Powering up.
Booting back logs.
Gyroscope activated.
Memory booting … 80 percent. 90 percent. Complete.
223 opened his eyes. It had been a while since he had and his motors were nearly shot, so it took a bit longer than usual. Soon his lids lifted and his internal sensors activated.
Scanning.
Odd. The world seemed to have turned onto its side. No, wait. Gravity readings indicated that the Earth’s gravity still existed. The poles were registering from their proper coordinates. No, it wasn’t the world that had tilted. He sent a signal to his extremities. In less than a millisecond his 2333 MHZ brain processed the entirety of his situation. He had fallen over and was now lying on the floor in the workshop.
Scanning. Adjusting parameters.
Which way was “up”? Ah, there it was. Carefully he directed his arms to push himself from the floor, only to find that his right arm had been disconnected from his body. That made getting up a little more difficult, but somehow he managed. His internal weight distributors sluggishly kicked in, allowing him proper balance. Soon he was upright.
From this vantage he could take in the entire workshop. It was dusty and dark, much more run down than his memory recalled. The creator’s desks were in disarray. In fact it was not only just a mess, it looked as if there had been a tectonic disturbance at some point. He searched his subconscious security readings and pinpointed the exact time that his balance had been thrown off.
After a quick analysis he could his hypothesis to be true. There had been an earthquake of an 8.6 magnitude nearly two miles away from here. That explained his sudden fall and the disorder of the room. If his readings were correct the earthquake had occurred only five minutes before he had activated. The fall must have tripped him out of sleep mode.
Carefully he turned to look at the other prototypes lining the walls. Faceless and incomplete, they all were upright and appeared undamaged. He tilted his head down and scanned the floor.
Books, papers, and broken glass littered the floor at his feet. A large pile of books shifted as he scanned it.
Approach.
It was the creator. He was lying on the floor underneath a bookcase, which had tilted on its side. Carefully 223 grabbed the edge of the bookcase with his one functioning arm and dragged it off of the creator to get a better look. The creator was breathing.
Program search. Analyze. Assist.
223 shuffled to stand over the creator. He tried to search his programming for a response to this situation. He was programmed to be a personal assistant. He needed to assist, but how?
He detected an odd sound. Water. Rushing and roaring just outside of the boarded windows.
Tsunami activity detected. 223 grabbed an umbrella from the floor, opened it and held it over the now unmoving body of the creator.
Vocal chords vibrated, “watch your step.”
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
[May] Prompt 2: Of Fine Old Houses and River Rats - Sophie
On a narrow street not too far from the river, there stood a house that had been the most fashionable residence in lower Surrey. It's sturdy stone steps lead up to a grand oak door, framed on either side by a mosaic work of stain glass. The bright red tiles that covered the roof had shined in the late afternoon sun as it set over the bay, filling each window with a warm light that would not be stopped by something as flimsy as lace curtains.
It was said that the very wealthy owner of the hat factory that used to run on 34th street lived in this house, with his very elegant wife and their two very dignified six and ten year old sons. The hat factory, of course, closed like so many others during those terrible trying years. The neighborhood, that had once hosted the most cultivated of the cultured, quickly emptied, like the sad remains of a party when the food is all gone. The wealthy merchant lived there no more. He and his most elegant wife had had to learn how to cook and how to clean, how to hold a hammer and how to sew a seam, and had worked every day since to earn their butter and their cream. Their sons went on to become not lawyers and bankers but rail layers and bakers. One by the one the stylish homes of all of their neighbors disappeared as new factories were built, ones that made not hats but things like engine gears and mouse traps.
Many years passed.
The only witness to them now is one little old man. Sitting in the upmost top room of this once so elegant house, he long ago took shelter in the empty space left in the passing of time. This was now the only house on the narrow street not too far from the river. The stone steps were still there, as sturdy as ever, and even the solid oak door still stood, though it was no longer quite as grand, it surface covered in scratches and pockmarks and the remains of adolescent attempts at artistic expression. The patchwork of colored glass that had once been so carefully constructed on either side now gapped like broken grin of a seasoned boxer. The gleaming red roof had long ago blown away under the pounding force of year after year of hurricanes. The windows were still there, but there were no more lace curtains. Only one little old man, propped up against the wall, buried among his meager collection of thread bare blankets and lumpy pillows, a dingy white nightcap pulled down tight over his years. He had patches on the elbows of his faded lime green house coat, and holes in his soaks, but there was no one up there to care. After all, what was one more lonely old man hiding in the attic of a tired old house to this street? It had long ago forgotten everything else.
Even this quiet old man cared little for what had happened before. The ache in his left hip and the way the cold made his fingers stiff bothered him much more. It was only early spring. He had been taunted by whispers of warmer weather, only to be mocked by this current snap of cold wind.
It made writing darn right near impossible.
Scratching out yet again another smudged word, he struggled once more to patiently trace out the next word. Satisfied that the wet ink would not run this time, the old man leaned back and read out loud:
"And in the summer time the leaves will return, but the fruit upon the vine will have no fate but to burn."
"Yes, yes," he muttered. "Not bad. Not half bad at all. A fitting end perhaps. Though maybe it needs one stanza more," he muttered into the quiet, carefully laying the page with wet ink across his boney knees before fumbling to pull out half a dozen other ink smeared and bespeckled pages. He was up to ten pages now, a bit long for a piece of poetry, but he had spent hours and hours crafting out each line and he was as certain they were each and every one of them worth their weight in gold as he was certain that that blasted ache in his hip meant rain tonight. Which probably meant he ought to move downstairs. The roof up here had a slight tendency to leak, just a little. But there was nowhere else in the whole city that was a peaceful and quiet as that very top most room of that very antiqued house.
"GRANPA!"
Yes, so quiet and peaceful, right up until that little demon found him.
"GRANPA!" came the shout again from somewhere deep below. This time it was followed by the sound of stomping heavy feet as someone came thundering up the many twists and turns in the stairway that lead to the very top of the house.
Perhaps just one more stanza, just to round it out. Something about sparrows, perhaps. Or pigeons. He spent a lot of time watching the pigeons that came to rest on the window sill.
With a thunderous bang, the trap door in the floor went flying open and crashing back down onto the wood floor. A head of scraggly oily black hair popped out from its depths like a river rat surfacing from the murky depths below. A dirt smudge face followed it, graced by a most familiar scowl.
"Granpa," the boy stated sharply, as if talking to stubborn child or simply a buffoon. "You're up here. Again."
Granpa raise both of his shaggy eyebrows without glancing away from the page in front of him. He had been on the verge of something elegant and clever about pigeons and river rats. "Yes," he drawled. "I suppose I am."
The boy huffed. He shuffled from one foot to the other, still standing on the stairway below. "Dinner's ready," he announced hastily.
"That's nice."
There was another shuffling of feet. "Mom says to come down stairs."
"In a moment."
The boy scowled even more and folded his arms across his chest. "She says now."
"In a moment."
The boy sighed explosively, ruining the old man's best efforts to ignore the disruption. "Now!" the boy whined. "She says the rest of us can't eat 'til ya come down."
Giving up on river rats, Granpa turned to survey his great grandson most solemnly. As much as he might want to, he could not very well deny the boy food. A delayed dinner truly was far too cruel of a thing to do, even in the pursuit of art. That did not stop a sly smile from stretching across his face. 'Very well," he conceded, "but first! You will allow me to read to you my most latest work!"
The boy actually blanched, looking very much like a fabled ghost behind his black bangs. "No, Granpa, no! You've already read it to me. Like twice. Can we please, please just go down now?"
"Just my most latest stanza then," Granpa agreed, willingly forgoing the work in its entirety out of respect for dinner. He cleared his throat carefully, making sure there would not be any embarrassing bouts of phlegm in the middle of his oration. He read the lines once more, pausing carefully between each line to ensure they were absorbed to the greatest extend before finishing with a dramatic flourish that's inspiration nearly pulled him up off of the floor by its strength alone and thankfully just barely missed upturning his ink pot. Turning once more to his audience, Granpa smiled broadly. "Well, what do you think?"
It was a struggle for the boy, dear Granpa could see it. The child went near cross-eyed trying to hold it all in. "It's great, Granpa, really," the boy lied. "Now can we please, please, go eat?"
Granpa sighed forlornly and cooperatively shuffled forward. "It is at least better than the rest of today's work," he agreed.
His great grandson, bless his heart, simply was not able to pass up the temptation of curiosity. "How bad was the rest of it?"
Granpa cleared his throat once more and recited from memory. "Once upon a time, standing in a fine line, were nine mimes, all of a kind, who stood behind a sign, and whined."
There was a momentous pause. "What the hell?"
This time Granpa did flush, but only a little. "I said it was not as well crafted as my usual work."
"I don't get it."
"It is supposed to be ironic," Granpa informed him. "You know, frustrated mimes, standing by a sign? Oh, nevermind. I only wrote it because I was trying to think of something to rhyme with time."
"Huh?"
"I said nevermind!"
Granpa leaned on the boy's offered hand as he crawled his way out of the room only because there was not a railing this high up. It's lack had never bothered him when he had been a child living in this house, but he was beginning to understand why his father would never agree to join his sons in their secret hiding place. His father had had this house built big enough so that he would not have to crawl into such cramped quarters, but he had never been able to understand the allure of the unknown and the secretive. He had some hope for his great grandson to understand such things. The Lord knew the boy could not seem to help but stick his nose into everything and was more likely than not jump in after it head first. Unfortunately, Granpa had not had any luck instilling a complimentary deep love of poetry into the boy.
"You really gotta stop comin' up here, Granpa. It's not good for you."
"Hush, you child. And go wash your face, it is filthy."
"Is not!"
"Then what do you call that black stuff around your eyes?"
"Granpa! It's eyeliner. It's cool for guys now."
"Looks like dirt to me."
It was said that the very wealthy owner of the hat factory that used to run on 34th street lived in this house, with his very elegant wife and their two very dignified six and ten year old sons. The hat factory, of course, closed like so many others during those terrible trying years. The neighborhood, that had once hosted the most cultivated of the cultured, quickly emptied, like the sad remains of a party when the food is all gone. The wealthy merchant lived there no more. He and his most elegant wife had had to learn how to cook and how to clean, how to hold a hammer and how to sew a seam, and had worked every day since to earn their butter and their cream. Their sons went on to become not lawyers and bankers but rail layers and bakers. One by the one the stylish homes of all of their neighbors disappeared as new factories were built, ones that made not hats but things like engine gears and mouse traps.
Many years passed.
The only witness to them now is one little old man. Sitting in the upmost top room of this once so elegant house, he long ago took shelter in the empty space left in the passing of time. This was now the only house on the narrow street not too far from the river. The stone steps were still there, as sturdy as ever, and even the solid oak door still stood, though it was no longer quite as grand, it surface covered in scratches and pockmarks and the remains of adolescent attempts at artistic expression. The patchwork of colored glass that had once been so carefully constructed on either side now gapped like broken grin of a seasoned boxer. The gleaming red roof had long ago blown away under the pounding force of year after year of hurricanes. The windows were still there, but there were no more lace curtains. Only one little old man, propped up against the wall, buried among his meager collection of thread bare blankets and lumpy pillows, a dingy white nightcap pulled down tight over his years. He had patches on the elbows of his faded lime green house coat, and holes in his soaks, but there was no one up there to care. After all, what was one more lonely old man hiding in the attic of a tired old house to this street? It had long ago forgotten everything else.
Even this quiet old man cared little for what had happened before. The ache in his left hip and the way the cold made his fingers stiff bothered him much more. It was only early spring. He had been taunted by whispers of warmer weather, only to be mocked by this current snap of cold wind.
It made writing darn right near impossible.
Scratching out yet again another smudged word, he struggled once more to patiently trace out the next word. Satisfied that the wet ink would not run this time, the old man leaned back and read out loud:
"And in the summer time the leaves will return, but the fruit upon the vine will have no fate but to burn."
"Yes, yes," he muttered. "Not bad. Not half bad at all. A fitting end perhaps. Though maybe it needs one stanza more," he muttered into the quiet, carefully laying the page with wet ink across his boney knees before fumbling to pull out half a dozen other ink smeared and bespeckled pages. He was up to ten pages now, a bit long for a piece of poetry, but he had spent hours and hours crafting out each line and he was as certain they were each and every one of them worth their weight in gold as he was certain that that blasted ache in his hip meant rain tonight. Which probably meant he ought to move downstairs. The roof up here had a slight tendency to leak, just a little. But there was nowhere else in the whole city that was a peaceful and quiet as that very top most room of that very antiqued house.
"GRANPA!"
Yes, so quiet and peaceful, right up until that little demon found him.
"GRANPA!" came the shout again from somewhere deep below. This time it was followed by the sound of stomping heavy feet as someone came thundering up the many twists and turns in the stairway that lead to the very top of the house.
Perhaps just one more stanza, just to round it out. Something about sparrows, perhaps. Or pigeons. He spent a lot of time watching the pigeons that came to rest on the window sill.
With a thunderous bang, the trap door in the floor went flying open and crashing back down onto the wood floor. A head of scraggly oily black hair popped out from its depths like a river rat surfacing from the murky depths below. A dirt smudge face followed it, graced by a most familiar scowl.
"Granpa," the boy stated sharply, as if talking to stubborn child or simply a buffoon. "You're up here. Again."
Granpa raise both of his shaggy eyebrows without glancing away from the page in front of him. He had been on the verge of something elegant and clever about pigeons and river rats. "Yes," he drawled. "I suppose I am."
The boy huffed. He shuffled from one foot to the other, still standing on the stairway below. "Dinner's ready," he announced hastily.
"That's nice."
There was another shuffling of feet. "Mom says to come down stairs."
"In a moment."
The boy scowled even more and folded his arms across his chest. "She says now."
"In a moment."
The boy sighed explosively, ruining the old man's best efforts to ignore the disruption. "Now!" the boy whined. "She says the rest of us can't eat 'til ya come down."
Giving up on river rats, Granpa turned to survey his great grandson most solemnly. As much as he might want to, he could not very well deny the boy food. A delayed dinner truly was far too cruel of a thing to do, even in the pursuit of art. That did not stop a sly smile from stretching across his face. 'Very well," he conceded, "but first! You will allow me to read to you my most latest work!"
The boy actually blanched, looking very much like a fabled ghost behind his black bangs. "No, Granpa, no! You've already read it to me. Like twice. Can we please, please just go down now?"
"Just my most latest stanza then," Granpa agreed, willingly forgoing the work in its entirety out of respect for dinner. He cleared his throat carefully, making sure there would not be any embarrassing bouts of phlegm in the middle of his oration. He read the lines once more, pausing carefully between each line to ensure they were absorbed to the greatest extend before finishing with a dramatic flourish that's inspiration nearly pulled him up off of the floor by its strength alone and thankfully just barely missed upturning his ink pot. Turning once more to his audience, Granpa smiled broadly. "Well, what do you think?"
It was a struggle for the boy, dear Granpa could see it. The child went near cross-eyed trying to hold it all in. "It's great, Granpa, really," the boy lied. "Now can we please, please, go eat?"
Granpa sighed forlornly and cooperatively shuffled forward. "It is at least better than the rest of today's work," he agreed.
His great grandson, bless his heart, simply was not able to pass up the temptation of curiosity. "How bad was the rest of it?"
Granpa cleared his throat once more and recited from memory. "Once upon a time, standing in a fine line, were nine mimes, all of a kind, who stood behind a sign, and whined."
There was a momentous pause. "What the hell?"
This time Granpa did flush, but only a little. "I said it was not as well crafted as my usual work."
"I don't get it."
"It is supposed to be ironic," Granpa informed him. "You know, frustrated mimes, standing by a sign? Oh, nevermind. I only wrote it because I was trying to think of something to rhyme with time."
"Huh?"
"I said nevermind!"
Granpa leaned on the boy's offered hand as he crawled his way out of the room only because there was not a railing this high up. It's lack had never bothered him when he had been a child living in this house, but he was beginning to understand why his father would never agree to join his sons in their secret hiding place. His father had had this house built big enough so that he would not have to crawl into such cramped quarters, but he had never been able to understand the allure of the unknown and the secretive. He had some hope for his great grandson to understand such things. The Lord knew the boy could not seem to help but stick his nose into everything and was more likely than not jump in after it head first. Unfortunately, Granpa had not had any luck instilling a complimentary deep love of poetry into the boy.
"You really gotta stop comin' up here, Granpa. It's not good for you."
"Hush, you child. And go wash your face, it is filthy."
"Is not!"
"Then what do you call that black stuff around your eyes?"
"Granpa! It's eyeliner. It's cool for guys now."
"Looks like dirt to me."
[May] Prompt 2: Nightcap - Black-Haired Girl
"Nightcap
“You have to bring him his soup at exactly five o’ four, no earlier and no later,” explained the stern-faced Miss Abercrombie. She scribbled the schedule down on a wrinkled piece of parchment as she spoke, adding the soup schedule to the long list of other precise instructions I was to follow in her absence.
“The Master required everything must be done by this schedule. He is a peculiar man, but he has always been nothing but kind to me. Just appease him, and be prompt and pay special attention to detail…” she then began to explain the proper procedure for placing the soup and spoon diagonal from one another on the silver serving tray. She emphasized not to let the spoon touch the napkin, which must be folded in the shape of a perfect isosceles triangle and placed with the top obtuse angle facing the Master when served.
Needless to say I was intimidated. As I watched Miss Abercrombie bumble around the kitchen preparing the Master’s lunch I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I had different ideas for this job when I had applied. After all this was not anything like what I had been expecting. Upon walking up the long drive to this stately Victorian style home I had envisioned a lovely Mistress seated on a plush couch with her guests. I would serve them tea and small cakes while listening in on the gossip of high society. Perhaps I would have been taking care of the children, little cherubs with pinched-pink cheeks playing happily with tin soldiers and lacy porcelain dolls in a brightly painted playroom. The Master would have been a dashing fellow, a figurehead of society, who took his coffee and mail in the morning in a grand, dark and smoky reading room..."
“You have to bring him his soup at exactly five o’ four, no earlier and no later,” explained the stern-faced Miss Abercrombie. She scribbled the schedule down on a wrinkled piece of parchment as she spoke, adding the soup schedule to the long list of other precise instructions I was to follow in her absence.
“The Master required everything must be done by this schedule. He is a peculiar man, but he has always been nothing but kind to me. Just appease him, and be prompt and pay special attention to detail…” she then began to explain the proper procedure for placing the soup and spoon diagonal from one another on the silver serving tray. She emphasized not to let the spoon touch the napkin, which must be folded in the shape of a perfect isosceles triangle and placed with the top obtuse angle facing the Master when served.
Needless to say I was intimidated. As I watched Miss Abercrombie bumble around the kitchen preparing the Master’s lunch I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I had different ideas for this job when I had applied. After all this was not anything like what I had been expecting. Upon walking up the long drive to this stately Victorian style home I had envisioned a lovely Mistress seated on a plush couch with her guests. I would serve them tea and small cakes while listening in on the gossip of high society. Perhaps I would have been taking care of the children, little cherubs with pinched-pink cheeks playing happily with tin soldiers and lacy porcelain dolls in a brightly painted playroom. The Master would have been a dashing fellow, a figurehead of society, who took his coffee and mail in the morning in a grand, dark and smoky reading room..."
[May] Prompt 3: Marie - Sophie
Marie laughed to herself as she ran her bike full tilt through yet another puddle. Her pants were soaked up to the knee and her wet hair hung in her face, making her nose itch, but that was all okay. She might be the only kid on the block still outside playing, but that was just because the other kids didn’t know what they were missing. They had all run inside when the first sunny day of the year had suddenly turned rainy. Even Marie’s mom had tried to call her back inside. But Marie was tired of playing indoors. That was all she’d done for what seemed like forever. It wasn’t like it was cold outside –just a little wet, that was all. Plus it was fun to see how high she could get the water to spray up.
Sure, she didn’t have anyone else to play with, but she did have Brownie with her, and he was always good company.
Brownie was her dog. Her parents had bought him for her when she was really little. He was brown and white and came up to her knees. And just like Marie, he loved the water. So while she swerved around and around the sidewalk on her bike, he happily ran around chasing her and jumping into ever puddle he could find.
Or at least he was, right up until he found something to chew on.
“No, Brownie! Bad, Brownie! Drop it!” she instructed in her best imitation of her mother when Brownie managed to get into the trash.
It didn’t seem to work as well coming from her, since Brownie simply shook his head some more, gnawing away at whatever was in his mouth. Screwing her face up, Marie realized this was going to take more guts on her part. Without letting herself think much about just whatever it was that Brownie had found, she reached down and yanked it out of his mouth. It came away covered in drool and slippery in her hand, but she didn’t dare set it down. Brownie wasn’t very bright and would probably pick it right back up again if she did. “No!” she repeated firmly. “Bad! It’s dirty!” ‘Though part of that might have to do with Brownie’s treatment of it, more than anything. Slowly, Marie uncurled her hand and stared down at it. She tried to make sense of whatever it was. It was green, and black and slimy and looked like some kind of scary bug. But it wasn’t moving much now, so it probably wasn’t going to bite her. One of its wings was even torn, and even though it was kind of ugly, she still felt bad for it. Brownie shouldn’t be trying to eat bugs. Besides the ickiness of it, it just wasn’t very nice to the bugs. And the more she looked at this bug in particular, it was kind of almost pretty. It wasn’t just drool that made its wings shiny, and they did look kind of soft and pretty.
“Never seen a bug like this one,” Marie told Brownie. She glanced around the sidewalk and the large street that ran beside it. She wasn’t allowed to cross the street yet, even though she knew how to ride her bike. There wasn’t much else to see there, just some boring buildings and the road. “Do ya think it lives around here?” she asked. But even though she looked, she couldn’t see anything that looked likely to hold a bug this big. Unless he lived in the trash can, but that wasn’t a very good place to live. “I think we ought to take him home,” she announced.
Having reached a decision, she turned back to her bike. She still had that old jar in her basket from the last time they’d went firefly catching. There was a field behind her house that was perfect for that. Maybe her new bug would like to live there. She opened the lid of the jar and slide the sticky mass off of her hand and dropped it to the bottom. “Bugs need leaves,” she told Brownie as he watched her closely. “That’s what they eat. And maybe a stick to climb on, since his wing’s all torn. Come on, let’s go find some!”
Sure, she didn’t have anyone else to play with, but she did have Brownie with her, and he was always good company.
Brownie was her dog. Her parents had bought him for her when she was really little. He was brown and white and came up to her knees. And just like Marie, he loved the water. So while she swerved around and around the sidewalk on her bike, he happily ran around chasing her and jumping into ever puddle he could find.
Or at least he was, right up until he found something to chew on.
“No, Brownie! Bad, Brownie! Drop it!” she instructed in her best imitation of her mother when Brownie managed to get into the trash.
It didn’t seem to work as well coming from her, since Brownie simply shook his head some more, gnawing away at whatever was in his mouth. Screwing her face up, Marie realized this was going to take more guts on her part. Without letting herself think much about just whatever it was that Brownie had found, she reached down and yanked it out of his mouth. It came away covered in drool and slippery in her hand, but she didn’t dare set it down. Brownie wasn’t very bright and would probably pick it right back up again if she did. “No!” she repeated firmly. “Bad! It’s dirty!” ‘Though part of that might have to do with Brownie’s treatment of it, more than anything. Slowly, Marie uncurled her hand and stared down at it. She tried to make sense of whatever it was. It was green, and black and slimy and looked like some kind of scary bug. But it wasn’t moving much now, so it probably wasn’t going to bite her. One of its wings was even torn, and even though it was kind of ugly, she still felt bad for it. Brownie shouldn’t be trying to eat bugs. Besides the ickiness of it, it just wasn’t very nice to the bugs. And the more she looked at this bug in particular, it was kind of almost pretty. It wasn’t just drool that made its wings shiny, and they did look kind of soft and pretty.
“Never seen a bug like this one,” Marie told Brownie. She glanced around the sidewalk and the large street that ran beside it. She wasn’t allowed to cross the street yet, even though she knew how to ride her bike. There wasn’t much else to see there, just some boring buildings and the road. “Do ya think it lives around here?” she asked. But even though she looked, she couldn’t see anything that looked likely to hold a bug this big. Unless he lived in the trash can, but that wasn’t a very good place to live. “I think we ought to take him home,” she announced.
Having reached a decision, she turned back to her bike. She still had that old jar in her basket from the last time they’d went firefly catching. There was a field behind her house that was perfect for that. Maybe her new bug would like to live there. She opened the lid of the jar and slide the sticky mass off of her hand and dropped it to the bottom. “Bugs need leaves,” she told Brownie as he watched her closely. “That’s what they eat. And maybe a stick to climb on, since his wing’s all torn. Come on, let’s go find some!”
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
[April] Prompt 1: The Ruse - By, Black-Haired Girl
Geneva didn’t like the look of any of the men in the room. It was as if they could all see right through her. Every eye tracked her as she walked through the crowded smoking parlor and up to the bar where, with trembling fingers, she poured herself a drink of brandy.
How did she ever get caught up in a ruse such as this?
Carefully she took a swig. Instantly she regretted it. She tried her best to fight the urge to spit out the foul, burning liquid. Why on earth would men force such a torture upon themselves? If it took swallowing this poison to be a man then she had no desire to keep this up!
Sure, there were benefits to dressing this way. For one thing, she received no catcalls as she walked down the dark alleys to this establishment. If she had been dressed in her usual bonnet and bustle she would have been teased and taunted by the dredges coming home from the docks. This time nobody seemed to notice her. She had slid through the market easily with only minimal pestering by the merchants who normally would have been fervently trying to sell her ribbons and lace. Hardly anyone had tried to bother her at all, except for the occasional young girl who may have bought into her disguise a little too easily.
She had made it here undiscovered. It had been a piece of cake getting into the smoking parlor, an establishment explicitly reserved for only gentlemen. She had never before had seen the inside of such a place. It was completely different from the sunrooms and gardens kept for women to visit company. It was dark and oppressive. Everything was grand and expensive, plush and gilded. The air was musty and heavy with smoke. There were no windows, only large ornate oil lamps and fireplaces scattered throughout the enormous space, giving the dark room a sickly orange glow. Everyone had a drink or a cigar in hand, and all were partaking in gambling or billiards.
Geneva wasn’t impressed and she decided she would rather take the sunny arboretums and clean, fresh linen of a woman’s sitting room any day.
Geneva wasn’t impressed and she decided she would rather take the sunny arboretums and clean, fresh linen of a woman’s sitting room any day.
With a tight purse of her lips she forced the liquor and her tension down into the pit of her stomach. She had to focus. She had to remember everything that Thomas had taught her. She slouched her posture, stuck out her flat stomach, widened her stance and pretended to take another swig from her glass. The smell of the brandy made her cringe. As she lifted her glass to her lips she peered over its rim and searched the darkened room, scanning the faces for any sign of Aldon. She knew he had to be here; it was only a matter of time before he showed up.
Aldon MacMeyer. What a nasty pig. Geneva had never approved of him, but when her younger sister Melissa had come home so happy that he had finally proposed she couldn’t bring herself to adamantly protest. Melissa had looked so happy on her wedding day. Little did she knew that Aldon was a cad, and it was no surprise to Geneva that three weeks after their honeymoon he had been seen out on the town with another woman. Her sister had denied it, despite the many accounts given to her of his guilt. She loved him and couldn’t see a single fault in the slob.
It was up to Geneva to prove it to her. She and her friend Sir Walter Thomas had come up with the brilliant idea of this disguise. It would be easy, Thomas had told her. She would just have to go to the parlor, sit in the corner and listen. Aldon was notorious for being loud and outright about his affairs. He wore them like badges of honor. She would get proof from him somehow, whether it be a name of the mistress or the location of their secret meeting spot… whatever it was, she would get it and prove it to Melissa once and for all.
Geneva shuffled away from the bar just as two men approached it to retrieve drinks of their own. She slid quietly to the darkest corner of the room just behind a blackjack table and leaned her back against the wall. She wasn’t sure how long she would have to wait for Aldon to show up, but it wasn’t a problem. She had told her father she would be at the London Philharmonic with Thomas for their performance of the Greatest Works of Mendelssohn, which would certainly last all night.
She had nothing but time. With a satisfied smirk she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette. She fished around in her coat pocket and found a match, striking it carelessly on the doorframe behind her. She lit the tip and gently drew a breath through the cigarette, watching an ember come to life on the tip. With a wave of her hand the match was out and discarded in a nearby ashtray. She took a leisurely puff and smiled brightly. It was the first time she had a smoke inside, let alone in front of anyone. How thrilling it was to practice her most guarded vice out in the open.
Ah, to be a man.
[April] Prompt 1: Necromancer Prologue - By, Sophie
Writing Prompt 1 - Necromancer Prologue
PROMPT
There was the cloying sent of mid-summer flowers, melting bee’s wax and sweat throughout the ballroom. It laid like something sweet and thick along the back of his mouth. Anthony Callan breathed in deeply and held the stink of life in his lungs before pushing it out forcefully. Leaning back against the wall behind him, one hand disappeared into his breast pocket. Out came the slim, delicately engraved silver case that had arrived on the most recent ship from France. From it came a finely rolled cigarette. Personally, Anthony would have preferred to have that imported as well, but it simply was not done. No respectable man smoked anything other than Virginia tobacco, and one certain did not living in the heart of tobacco country. Slipping his case back into his pocket with one hand, Anthony fished out a the small box of white phosphorus matches he had procured the night before while enjoying distinctly more base entertainments than those to be found in Harris Hall. The blasted things were notoriously difficult to light. With a careful flick of his wrist, Anthony managed not only to get it to catch but carefully made sure the resulting sparks flew away from his person. He knew better than to risk a phosphorus burn. Holding each half deftly, he brought them together just long enough to catch before swiftly flicking the flame out.
Breathing in deeply, he had to admit that the light, acidic tang of the local crop was easier on the lungs. He ignored the pointed look the Mrs. Landers sent his way. Her husband’s lands were barely a fourth of the size of his father’s and had failed to put out a decent crop in decades. If she thought for a moment that her disapproval meant anything more to him than the buzzing a fly she was clearly suffering from self delusions of grandeur. The only person who could take him to task for smoking in front of a lady was the Master of Harris Hall, and Anthony had had that small minded brute of a man jumping at his every beck and call for months now. Mr. Harris might be over a decade Anthony’s senior, but the fool was also far too eager to believe every superstition and wives’ tale. It had not taken much to convince the other man that Anthony held sway over the very spirits that still haunted the dark forests just beyond civilization’s fields. The other man had been so ready to believe that Anthony had not even had to actually deliver any proof, merely the promise of it. That alone had been enough to cowl a man like Mr. Harris. He would not dare say a word of censure to Anthony’s face, not even if Anthony had set fire to all of the man’s fields and certainly not over something as paltry as a cigarette. The poor Mrs. Landers would just have to swallow it.
With a scowl, Anthony let his eyes sweep once more over the crowd of people gathered there that night. Harris Hall, while well fitted by the current Mr. Harris’s ancestors, was still a relatively small estate, and it only held the likewise relatively small genteel of the surrounding lands. Most were little more than farmers themselves, and even more were still struggling to recover from the War Between the States. Unfortunately, the Callan estate was situated in the middle of all this littleness. That meant that for most of Anthony’s life he had seen these same limited people over and over again on night such as this one. He had already pulled just about as much as he could out of each and every one of them. None of them were of particular use to him at the moment. Most of them probably would faint dead away at the very notion of the kinds of things Anthony thought useful.
Anthony needed new blood.
There was the cloying sent of mid-summer flowers, melting bee’s wax and sweat throughout the ballroom. It laid like something sweet and thick along the back of his mouth. Anthony Callan breathed in deeply and held the stink of life in his lungs before pushing it out forcefully. Leaning back against the wall behind him, one hand disappeared into his breast pocket. Out came the slim, delicately engraved silver case that had arrived on the most recent ship from France. From it came a finely rolled cigarette. Personally, Anthony would have preferred to have that imported as well, but it simply was not done. No respectable man smoked anything other than Virginia tobacco, and one certain did not living in the heart of tobacco country. Slipping his case back into his pocket with one hand, Anthony fished out a the small box of white phosphorus matches he had procured the night before while enjoying distinctly more base entertainments than those to be found in Harris Hall. The blasted things were notoriously difficult to light. With a careful flick of his wrist, Anthony managed not only to get it to catch but carefully made sure the resulting sparks flew away from his person. He knew better than to risk a phosphorus burn. Holding each half deftly, he brought them together just long enough to catch before swiftly flicking the flame out.
Breathing in deeply, he had to admit that the light, acidic tang of the local crop was easier on the lungs. He ignored the pointed look the Mrs. Landers sent his way. Her husband’s lands were barely a fourth of the size of his father’s and had failed to put out a decent crop in decades. If she thought for a moment that her disapproval meant anything more to him than the buzzing a fly she was clearly suffering from self delusions of grandeur. The only person who could take him to task for smoking in front of a lady was the Master of Harris Hall, and Anthony had had that small minded brute of a man jumping at his every beck and call for months now. Mr. Harris might be over a decade Anthony’s senior, but the fool was also far too eager to believe every superstition and wives’ tale. It had not taken much to convince the other man that Anthony held sway over the very spirits that still haunted the dark forests just beyond civilization’s fields. The other man had been so ready to believe that Anthony had not even had to actually deliver any proof, merely the promise of it. That alone had been enough to cowl a man like Mr. Harris. He would not dare say a word of censure to Anthony’s face, not even if Anthony had set fire to all of the man’s fields and certainly not over something as paltry as a cigarette. The poor Mrs. Landers would just have to swallow it.
With a scowl, Anthony let his eyes sweep once more over the crowd of people gathered there that night. Harris Hall, while well fitted by the current Mr. Harris’s ancestors, was still a relatively small estate, and it only held the likewise relatively small genteel of the surrounding lands. Most were little more than farmers themselves, and even more were still struggling to recover from the War Between the States. Unfortunately, the Callan estate was situated in the middle of all this littleness. That meant that for most of Anthony’s life he had seen these same limited people over and over again on night such as this one. He had already pulled just about as much as he could out of each and every one of them. None of them were of particular use to him at the moment. Most of them probably would faint dead away at the very notion of the kinds of things Anthony thought useful.
Anthony needed new blood.
And not just to relieve his boredom, which was almost as oppressive as the heat. More than that, he needed new blood if he was ever going to take his projects any further than simple curses conjurer’s tricks. He was tired of petty things like befuddling the stableman and causing all of the neighbor’s milk to spoil. Certainly, he had made great success in all these things, working the way he was from only a few vague books that talked more about the wickedness of such things than how to actually perform them. Even tormenting the local priest was no longer the entertainment it once had been. The old man barely spoke a word these days that was not a fervent pray, convinced as he was that the very demons of the earth rose up to torment him every night. The illusion of which would continue to haunt the rotting old man until someone found the dead and mutilated corpse of a fawn nailed down inside the crawl space beneath the chapel. One of his better pieces of work, especially since he had to device a way to obscure the stench of decaying flesh to be able to leave it for so long. Petty things, all of it. He had gone as far as he could with dried herbs and animal flesh.
He needed something more.
But where to get such a thing? Certainly he had access to many more or less willing bodies. His own father kept several employed and there were always more to be had. But a work of art was only as good as one’s materials. At this level in his craft it simply would not do to work with something so crass. He needed something better. Something unique.
Watching the mass of people who slowly shuffling about the floor as witless as any other beasts, Anthony Callan’s eyes narrowed.
He needed something more.
But where to get such a thing? Certainly he had access to many more or less willing bodies. His own father kept several employed and there were always more to be had. But a work of art was only as good as one’s materials. At this level in his craft it simply would not do to work with something so crass. He needed something better. Something unique.
Watching the mass of people who slowly shuffling about the floor as witless as any other beasts, Anthony Callan’s eyes narrowed.
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