This story went through many revisions, until I eventually entered a contest with it in 2005. Looking back at it, I would put it through another round of revisions, as some of the language is cringe worthy, but I feel the idea is universal enough for anyone reading to understand the passion behind it.

I present Old Love, a tale of two lovers on the greatest night of their lives, and the morning that follows afterward.

Old Love

His breathing was clipped and slightly ragged as he recovered from the exhaustion of passion. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. The soft sheets beneath him drank it with thirst. His eyes gazed at the wrinkled body lying next to him. Her wrinkles matched nearly all of his own. His lips curled into a boyish smile, though his outer-layer betrayed his true age. He felt her pale hands against his chest, her fingers running over the gray silken hair curled together there. Her hands were a stark contrast against his skin; his dark wrinkles made her pale hands seem to glow in the darkness. He felt her warmth, her spirit, her love as they moved closer together underneath the single sheet.

His thumb brushed the white hair back from her eyes, stroking her cheek gently. He felt the sweat on her too, a pure sweat from passion, lust, and love. Her storm cloud colored eyes gazed up at him. Her spirit flared brightly inside them. His heart leapt in his chest when he saw it, when her aura combined with his own. All of their years together had brought them closer as lovers and friends. The fire in her eyes reminded him of the first time he had seen her. The very thought twitched the corners of his mouth into a tight smile.

Moonlight pulled itself over the windowsill, poking its head into the room, and watched the two. Her back was to it, but his face was revealed in the light. He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her, her own clinging to him. Their legs intertwined with the passion of the experience. Their love had been shared in the most intimate of ways, shared in the way they chosen never to share with another. They were together, for all time, and no one could take that from them.

She trembled. He knew why. All of the obstacles they had overcome, the hatred, the separations, the misunderstandings, all of them had been obstacles that should have torn them apart. But they endured. They fought. They lived, loved, and learned. They stood side by side against the staunchest opponents, never once flinching or faltering. And in the end they had won. He rubbed her back, thinking of the first time that he had comforted her. She cried, he soothed. And there had been many times his tears stained her shoulder and her hands relieved his burdens. Their devotion kept them strong. They truly were truly bonded.

Life had been full of challenges. Yet their love moved them through any obstacle. He combed his fingers through her hair, watching her with his dark eyes. She sighed in content, pressing harder against him, the moonlight tickling her face with its fingers. Their hearts beat in sync, the echo of emotion permeating throughout the room.

“I love you.” Her voice was small and sweet, filled with a hint of soft summer breezes. Her eyes watched him. Silvery tears glistened at the corners. He pulled her closer, feeling her warmth and love wrap tenderly around him.

“I love you too, angel.” She put her head to his chest and he combed his dark fingers through her hair. The moonlight’s gentle fingers entwined them in its loving grasp and the breeze blew through the open window, enveloping the room in a refreshing coolness.

They had endeavored their entire lives to do all the things that they had set out to do: raise a happy, loving family and acquire the key to happiness. They had completed both. Even in their twilight years happiness was theirs. Even in peaceful bliss of each others arms after a passionate night. Even then they accomplished all they set out to do.

He watched her glistening eyes and kissed her brow as she smiled. He waited for so many years, through untold hardships to be one with her. And she had done the same, enduring everything with equal ferocity and determination as he. And now they were one, a singular vessel of finality.

Watching her, he smiled and told her again of his love before his eyes closed. He knew hers had as well. The last thing he saw, the last image in his mind as he lay with her in his arms and he in her arms, was her eyes, with the ever-present beautiful soul burning in them. And then they drifted off to sleep as one, lying snuggled together under a single sheet with the moon throwing its luminescent fingers hands their bodies.

Their daughter came to visit them in the morning and unlocked the door. Nothing was cooking and the television wasn’t on. She went to the kitchen and called for them, opening up some of the windows to let fresh air into the house. She checked the coffee pot. Nothing was in it. Her father, though having not drank coffee for most of his life, had just recently needed the caffeine boost to wake him up in the morning. And if the coffee wasn’t brewed, it meant they were still asleep. She half laughed to herself. Her mother and father never slept passed 11 o’clock. She headed to the bedroom.

When her amber eyes took them in, she gasped. She gasped, not out of disgust, not out of the vulgar display, but out of fear. She knew. She choked back a sob. She knew. Railing against her self-control, tears rolled down her cheeks. They lay together, naked, with only a white sheet over them. Their eyes were closed and they faced each other, cradled in one another’s arms. Sleeping peacefully, she knew. 

She had been raised to understand sacrifice, to comprehend an archaic gesture that it was said only the greatest of men could make. She had seen it in her parents. The way their eyes looked at each other and their mouths whispered each other’s names. She remembered vividly the way her father watched her mother reading to her when she was only five. She remembered the way her mother smiled when her father tried to teach her how to play guitar. She remembered the way her father would take her into his studio, show her how everything worked, and let her listen to what he was working on. She remembered fondly how her mother would take her into her lap as she worked on the computer, telling her all about the stories she wrote.

She always marveled at the way her father was able to give her mother something new every week and how her mother was always taken by honest surprise and wonder. She fantasized about her own husband doing the things her father had done for her mother and the joy that would fill her own heart.

But she remembered most of all how they felt about one another. How her father would whisper and say the sweetest things to her mother and how her mother would make special knick-knacks for the sake of giving them to her father. And how her father treasured those special heart-given things.

She knew this was the way they would pass; resting in each other’s arms for all time. The tears fell away but not in sadness. There was only the happy clarity of understanding as she watched them lying cuddled together in the center of the vast bed. She smiled and slowly walked to the side of the bed. And she leaned over first kissing her mother’s forehead and then her father’s. She pulled the sheet up to their shoulders and smiled sweetly at both of them.

“I love you mom and dad. You two get some sleep now.” And then she walked out slowly, closing the door behind her, leaving them to sleep in each other’s arms for all time.

It would appear that, just as things really get started, the series I started writing in high school came to an end. I suppose that's the way of things. No doubt it had to do with my programming and video game work, as that took precedence over everything else, and we were starting to work on game engine itself. Those were very exciting times in my circle of friends.

Suffice it to say, I did have fun working on it. Granted, looking back it now, the entire drama would unfold differently, and the writing would feature a far more mature slant than what I put to paper in 1999, but there's something to be said for reading over this older work, and remembering the way my friends and I actual all those years ago.

Editing wise, I had an aversion to commas, it seems, or didn't yet know how to use semi-colons to any great degree. Sentence fragments, when used for stylistic reasons, can be fun and snappy, but in this piece they are very distracting. The adverb problem was still something I needed to fix, an issue that my current writing no longer features so... visibly. Overall, for the time period, and the knowledge base, this part of the saga was better written than the others. It's a shame that it came to such an abrupt end. I wonder where it would have gone next?

Enjoy this blast from the past. It was written on March 8, 1999.

Demons, Devil, Evil Things

Fiery flecks shifted endlessly through the green forest that colored his eyes. His skin was pale, much paler than normal. He hungered. Pulling a bloody leg from the plastic bag he carried, the vampire lifted it to his lips. A noise. He stopped. Perfectly still, his eyes darted. Nothing. Just a release of gas from the pipes above and beyond. He relaxed. Raymond bit into the sheep’s leg he held, draining the blood quickly, cleanly. An appetizer. He’d have to wait for lunch to get the rest. Three more periods. But he’d have to successfully skip the current period to make it to the next.

Skipping. In the boiler room. He reprimanded himself for picking such a dank, dingy spot to skip. A ping. Raymond was silent, a whiff of hair falling across his face. Just another gas pipe. His legs felt numb. He needed to move. Rising from the spot he was crouched in, Raymond looked around. No one. Creeping quietly from his spot, he darted across the room, ducking behind a tube two times larger than him.

Rhythmic clinks. Footsteps. They came nearer. Muffled talking. Two voices, one slightly lower than the other, but each exquisitely deep. Two men. The footsteps crept nearer. They faded into earshot, halted, then continued. An old cigarette butt bounced off the vampire’s head. They were smoking. Brushing a small gray dusting of ashes from his hair, Raymond peeked around the tube. They were gone. He grinned.

“Well, let’s see what these two do down here all day?” he said to no one, and shuffled from behind the tube, following the two men. The two led him deeper into the boiler room, pipes wheezing, gusting, spraying. Their laughter filled the boiler room, cigarettes filling the air with smoke. Eventually they stopped at a large, heavy steel door embedded into the gray stone wall, little trickles of water running in cracks at its side. Taking out a big ring full of brass and copper keys, they shifted through them, finally unlocking the door in front of them. The two pulled it open, stepping inside.

“Hm... interesting. Wonder where it leads?” Raymond whispered to himself, hands on a pipe in front of him, head looking over. His eyes gazed around for a moment before he quietly, smoothly slipped to the door the two men had gone into. Pushing it ajar just a crack, he looked beyond, eyes widening at what he saw.

Light reflected from its glistening molten surface, small beads of flame circling around it. The two beings standing in front of it were as mysterious, as threatening as the doorway before them. Muscles rippling, skin like molten lava, the one positioned on the left of the object in front of them appeared to be one of the two men Raymond had been following. The other, skin black as coal, hard as diamond, was the other man. Daemons. From Hell. The doorway, a passage to the beyond, the forbidden realm. Raymond grinned, moving a strand of his hair behind an ear. He had stumbled upon something big. He knew it.

“Well, the times comes,” a deep rumbling voice said, echoing from the daemon on the left of the passage. The other nodded. “He will be most pleased to hear that it is ready. Finally, this realm can be his realm. Shall we?” It rose, thrusting its red hand towards the passage. The other simply nodded. The two disappeared into the eerie redness before them.

Raymond’s back pressed hard against the damp stone. He shook his head. Disbelief yet curiosity threatened to crush him. His thin, pale fingers intertwined together. A trickle of warm sweat dribbled down his nose. He shook his head again.

“Get a hold of yourself, Raymond. You just saw two daemon walk into some passage to Hell. What do you do now?” His eyes watched the steel door to his left. It stood unmoving. “Go in, that’s what.” Laughing at himself, he pushed the metal door completely open, his eyes watching the reflections off the inter-dimensional doorway fifteen feet in front of him. Without a second thought, he leapt through it.

Sweat ran down his face in rivets. He peeled strands of hair off of his forehead. His clothes stuck to his back and he worked to peel them off. With his shirt and coat removed, he sat on the red dirt ground looking beyond. Fire, flames. The stench of death. Cries of pain and suffering. Hell. Raymond wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Aside from the heat, he liked it.

A rhythmic chanting came from the distance. It grew louder, stronger. Just beyond the cliff he sat on. On hands and knees, Raymond crawled to the edge, his sea tone eyes peering over. Thousands of daemons. Winged, non-winged, skinny, fat, muscular. All shapes, sizes, colors. United into one immense body, chanting. The realm beyond is ours - Release the Lords of Chaos. A wave of fright washed over him, followed by curiosity, then fright again.

In front of the daemons were seven pillars, each one a different color, all on the dark end of the spectrum. On each pillar, a transparent figure stood bound by chains, flames screaming all around. The daemons kept chanting, parting as a robed figure walked down the middle of them. Blond hair extended to his ankles, his robe so white and spotless that looking at it was like staring into infinity. The man strolled casually to the front of the crowd, standing just under the central, fourth pillar. He held his hands up, silencing the crowd. Only the omnipresent crackling of fire could be heard.

“Today, we begin our assault,” the man said, voice heavy with charisma. The crowd cheered. He silenced them once again. “Our realm shall be extended. Extended beyond this fiery home we have here. Today, we shall have the over world!” The daemons let up another cheer. The man eventually silenced them. “But, there are those who would try to stop us. Those we must kill.” A small murmur settled over the crowd and the man silence them once again. “And kill them we shall. But not by sacrificing your lives-” he lifted his hands, pointing towards the figures on the pedestals “-but by sacrificing theirs. Seven fallen spirits who’ve committed the seven deadly sins... they shall become the seven Lords of Chaos. With their power before us, the realm above has no chance.”

The daemon let up a long, loud cheer, a thin lipped smile spread across the man’s face. Raymond watched with increasing interest. When the daemon eventually silenced, the man went on. “The Lords of Chaos are the key to our victory! Rejoice in their darkness!” The man’s hand struck the air, and the daemon followed. They chanted Lords of Chaos over and over again. Raymond sulked back, sitting back on his ankles. Sweat dribbled down his chest, steaming as it hit the floor. He wiped a hand across his brow.

“Wait until Warren gets an earful of this.” He laughed, rose, and prepared to leave.

Back for another old tale, and like the two previous ones, this is part of the short mini-series that I began, but never finished, during high school. It follows a group of friends, Michael, Kevin, Raymond, and Warren (hey, that's me!), as they begin learning about the denizens of hell and their intentions with the school.

One of the best parts of looking back at my older work is the way I can rip it apart and judge it. As always, I try to leave everything in its original, horribly bad format as both a way to show you where I have been and how years, and knowledge, can help you improve your writing (compare these stories to those offered under the flash fiction section). Of course, I have a long way to go, just like any good writer.

This particular part was written on March, 3rd, 1999. Looking in the book, I skipped a particular entry that I will append to the end of the mini-series when I've finished with it. But, I want to immediately go back in time and give myself The Elements of Style by Strunk and White. Adverbs, over use of adjectives, and poor pronoun usage abound in this text. Even reading it today, and knowing who the core characters are, I found myself confused on some of the actions various characters were taking. Who is holding what? Who is purchasing what? From what perspective is the story? This is partly why I do this, to remind myself not to make these same mistakes twice, but to also see that though there may be an audience for my writing, I can never neglect improving my craft. You are only as good as the amount of effort you put into your work.

Enjoy.

Descent of the Dead

So which one are you gonna get?” Michael asked, his voice turning a little higher than normal. His white eyes gazed from the glossy cover of the multicolored box in his pale hand to the vampire that stood next to him. Raymond’s sea tone eyes looked up from the box in his hand, his skinny fingers rubbing over the cellophane wrapping. His other hand was pushed deep into his trench coat, fingering around for his money. 

“Well, how much does that one cost?” Raymond asked, taking his hand out of his pocket. He ran his fingers through his midnight black hair. Michael turned the box over, his face scrunching up to look at the price on the box.

“It’s $49.95... so’s that one. Which one though?” He gazed back at Raymond’s face.

“I don’t know... which one’s better?” 

Warren sat cross legged on the ground behind the two, his midnight black eyes dancing over the words on the page of the magazine he read. His faded hair hung depressingly over his face, brushing the page as it swung back and forth with the movement of his head. The busy murmur of passersby and shoppers came quickly to his ears; the sounds of the mall. The wizard’s eyes gazed up, playing across the covers of the magazines on the rack before him; game magazines.

“I don’t know really. Ask Warren. He knows more than I do,” Michael responded, pale finger pointing to the teen seated on the ground no more than a few feet from him.

“Warren, which one should I buy?” Raymond asked, turning only slightly to look at the wizard. He held both boxes in his hands, the multicolored titles facing the wizard. Red flecks shifted through Raymond’s sea colored eyes. The wizard looked up, his hair whipping across his face for a moment. He moved it aside, behind an ear as his midnight black eyes flicked back and forth, reading one title, then the other. His dark face wrinkled up in thought.

“Get the one on the right. It’s better. Better graphics, a better story, everything. But it’s way too short. Oh well, it’s better, though,” he said, his fingers pointing to the box he had selected. Raymond nodded, turning around a bit, putting the one Warren hadn’t selected back on the shelf. The wizard’s dark face bent back to his task of reading the magazine in his hands.

“Hey, what happened to Kevin?” Michael asked, leaning down, his face close to Warren’s ear. A blonde tipped black spike brushed against the back of the wizard’s head. Warren peered out of the corner of his eye, his dark head titling towards the store’s doorway.

“Outside sitting on the bench. Some girls came up to talk to him while we were coming in here.” Nodding, the psychic vampire rose, moving to where Raymond stood in line, waiting to pay for his game. Warren went back to reading his magazine.

Her eyes watched the wizard, hair cascading lustfully around her face. A glossy red dress accentuated her fair body, arms folded comfortably across her chest. Thoughts ran rampant through her mind. Thoughts about the boy she watched. The boy she wanted. She would have him.

The wizard’s midnight black eyes came up from the print he was reading. An urge. A calling urge. To look. Look for the calling. It must be her, the one watching him. He felt the urge to go, go and talk to her. He closed the magazine in his hands, setting it back on the rack. Standing, he ran his dark hands over his robe, dusting himself off, and walked passed Raymond and Michael into the open mall.

“Where’s he going?” Raymond asked, combing his pale fingers through his hair, eyes watching the wizard leave. Michael leaned over his shoulder, hands pushed into his ebony trench coat, silver ankh standing out against his chest.

“I don’t know. Probably to sit with Kevin or something,” the psychic vampire said, shrugging a little, looking at Raymond again. His hands rubbed over the glossy covering of the game in his hand, money in the other.

Kevin sat on a wooden bench, girls seated on both his left and right. A large rimmed hat sat on his head, covering his brown hair, a long black trench coat covering his body. He wore studded black gloves on his hands, a silver cross hanging from his neck. A white shirt covered his body, black pants covering his legs. Military boots were tied to his feet. Warren passed by Kevin, making his way to the calling, the source of the urge.

“Warren, where ya goin’?” Kevin asked, looking up from under his hat, his arms wrapped around two girls’ shoulders. They both had simple, playful grins on their faces. The wizard stopped, his head turning to look at Kevin. A piece of hair fell quietly, elegantly out of place. Warren left it, letting it dangle just to the side of his eye. Pushing one hand into the other robe arm, the boy’s face was clear of emotion. His body was poised.

“Just across the way. I think I might go into Hot Topics,” he lied, his voice deep, calm. It betrayed no emotion. The suave teen nodded a little, turning slightly to look at one of the girls. He winked, and she giggled. He was occupied again. Warren turned, moving towards the call again.

Her hazel eyes looked into his midnight ones. A small grin passed across her crimson lips. Her skin was fair, with just a touch of tanning. Moving closer to him, she placed her hands on his shoulders.

“I’ve come for you, Warren.” She knew his name. He asked no questions. “I’ve come to take you with me.” He wanted that.

“Why?” His question interrupted the air between them.

“Hell is coming and you’re not allowed to be here. Hell will open soon and you can not be here.” Two fingers touched the side of his face. Her fingers were smooth.

“Why can’t I be here?” he asked. Unblinking eyes looked back at him, the grin washing from her face.

“Because you can help stop it.” Her voice turned eerie, almost hard. The call still held him. “And for that, I must kill you.” Ivory teeth slowly grew from her mouth, growing longer, sharper, deadlier. Her eyes turned fiery red. Warren stood unmoving, the psychic link the two had still unbroken. Only Kevin realized the danger. The glint of the noon sunlight off of her teeth alerted him to the danger. He reached into his trench coat, hand groping around for the small, wooden hand crossbow he had tucked away into the folds. One shot, that was all he had. She bent in for the kill, her fangs bared, her breath wafting over his skin. One shot. To the neck. He drew the string back in one fluid motion, bolt already ready for the kill. She drew closer, saliva hanging off the tips of her teeth. The wizard didn’t budge, stood unblinking, unaware. Kevin fingered the trigger, pulling on the metal switch. The air whistled, a maddening thunk.

Heads looked down at the girl who lay on the floor in front of Warren. The wizard knew nothing. His mind felt blank, vacant. Kevin stood at his side, a tan hand gripping his robed shoulder. Warren looked over to the teen’s clear, brown eyes.

“What... happened?” Warren asked, his voice small, frightened. Small beads of sweat sat on his forehead.

“You see her?” Kevin’s finger pointed towards the dead body laying on the ground, a wooden shaft sticking out of its throat. There was no blood. The body wasn’t human. It was a daemon. The wizard’s eyes caught a glimpse of the body before looking back at Kevin’s brown eyes. “She tried to take your life.” Warren’s demeanor changed to quiet intellect. “I saved you. Shot her in the neck.”

Michael’s white eyes watched Warren first, then Kevin, then the body. His mind pieced together the puzzle. All he had heard was a scream. A loud, ear splitting scream. Then motion. Bodies moving, shifting towards the wizard. He and Raymond had both moved, pushing their way to Warren, who stood at the center of the commotion.

“You all right, Warren?” the psychic vampire asked, pale hands patting the wizard’s shoulder.

“What was that all about anyway?” Raymond asked, combing his hair over a little. The wizard looked at all of his friends in turn before he spoke.

“I have no clue... I think, thought, that this is only the beginning of things to come...”

Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but it pales in comparison to how much I want to go back in time and tell myself the do's and don'ts of writing.

Like last time, we venture to early 1999, when I was working on a small mini-series about demons in the basement of my school. This time, however, we take a look at the other characters: Michael, Raymond, and Kevin. What you will find are classic examples of terrible storytelling: character dumps, adverbs gone crazy, and sentence structure that needs clear direction. It wasn't until I began exchanging my work with professional writers that I learned what I was doing wrong. Like a few of them told me "you have good things here, but you need to tighten up the way the story unfolds." I took that advice to heart.

One of the things I do, however, like about this series of stories, is the fact that I was already looking long term when it came to my projects. Once this short series was finished (a feat that, unfortunately, never came about), I planned on writing stories for each individual character. Remember, there was a lot of creativity in the air during my junior year of high school, along with the re-releases of Star Wars and the release of the Matrix. Those were good times.

You will find stumbling blocks in the following text. I've left the majority of it in tack, but did change a few of the sentences, since there were far too many adverbs in one place for it to be anything but a hinderance. 

Hell Hath No Fury

Running his fingers easily through his hair, the wizard watched the screen with calm black eyes. An ebony robe draped over his body, devoid of all decoration. That was his symbol of power, the lack of ornamentation. Touching the ivory keyboard with dark, oak fingers, he began typing something into the computer program.

“What are you typing?” a deep voice asked from his right. He stole a quick glance to the side at the teen sitting there. A pair of milky eyes stared back at him. Contacts. Black hair stood out on his head, the tips blonde. His eyebrow was pierced, highlighted by the subtle face paint he wore. Dangling from around his neck was a dog chain, silver spikes protruding from the collar. A black, long sleeve shirt ended at his wrists, matching his fingernails and trench coat. Smooth, freshly ironed black slacks were tucked into shin high black boots, small ring chokers at the top of them. Michael, neo-gothic vampire.

The wizard kept an eye on him for a moment before he turned back to his work, continuing to type all the while. Almost a total opposite of Michael, Warren was a classic gothic, preferring the old ways to the new. Shoulder length, straight hair hung down, fading intricately from black to silver. A silver pentagram necklace swung around his neck, highlighted by the simple midnight black robe he wore. His eyes were ebony, his skin almost as dark. He was natural in almost every way. A draconic wizard.

“Something for S.E.E.. I’m trying to finish fleshing out a piece of the game engine,” he said, his voice easy and quiet. MIchael nodded, turning to look at his own computer screen. It was blank, just a turquoise emptiness with a few pointless icons. The clock in the corner ticked up another minute. Two more minutes before the bell rang.

Warren ejected his disk, concentrating intently on its structure, causing it to float. The vampire watched him display his power. The wizard enjoyed showing off every so often. In a small flash of light, Warren made the disk dematerialize, phasing its energy into himself.

“Show off,” Michael groaned, rolling his white eyes. The wizard grinned, shrugging a little. He never kept a backpack, only his robe, and possibly a few books. Everything else he dematerialized, pulling the energy into himself. An energy wizard.

“I do what I have to do. Book bags are just too damn heavy to carry around. I have a fragile back, remember?” Warren touched his back and yelped in pain, one eye on Michael. “See?”

“Yeah, my ass,” the vampire said. His eyes flicked, watching the clock on the computer screen. One more minute. “You’re lucky man.”

Warren’s head came up from fixing a spot on his robe. Pushing a stray strand of his hair behind an ear, his ebony gaze drifted to the vampire. “And that is because...?” He sat still, watching Michael’s white eyes play over his face.

“Your next class is across the hallway. Lucky ass.”

The wizard grinned, his pearl white teeth glinting in the ambient light of the room.

A high-pitched bell screamed, students in the classroom moving into the increasing mass of bodies outside. Warren and Michael entered into the stream, parting ways, each going to their own destinations.

The lights overhead glinted off his black sunglasses. An ominous midnight black. Beyond, his eye color was unknown. Dark brown hair was slightly spiked, an almost natural spiking. Blonde and light brown highlights ran unchecked through his hair. A pewter cross hung around his neck, a ruby plastered to its center. A spotless white shirt was tucked easily into a pair of jeans, pulled out a little ways for comfort. Tied around his waist was a belt, keeping his pants up at his waist, a small piece of it hanging off just slightly. A smile touched his face, a slightly tanned hand scratching his chin.

“Kevin, would you mind telling me exactly why you are still wearing those glasses, even after I’ve told you twice to remove them?” asked a high-pitched whine of a voice. The teacher stood leaning over her desk at the front of the room. Her cool blue eyes were locked onto the boy’s shades.

“See, what had happened was... and then... after that... then,” he said.

“Kevin, remove the shades. Now,” she said with a crack of authority. Her eyes narrowed, angry wrinkles creasing her face. Kevin reached up, putting two fingers to the sides of his glasses, and yanked them off, sliding them easily into a case in his pocket. Cool, suave, Kevin leaned back, grinning.

“Thank you.” The teacher turned back around, writing a few more words on the board.

Kevin, a seemingly normal teenager, was a bit more suave and high-class than most of his friends. His cool brown eyes played easily around the room. Boredom.

“So you’re going to let her say that to you?” a playful voice asked from the side. A grin danced across Kevin’s face. His eyes looked to the side, watching the figure that leaned towards him.

The boy wore his hair to the side, almost down to his shoulders. A pair of intelligent blue green eyes watched Kevin, fiery flakes shifting in its sea. He wore a trench coat, black with a dark brown lining. A tie hung down, complimenting his blue dress shirt, which was tucked neatly into a clean pair of black slacks. Raymond. Even the name suggested an air of authority, power, knowledge, and mystery. To everyone outside of his circle of friends, Raymond seemed to be just that, a classic goth vampire mixed with a business-like manner. To his friends, he was the complete opposite. He was a playful, caring individual who could befriend anyone who came close enough. Raymond’s eyes watched Kevin for a moment before he continued with what he had to say. “I suggest you tell her... you tell her I ain’t playin’ with your bitch ass.”

Kevin chuckled to himself. Just the simple thought made him laugh inside, let alone the way Raymond spoke the words. “Said like a true gangsta,” Kevin said, running a hand over his hair, watching the teacher out of the corner of his eyes.

“You ain’t bout it!” Raymond punched Kevin in the shoulder. The suave teen glanced at Raymond, then reached for his glasses. Yanking them from his pocket, he slid them back onto his face, his eyes hidden by the sea of blackness that washed over them. Light reflected from the lenses.

“I’m bout it enough to do this.” The arrogant teen smiled, pointing a finger at the clock that sat on the wall in front of the room. The school bell’s wail came forth, signaling them it was time for lunch. Kevin slid cooly from his seat, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“I still ain’t playin’ with yo’ bitch ass,” Raymond said, following, trench coat draped around him. He checked his clothes to make sure they were straight, neat. Moving from the classroom, the two made their way to lunch, where they would meet their friends.

“I ain’t playin’ wit’ yo’ bitch ass!” Raymond screamed across the chill noon air, heads turning to look his way. Kevin followed closely to the side, his hands stuck in his pockets, his body movement suggesting a touch of vanity. Warren looked up from the lunch he had finished creating, his black eyes watching the two. Michael pulled on his dog collar chain with his thumb, his white bulbs watching Raymond, then Kevin.

“Well, like my boy Mike has always said I have no love for you hoes!” the wizard screamed back, his deep voice resounding off the courtyard walls and breaking its silence.

“Oh hell nah... it begins yet again,” the psychic vampire, with black spikes for hair, commented, taking an unsettling breath. He was hungry. He needed energy. “Warren, please can I feed now?”

Raymond sat down on Warren’s left, Kevin to Raymond’s left. Raymond situated himself on the wooden bench, shuffling through his backpack, looking for his lunch. The wizard’s eyes flicked to look at Michael, then nodded.

“Yes.” A sigh interrupted the brief silence before Warren closed his eyes and concentrated, channeling the bulk of his energy into his aura. Michael leaned forward, his eyes closed as well, mind channeled into feeding. The only way Michael could survive was to feed off the auras of others. Warren didn’t want him to do this, so he allowed him to feed off of the wizard. It only left Warren tired, whereas others it would kill outright.

“So what are the plans for the weekend?” Warren asked, his skin becoming increasingly lighter as the energy drained from his aura. Raymond’s eyes flicked up to look at the draconic wizard, his mouth wrapped around a raw goat’s leg.

“Right now, I have no plans. Why?” Sunlight danced off of Kevin’s glasses as he looked at Warren. The wizard nodded slightly, taking a bite of his sandwich. Michael leaned back, opening his eyes, seemingly satisfied.

“Done.” The psychic vampire licked his fingers playfully. He grinned. “That was some good stuff.” Skin several shades lighter, eyes drooping from fatigue, Warren simply shook his head. He never minded the feedings, mainly because he was able to replenish that energy in almost no time, considering he was an energy wizard.

“Raymond?” Kevin looked at the feeding vampire. Raymond fed a different way than Michael. He drained blood.

“What?” His voice was muffled. A strip of bleeding goat flesh dangled from his mouth.

“What are your plans for this weekend?” casually folding his hands, the suave teen asked. Kevin carried no lunch, and no backpack.

“Lindsey and me...”

“Don’t wanna hear it.” The wizard waved his dark hand in the air. “Enough of the sex bound stories.”

“I wasn’t even going to say anything like that... I was going to say we are going to hang out on Saturday, so Friday’s free.”

“Oh, well, then, Mike’s spending the night over my house. Do you guys want to go to the mall?” Warren suggested with his hands. The three nodded synchronously.

“All right then, the mall it is.”

In typical fashion, we are journeying back through the old notebooks I used to write in called "Phunk Off." In high school, I was addicted to the word "phunk," and I thought it would be great to have a very stylized version of it on my notebooks. Of course, the first one I did this with was a short story notebook, thus the series was born. That's not really a great story, but the one for today's tale is.

In February of 1999, I was a junior still. It meant that most of my friends were still around. I lived in a place where a vast majority of those friends lived, and we all rode the bus. I don't know why they did, but I didn't have my license, nor did I have money for a car. That was fine, because it gave me a chance to write in my notebook on the way to school.

Of course, being the geeks, nerds, and weirdos that we were, we all had interests in fantasy, science fiction, the occult, and whatever else you weren't allowed to enjoy back then. I had a fascination with magic, and thought it would be neat if, for whatever reason, the magic you see in fantasy stories was actually real, but only the most studied of people could use it. I then fashioned myself a wizard, and my friends vampires, bounty hunters, and what have you... except, we had to go to high school, and we had to participate in polite society.

That's where the idea for this story comes from, and that is why I am a featured character. After reading it nearly a decade later, it strikes me as funny how I was able to paint my typical morning routine. I had even forgotten what time I typically left for the bus, and this brought it all back. There were some problems with the flow of the story, which I had to fix, but most of it has been left intact.

Originally, this was going to be an entire series, right down to the epic conclusion of a demon assembling the legions of Hell in the school basement, but I never got around to finishing it. For the next few Spinning Old Tales blog entries, I'm going to concentrate on this story, until it's run its course. The names will be changed to protect the innocent, except for mine, and there will be light editing, as I would like to keep the original intent intact. I hope you enjoy going back this far as much as I do.

The Devil in the Basement

Warren’s body ached. He released a deep seated groan. A pair of old, raggedy boxers sagged a little as he rolled out of bed, stood, and rubbed his eyes. The room was dark, an orangish ray of light pouring through the slits of the shaded window. Stretching awkwardly, he tried to relieve the muscle tension he had built up through the night, then trudged through the thickening mess that lay on his floor and out of his room.

Feeling his way to the bathroom, he waited for his eyes to adjust before he felt for the light switch. He still had to shield his eyes from the immense yellow glare that screamed all around him once he’d flicked it into the on position.

Tired, brown eyes stared back from within the reflected reality before him. They matched his own. Silver hair poured to his shoulders, seeming to glow in the aggressive shine of the light. His skin was the color of darkened toast, the way he liked it, and the goatee connected to his mustache was flattened against his face from sleep. Bags were under the eyes of the boy in the mirror. Running a hand over his face, Warren tired to wipe the sleep from him. The boy did the same.

“You are one ugly mother...,” Warren whispered. He grinned. “Looks like it’s time for another great day of school.” The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife. He grabbed for his toothbrush, and the toothpaste, prepping for his day.

Pulling his head through the small opening of his robe collar, Warren’s eyes flicked to watch the latest Pokemon episode. He looked at the time -- six forty-eight. Five more minutes until he had to leave. He gazed down at his robe. The sleeves were laced silver, Celtic designs running through the fabric. The collar was a seamless gold, visages of dragons and drakes roaming endlessly on it. The base material was black, a color that seemed to drain all of the light out of the room around it. His wizard’s robe.

Warren was a wizard, having studied Magick since the age of six. Elemental and naturalistic Magick. His entire family knew, and nearly all of his friends. It wasn’t much of a secret. He made certain of that.

Grabbing his backpack and binder, Warren pushed his door open. He looked back at the clock -- six fifty-three. Time for him to leave. He made his way to his mother’s room, his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness.

“You leaving?” she whispered. It was soft, groggy. She was still half asleep.

“Aye, that I am mother,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “Love you. Have a good day.”

“You too.” She crawled back under the covers, resuming her sleep. Warren moved from the room, feeling his way down the stairs in the dark. Grabbing his keys off of the dining room table, Warren dodged a dark table in the hallway leading from his house. He pulled the chain from the door, and entered the cold morning air.

The moon’s cool luminescence sparkled innocently around Warren, helping to light the morning. The wizard slid both arms through the loops of his backpack, moving his hair behind an ear. After locking the door to his house, ensuring no one could get to his mother while she slept, he turned, beginning his short trudge to the bus stop. Turning the corner of the series of townhouses he lived in, Warren spotted Ray, one of his friends.

Something that fascinates me about old religions is the way death is portrayed. It's a journey, instead of an instantaneous transfer from one state to another. I've always wanted to write about said journeys in my own stories. Beslayn gave me a chance to explore that. The Neavrelander Reef, the barrier between life and death, is a difficult series of islands, coral reefs, and other challenges on the way to the land of the dead. It prevents those with weak hearts from reaching Neavrelander.

Today's old tale is about that reef, about Neenalee, the princess whom the entire world relies upon, and the dream in which her father, who died desperately trying to fight those that would risk their livelihood for the respect of the great Lotos fearn Notta, shows her that her time has not yet come. She must live to fight another day.

Heaven's Seas: Beyond the Neavrelander Reef

Here, climb up the stairs

Young one you're chosen

It rests on your shoulders

So wake up, rise and shine messiah

Beyond the reef lie the fortunes of

Untold struggles; the final resting breath

Of a million headstrong men

And like toy soldiers, they fell

Beckon, tether, and unleash spirits of a thousand dead

And carry torches to the very end

Because somewhere deep inside yourself

You know the end draws near (and we'll fall)

Two times up the stairs

Seeing if it's really there

In fright the plot holds tight

Somehow this isn't right

Revolve time in coined midnight

Shadowed sight recaptures light

With thousands of deadpan hands

And what began as a gift will threaten

To consume us all

The time sunk princess for what

Has come will consume your soul

Beyond the reef lie the fortunes of

Untold struggles; the final resting breath

Of a million headstrong men

And like toy soldiers, they fell

Beckon, tether, and unleash spirits of a thousand dead

And carry torches to the very end

Because somewhere deep inside yourself

You know the end draws near

Well, I'm ready (to fight hell in purgatory)

And I will stay (for all untold glory)

This fortunes' mine (to call out the Brind)

Messianic rise

These heaven stars (will take you further)

Time is ours (the unfaithful partner)

Beyond this reef (beyond these dreams)

To Neavrelander

We are ready for it

We rise from our chosen sleep

Beyond the reef lie the fortunes of

Untold struggles; the final resting breath

Of a million headstrong men

And like toy soldiers, they fell

Beckon, tether, and unleash spirits of a thousand dead

And carry torches to the very end

Because somewhere deep inside yourself

You know the end draws near

Well, I'm ready (to fight hell in purgatory)

And I will stay (for all untold glory)

This fortunes' mine (to call out the Brinds)

Messianic rise

These heaven stars (will take you further)

Time is ours (the unfaithful partner)

Beyond this reef (beyond these dreams)

To Neavrelander

After I had figured out my main characters, my main plot lines, and the direction I wanted my lyrics to take, I began drawing out emotions so that I could write different sequences for each of our songs. I realized that I hadn't spent a lot of time with the main character, Neenalee, whom was the linchpin in all of this. Her father had been murdered, and her kingdom was collapsing. Her people were dying left and right, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She was charged with delivering one of the three timesinks to Atticus, but he was nowhere to be found. Still, she surge onward, hoping that at the end of her journey she would find the peace she was after.

This lyric entitled "Timeline Animus," was written in 2006 for a song I composed on guitar. It is when she's at her lowest point, perhaps mirroring my own feelings. Venturing into a collapsed building with Pailin, the two discover the discarded sundries of a family that once lived there. Perhaps they've since been evacuated, but the more likely answer is that they have been captured and executed. It's the contrasting simplicity and bloodshed that strikes the princess, knowing that there will never again be a simple life for a people who shunned violence, and befriended beings that would, ultimately, spell their doom. Yet, they don't have to lie down and die. They can fight, even if it has not been their way for thousands of years. If the men out beyond the bristling walls of weaponry can fight, then so can she. She must soldier on, knowing that if she falls, there will be no escape for any of them; such a heavy weight on such slender shoulders will eventually cause them to break.

Timeline Animus

In a room filled with dusty chairs

With thoughts of life older than the lived

Over, under, through, lie the answers at your back

While light blue reminds you of the loss

Others suffer the effects of this war

You ignore

Take your mantle

Take your station

And

Fight, connect, sought, collect, shroud the fallen eye

(Go Atticus!)

I can feel it in the way the wind blows

Angry spirits riding on the chorus woes

Bloody murder is the sign of the answer

While the whole world ends in disaster

Can't believe this is all for you, girl

Men dying for a chance to be remembered

Slaughtered lives standing in progression

Yet you linger with childhood questions

(I can feel it in the way the wind blows)

(Bloody murder is the sign of the answer)

(Can't believe this is all for you, girl)

Yet you linger

If this is what fate wanted

A destiny I care to have no part of

Comforts are the anchoring words tossed to a sea worn

Survivor

Fight, connect, sought, collect, shroud the fallen eye

(Go Atticus!)

I can feel it in the way the wind blows

Angry spirits riding on the chorus woes

Bloody murder is the sign of the answer

While the whole world ends in disaster

Can't believe this is all for you, girl

Men dying for a chance to be remembered

Slaughtered lives standing in progression

Yet you linger with childhood questions

Black clouds split (I can feel it in the way the wind blows)

Feeding on your destruction (Bloody murder is the sign of the answer)

Ancient protections fade (Can't believe this is all for you, girl)

While my love waxes and wanes.

As the world breaks apart and lies streaming

The eyes are watching

But from here the way lies forward, not behind life's negative timeline

I promised to keep you safe and I won't rest

Until it's over.

Fight, connect, sought, collect.

Fight, connect, sought, collect.

Fight, connect, sought, collect.

Fight, connect, sought, collect.

And as the world falls

And as the world ends

And as the world falls

And as the world ends

We'll be there to begin anew.

I can feel it in the way the wind blows

Angry spirits riding on the chorus woes

Bloody murder is the sign of the answer

While the whole world ends in disaster

Can't believe this is all for you, girl

Men dying for a chance to be remembered

Slaughtered lives standing in progression

Yet you linger with childhood questions

Black clouds split (I can feel it in the way the wind blows)

Feeding on your destruction (Bloody murder is the sign of the answer)

Ancient protections fade (Can't believe this is all for you, girl)

While my love waxes and wanes.

Only a month earlier, I started writing my short story notebooks. Sure, I wrote loads of things before hand, but there was never a "one stop shop" for my writing. At least the writing that can be considered "throw away." I didn't yet have a format for the notebook, as it hadn't coalesced into something worth noting. It was, however, fun to come up with new ideas for short fiction, as well as scenes for novels that I planned to one day write -- both being things that the notebook series eventually became. Today's entry falls into the latter category.

At the time, the novels I concentrated on had nothing to do with anything I'm working on now. Instead, I wrote about a world I had created some four years earlier.  Today's entry takes place in that world. Re-reading it today, possibly the first time since I've written it, I see that one of my weaknesses then was dialogue. I've improved considerably since then, but it's a glaring flaw in much of my early writing.

There may be a bit of confusion as to why the man who appears to our heroine has half of his face covered (if that section makes any sense at all). In the story line of this world, catastrophic events happened, of which he was the cause, and our heroes at the time (namely, the girl's grandfather) put a stop to it, and him. From what I remember (which is not much), this severely disfigured the man. There are possibly a number of other things that I'm leaving out, but it is an old story, after all.

Enjoy.

From Censbela to Savior

The ranger slipped a metal tipped arrow quietly from her quiver. Her long, silky black hair tumbled over her shoulders, brushing against her flexing arms. She placed the arrow on the bowstring, pulling back and squinting at her target. It had no chance. Her accuracy was second to none, and the speed of her arrow would split the prey nearly in half. Her dark complexion hid her among the earthy tones of the forest. The perfect ranger. The prey wouldn’t even know what was coming. Muscles tightened, she waited for just the right moment. Then she let the arrow fly.

A solid thunk came from the man’s head, arrow opening part of it. Blood and brains slopped to the ground, the clattering of his armor warning those around him that he was dead. Men broke into shouts, brandishing glinting, freshly polished sabers. Loud shouts that they were going to find the woman erupted into the air. Javana, brushing her hair off her shoulders, giggled, then rose from her position. Hidden by the thick blanket of leaves, she moved swiftly, silently away from her pursuers. They wouldn’t have her. She would make certain of that. Leather boots stepped quickly, perfectly over fallen humus, not making a sound. She was in her element. No one but her was a master. The guards from the castle had no way of getting her. In a city, maybe. In a forest, no.

Javana stopped at a crystal clear pool of water, looking at her wavy reflection. She heard no more shouts. The guards were lost. Insects buzzed urgently on the surface of the water, taunting the fish underneath. A long, green vine across the way lapped at the pool, drinking life into itself. Javana knelt down, cupping water into her hands. She splashed her face, washing the sweat from it. Her black eyes watched the water, drops returning to their origin as they dripped from her face.

“Beautiful,” said a voice. Javana wheeled to her left, pulling a dagger free from her ankle in one smooth, seamless motion. Her eyes looked hard at the figure that stood before her. A midnight black robe sucked in all the light around the two. Long, black hair covered the right side of his face, one solid green eye watching her. His skin was pale, not human. A smile graced his lips. “Simply beautiful.”

“What do you want?” she asked through gritted teeth. Heart pounding in her chest, she held onto the power inside of her.

“Oh, nothing. I come only to deliver a message to you.” The man watched her. He smiled.

“And what in the hell is it?” She grasped the energy within her, trying to make it grow.

“Tell your dear grandfather that he might as well give up trying to stop me. He’s far too old to be of any use to anyone. I have all of the keys, and will open the doors soon. Tell him that for me, will you?” The man hovered above the ground.

“That’s impossible. My grandfather knows you don’t have the keys. You can’t... You’re not allowed to obtain them. They’ve been stripped from you.” She laughed. “He’s beaten you before, and he’ll beat you again.”

“You can believe all you want... I still have the keys. In one month, the doors will be opened, and you will be mine.” His fingers began blending into the foliage, and then he was gone. The echo of his voice could still be heard.

To build those opportunities, I needed to focus on my writing style, and make it stronger. I wanted to tighten up my descriptive storytelling, but make it more compact so that it flowed a little faster, and a little smoother for the reader. I wrote a short burst of stories, particularly in the February time frame, where I described basic scenes, while maintaining a snappy flow. Today, I present two entries from that time period.

These are not related to any stories I wrote at the time, or any I have planned. In fact, until I flipped through my old notebooks to look at what I could share with you, I completely forget about these entries. It's funny how meaningful this Monday exercise has become for me.

Back from the Precipice

The musky scent of bamboo intertwined with the sharp aroma of earth. It stole her nose’s attention. A slew of tiny, hyper birds chirping and dancing between the shoots drew the attention of her ears. It was as pristine as she had pictured. The curve of the forest, with its thin angular leaves, rose up before her and crested a short ways away. On the other side lay rest. A beautiful rest after traversing desolate plains and barren lands. Already, she could see the deep blue of the sky with pillowy clouds hanging lazily in view.

Aiko crested the hill. To her surprise, it did not end in a cliff as she had theorized earlier. Instead, a gradual slope met the most pristine surface of water she had ever seen. A field of tall grass lay between the bamboo forest and the lake at the center of the immense bowl below her. Deer grazed by the lakeside, a doe and her two children. Birds hovered above the water, snatching at fish unlucky enough to travel to the surface to experience the bright day.

Harmony.

The grasses, a deep green, brushed against her skin in a symphony of soft touches. It parted to let her through as she made her way to the edge of the lake. She smoothly removed the flask from her hip pouch. When she reached the edge of the lake, she paused and looked at what she held in her hands. A chaotic storm of energies brewed in the stoppered bottle. A twining of red and black, silver and gold reached out to her mind, but she willed herself to have no thought.

Storm clouds ravaged the horizon, throwing long tendrils of lightning deep into the tall evergreens edged up against the mountains. She could just make out the sharp scent of rain and static buzzing across the wind to where she stood beside the waving battle standards atop the cliff. It sent a chill up her spine, the dance of nature’s violent rupture upon the lands she called home.

Kiari turned from her place on the precipice and marched back down the trail with her long, green skirts flowing around her ankles. Thick strands of ruby hair slashed across her face, and she moved them back, revealing the tribal designs tattooed upon her face. Eyes silently watched her, but she paid them no heed, her eyes focused on the man who mattered most. Her heart, and undying allegiance was always his.

As she drew closer, his eyes averted briefly to a shorter man, cropped sandy hair and dark, hooded eyes, who leaned near and whispered before darting into the line of soldiers surrounding the two of them. When his eyes returned to hers, they were filled with an undying affection he always held for her. It was the look that stirred her heart.

Before I started the novel, I wrote a series of entries in one of my short story notebooks. There were threads of ideas connecting the entries, and there were very basic ideas behind the story, but I hadn't yet formed the entire plot line. I knew it had something to do with a palace, with a wizard that hadn't been seen for thousands of years, a wizard that was rumored to exist but had never been proven to, and an empire that acted on false information before ever collecting the facts. I wanted a fair amount of intrigue, betrayal, and death in the story, with the centerpiece focusing on life. I eventually got that in the form of this tale.

This tale was the first novel I wrote that I felt could actually be sold. Unfortunately, I never finished writing it, because I edited as I wrote (a habit I have since dropped). After one aborted attempt at putting the story together (it began with Clarissa's birth), I scrapped it, and started anew. I finished a fair amount of it (roughly 100,000 words), but after nearly two years of writing (for reference, I wrote The Awakening Key in three months, and spent two years editing it), I threw in the towel.

Looking back at it now, I should have finished the story. I've picked up the old manuscript and read a fair bit of it. There are solid ideas, though the writing needs a heavy edit (since my style has changed since 2000-2002). In fact, I plan to pick it back up once I'm finished with my current project.

Anyway, this was one of the early entries in the short story notebook. It was after I came up with five solid characters, and the empire. Fortunately, a good portion of this changed in the actual story. However, I hope you enjoy a peek into how I began formulating the story.

Of Wizards, Palaces, and Death

His eyes flashed orange. The glow intensified as the glowing mass of green light spun before him. Energy crackled with each passing moment, licking the air with purple tongues of lightning that coalesced between him and the rotating ball. It hummed, filtering out all ambient noise and filling the space with its singular presence. Then, when he had brought it to a point at which he could hold it no longer, he pushed against it and sent it speeding away.

The armored warrior cried out in pain as his skin was torn from him, revealing the bone and muscle underneath. His mass pulsated as he slopped to the ground, detaching from his skeletal structure. Blood spread out beneath the gory mess where there had once been a person. The blade the man had been wielding clattered to the ground and skidded away.

Clarissa glanced down, then back up to the man standing beside her, the one responsible for the soldier’s death. He was expressionless. Heat from erupting flames drew her attention. Flames danced from the dead man’s corpse. A moment later, it was gone.

“Come now, Clarissa,” Alfarif said. “We don’t have much time left.” She followed in his light footsteps as he moved and came to a set of marble stairs descending a spiraled hallway.

Robed bodies hung over banisters. Some were contorted in strange positions that were not at all nature, ripped open and desecrated. When they came to resistance, Alfarif struck the men down, adding armored corpses to the robed wizards that had once called the palace their home. Clarissa could only stare on in both horror and gratitude. Alfarif killed before the men knew what hit them.

“This way,” Alfarif said, his dark hand grabbing her pale one and pulling her into a side hallway. He came to a stop next to a set of ornate tapestries hanging against a wall. His eyes flicked around. A bench, table with a set of unbroken vases, and tapestries were the only undamaged decor they had seen. Alfarif pointed to the bench. “Sit down.” Clarissa obeyed, noting that the typical calm of his voice was stressed just enough to be noticeable. She smoothed her gray robe under her.

“Alfarif?” He looked at her. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

He fiddled with the folds of his black robe. “Clarissa... it has begun.”

That was vague, and he was not one for vagueness. “What has?” she asked, combing her jet black hair away from her face. She measured him with the pale blue eyes of her mother.

“War.” Alfarif paced for a moment, in thought. He stopped, and looked at her. “Do you remember what Tony told you about the coming of the white wizard?” His dark eyes looked down the hallway as a shuffle of red and blue robed wizards ran passed. The palace’s military was falling into line, working together so that those still trapped inside could escape. His gaze returned to hers. She nodded. “Do you remember the prophecy, then? The one that only a few could read?”

One born of the black will embrace the white. The embrace will wrought the lands in turmoil until that of the white and that of the black unite as one, was what she remembered being told. She couldn’t see the words to verify them for herself, and she didn’t know how much she trusted Tony to tell her the exact meaning. She nodded, anyway.

“Good,” Alfarif said. He broke her gaze to look at an armored body skittering down an adjacent hall, blood pouring from the man’s chest. “No doubt, you believe that the one born of the black that is mentioned in that prophecy is me. I believe I know where the white one hides. I believe I can end this.”

It was as if a fist had knocked the wind from her gut. She couldn’t get a breath. She couldn’t see or think or even move. Her head spun. Questions finally started spilling from her, but she couldn’t make her mind work. She was in a daze.

“Clarissa?” Alfarif called to her, holding her. Her eyes floated in and out of focus. She saw marble stone, then green grass, then wooden walls and a fire place. A soft mattress swelled up around her. A white sheet covered her. She felt for something, but could only watch as Alfarif’s face slipped out of focus and she fell into a deep, dark well.

“You will be safe here, I think,” he said. “I will return. You rest.” Then the darkness took her.

“Clarissa?”

She moaned. She didn’t want to wake. The sleep was exactly what she needed. It helped dampen the memories of all the terrible things she had seen.

A hand touched her shoulder, shaking her. “Clarissa, wake up.”

“Clarissa?” This voice was different. It was gentler, with a tinge of femininity to it. “Wake up, sweetie. We need you.”

Was it her mother? No, her mother had died when she was very young. It had to be a dream. Her eyes pressed together tightly, and she shuddered. But it had felt so real. She didn’t want to wake up and go to her classes. And she didn’t want to face Alfarif. Not today.

Alfarif.

Fingers touched her forehead, and a current of white hot stinging energy coursed through her. Her eyes violently opened and shifted into focus of their own accord far faster than she would have liked. Alfarif stood over her, looking down, his white hair cascading around his dark face. Her heart fluttered momentarily. He leaned up, inviting a new face into her view: Lady Seline.

The once beautiful woman was haggard, her clothing ripped and torn, the top of her breasts revealed by the tattered fabric. Her long, brown hair look tossed, and her powdered cheeks were tear stained, but her eyes sparkled when Clarissa gazed at her in the same discerning way that they always had. She smiled.

Tracing the golden necklace with white and black intertwining ball that hung from Seline’s neck, Clarissa tried to think back on what had happened. The palace had been attacked, and she had been in the prisons, spared, unlike the other apprentices, because she had a connection to him -- to Alfarif. Clarissa eyed the necklace again, and her eyes went back to Seline’s. That necklace had been worn by the lord of the palace, a man named Aparin. Aparin would have never removed it, unless it was taken by force. Clarissa swallowed, knowing that she would not find him standing beside her bedside.

“Clarissa, are you all right?” Seline asked, moving Alfarif out of the way so she could kneel beside the apprentice’s bed.

It was a comfortable bed, with fluffy pillows, and thick inviting sheets. The bedroom was small and made of hand cut wood. The aroma of rain on tree bark seemed to permeate everything. It reminded her of her childhood.

She blinked hard, and looked back at Seline’s face, ready to test her voice. “I’m... fine. Where are we?” she managed. Her throat was dry, but it felt good to talk again.

“A cabin in the forests south of the palace,” Alfarif said from across the room. He carried a mug of water to her. She drained it, thanked him, and handed it back. He bowed his head, majestic and humble in one fell swoop.

“Is this... your home?” she asked Alfarif.

Alfarif shifted his weight, pulling a book from an oak shelf on his left. He set it on the table in front of him and opened it. “Yes,” he said, flipping to a passage and studying it.

“I thought you lived in the palace.”

Lady Seline touched Clarissa’s arm. “Clarissa, Alfarif has never stayed at the palace,” she said gently. She pushed a string of her hair aside, absentmindedly touching the gold necklace. “He traveled to the palace to study... and to teach.”

Clarissa nodded, but her thoughts immediately turned to Seline, who looked disheveled. Clarissa felt suddenly awkward to be more put together than the statuesque woman who knelt beside her. “Lady Seline... what... happened to you?” Clarissa asked, her eyes wandering to the woman’s half exposed breasts. Seline blushed, and covered herself.

“I found her in a room with a group of men having their way with her. There were four dead men in the room, but I did not find Aparin.” Alfarif closed his book, and searched the bookcase for another tome. “The men who were raping Seline did not die quickly.”

The casual way that Alfarif said the last part made Clarissa shiver. She knew him to be a man who revered life more than anyone she had ever known, but to hear him speak so candidly about death chilled her in a way she could not describe. She ran her fingers back through her hair, and shook her head. How much time had passed since she had passed out? There was the short time after Alfarif had rescued her from her imprisonment, then the time it had taken the two of them to begin making their escape. But he had told her about the white one, and she had passed out. How much time had she lost?

Seline rummaged through a chest at the foot of the bed, removing a red robe from it. She studied it for a moment, her eyes shifting to Alfarif, who had his back to her. She smiled, as if noting something only she would understand, then donned it over her ripped clothing. Clarissa pulled back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A clean swept wooden floor greeted her.