them realised what they had done. It had been called impossible. It had been called inhuman.

He smiled in stunned glory as the realisation hit him.

He wept. Now they knew what they could do.