Vaughn R. Demont's Blog, page 27
December 8, 2010
From Twitter 12-08-2010
10:43:20: Working on revisions today, chapter 5 needs some work.
12:38:27: Zen and the Glock 32 http://j.mp/eQTHQ8
13:00:09: Cos @RichelleMead, @longshotauthor, & @neilhimself aren't going to read their books to me aloud. Nor should they. That'd be weird. #WhyIRead
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Zen and the Glock 32
To be honest, I'm actually amazed I haven't gone fully 'round the bend.
Maybe it's because I'm older, been through more than since the last time this happened, maybe the Buddhism has something to do with it, maybe it's all of the positive energy and encouragement I've received the last couple of days, I don't really know. What I do know is that days like this used to send me into the fetal position, running through a multitude of "what if?" scenarios, and now, I sit down and ask myself what I can do, what's in my power to do, and what I can control. And then I go and do those things, and what's beyond my power, I don't sweat.
Strangely enough, I think I owe this attitude to a set of Buddhist prayer flags and a Glock 32.
While I was living in Watertown, my housemate and I somehow managed to get on the mailing list for a company that sold various supplies for meditation, yoga, etc. As a free gift, they included a set of prayer flags. My housemate let me take them, and I hung them up, and I started doing some research into Zen, Buddhism, and wondering how I could incorporate it into my life, if I could, if it would help me at all, all that. So it percolated, and every now and then when faced with stress, I tried to ask myself how I should really handle it, instead of how to handle it in a way that would make me feel satisfied. I succeeded a little, failed a lot, but I kept with it, because trying to live more harmoniously and be free from harmful attachments isn't really a bad life choice.
Then, shortly after House of Stone came out as an e-release, I went down to Virginia to visit some friends, and despite being pro-gun control, I asked one of them to take me to a shooting range and teach me how to use a gun. This would've terrified me a few years ago, but I guess I wanted to really understand why I was against guns. My dad forbade gun toys when I was younger, even though he'd been in the Army, and had qualified as a marksman. There weren't any guns in the house that he was trying to scare me away from. I later saw enough violent movies to show just what a handgun can do to someone at various ranges and calibers.
So John, the friend with the guns, agreed to take me to a shooting range. We spent some time before leaving the house going over the various guns we'd be taking, the magazines, the shells and bullets, how to treat a firearm always as if it is loaded, checking the safety, how to stand, load a clip, eject it, rack it, how to hold the gun with both hands, I could go on forever. We loaded up the firearms, namely two .45s, a SIG .357, and a 12 gauge, and headed down to the range.
I remember it was hot as Hell that day, so my glasses kept getting steamed up at the range, and I remember wishing I'd followed his advice to wear a long-sleeved shirt just for shooting. But what I remember the most is both John and his wife Angie (essentially my "brotha from anotha motha" and "sista from anotha mista" as we'd jokingly put it) hammering into my head over and over again: Don't anticipate the shot.
I really didn't know what that meant.
Then, suddenly, I was looking down range at a target, holding a Kimber .45 in my hands, running through the checklist that John had taught me. I remember that .45s are supposed to have a kick, and without thinking about it, I leaned forward slightly.
"You're anticipating the shot."
And then it hit me why I'd hated guns for so long. I didn't trust myself around them because I was afraid that if I was left alone with a gun long enough, I would put it to my head and pull the trigger.
But standing there, holding the .45 in my hands, sweat starting to bleed from my palms, I didn't want to die. I looked back on everything that had plagued me during those dark times, and I realized that I'd still emerged from them, and I could've gotten through them faster if I'd actually done something instead of waiting for something to happen.
So I took a deep breath, steadied myself, aimed down the range at the target, and figured, "The gun's going to kick, sure, but it's not going to kill you. Shooting isn't about recoil, it's about hitting the target. So fuck it, just squeeze the trigger." I exhaled, kept my bead, and fired.
And, well, I kinda hit the target. World certainly didn't end on account of it. And uh, that 4 ring was looking pretty shifty.
And John and I spent the next hour or so shooting. I had a great time. I learned that a shotgun kicks hard, but not that bad, and we made our share of jokes about zombies. I got to empty two clips from a .357 SIG into my own target and (I still have NO idea how) I managed to punch out a chunk of the 10 ring and the X ring and a good share of the 9.
On the way back we stopped for sodas considering how hot it was, and I admitted that I was finally starting to get the whole "don't anticipate the shot" thing, and I remarked it had a nice Zen feel to it. John remarked that shooting is all about controlling the little things that are under your power, like your stance, how you aim, how you squeeze the trigger, etc., but how once you pull the trigger, you're done. "It belongs to the universe, but you're responsible for whatever the universe brings back."
So maybe that's it. That day still rumbles around in the back of my head, soaking its feet in my subconscious. I know that the idea of asking yourself if you're doing everything you can in a situation rather than wallowing in self-pity is something that probably a dozen people tell you every day, but there's always something that'll finally make it stick I guess, and in that case, every story is different for everyone else.
Though at least my epiphany meant I'll survive an extra 20 minutes should the zombie apocalypse occur. :)
Maybe it's because I'm older, been through more than since the last time this happened, maybe the Buddhism has something to do with it, maybe it's all of the positive energy and encouragement I've received the last couple of days, I don't really know. What I do know is that days like this used to send me into the fetal position, running through a multitude of "what if?" scenarios, and now, I sit down and ask myself what I can do, what's in my power to do, and what I can control. And then I go and do those things, and what's beyond my power, I don't sweat.
Strangely enough, I think I owe this attitude to a set of Buddhist prayer flags and a Glock 32.
While I was living in Watertown, my housemate and I somehow managed to get on the mailing list for a company that sold various supplies for meditation, yoga, etc. As a free gift, they included a set of prayer flags. My housemate let me take them, and I hung them up, and I started doing some research into Zen, Buddhism, and wondering how I could incorporate it into my life, if I could, if it would help me at all, all that. So it percolated, and every now and then when faced with stress, I tried to ask myself how I should really handle it, instead of how to handle it in a way that would make me feel satisfied. I succeeded a little, failed a lot, but I kept with it, because trying to live more harmoniously and be free from harmful attachments isn't really a bad life choice.
Then, shortly after House of Stone came out as an e-release, I went down to Virginia to visit some friends, and despite being pro-gun control, I asked one of them to take me to a shooting range and teach me how to use a gun. This would've terrified me a few years ago, but I guess I wanted to really understand why I was against guns. My dad forbade gun toys when I was younger, even though he'd been in the Army, and had qualified as a marksman. There weren't any guns in the house that he was trying to scare me away from. I later saw enough violent movies to show just what a handgun can do to someone at various ranges and calibers.
So John, the friend with the guns, agreed to take me to a shooting range. We spent some time before leaving the house going over the various guns we'd be taking, the magazines, the shells and bullets, how to treat a firearm always as if it is loaded, checking the safety, how to stand, load a clip, eject it, rack it, how to hold the gun with both hands, I could go on forever. We loaded up the firearms, namely two .45s, a SIG .357, and a 12 gauge, and headed down to the range.
I remember it was hot as Hell that day, so my glasses kept getting steamed up at the range, and I remember wishing I'd followed his advice to wear a long-sleeved shirt just for shooting. But what I remember the most is both John and his wife Angie (essentially my "brotha from anotha motha" and "sista from anotha mista" as we'd jokingly put it) hammering into my head over and over again: Don't anticipate the shot.
I really didn't know what that meant.
Then, suddenly, I was looking down range at a target, holding a Kimber .45 in my hands, running through the checklist that John had taught me. I remember that .45s are supposed to have a kick, and without thinking about it, I leaned forward slightly.
"You're anticipating the shot."
And then it hit me why I'd hated guns for so long. I didn't trust myself around them because I was afraid that if I was left alone with a gun long enough, I would put it to my head and pull the trigger.
But standing there, holding the .45 in my hands, sweat starting to bleed from my palms, I didn't want to die. I looked back on everything that had plagued me during those dark times, and I realized that I'd still emerged from them, and I could've gotten through them faster if I'd actually done something instead of waiting for something to happen.
So I took a deep breath, steadied myself, aimed down the range at the target, and figured, "The gun's going to kick, sure, but it's not going to kill you. Shooting isn't about recoil, it's about hitting the target. So fuck it, just squeeze the trigger." I exhaled, kept my bead, and fired.
And, well, I kinda hit the target. World certainly didn't end on account of it. And uh, that 4 ring was looking pretty shifty.
And John and I spent the next hour or so shooting. I had a great time. I learned that a shotgun kicks hard, but not that bad, and we made our share of jokes about zombies. I got to empty two clips from a .357 SIG into my own target and (I still have NO idea how) I managed to punch out a chunk of the 10 ring and the X ring and a good share of the 9.
On the way back we stopped for sodas considering how hot it was, and I admitted that I was finally starting to get the whole "don't anticipate the shot" thing, and I remarked it had a nice Zen feel to it. John remarked that shooting is all about controlling the little things that are under your power, like your stance, how you aim, how you squeeze the trigger, etc., but how once you pull the trigger, you're done. "It belongs to the universe, but you're responsible for whatever the universe brings back."
So maybe that's it. That day still rumbles around in the back of my head, soaking its feet in my subconscious. I know that the idea of asking yourself if you're doing everything you can in a situation rather than wallowing in self-pity is something that probably a dozen people tell you every day, but there's always something that'll finally make it stick I guess, and in that case, every story is different for everyone else.
Though at least my epiphany meant I'll survive an extra 20 minutes should the zombie apocalypse occur. :)
December 6, 2010
Updates, and Some Self-Deprecation
Firstly, I want to thank everyone again for their support, from the signal boosts to the encouragement to the kind words to the eBay bids to the donations to the just good positive energy. I'm still waiting on information on whether I'll have a new place to live, but I'm keeping positive. I checked in with the employment agencies, called the school district, letting them all know that I'm still ready, willing, and able to work, and in the meantime I'm working on revisions for the novel and checking other jobs online. They really weren't lying when they said that looking for a job is a full time job, but I can't keep waiting week after week for the school district to call me back. I figure the more lines I throw out there, the better chance I have of landing on my feet.
And, just for a little bit of an upswing in tone...
While working on revisions, I've noticed that there are a bunch of words I screw up spelling constantly. "Occasionally" is probably one of the big offenders, as well as "embarrass", and even time I type them I wince, try to remember which letters are doubled. But one word rises above all the others, stands cackling with derisive laughter above the mocking sneers of "psychedelic", "calendar", and "occurrence".
Guarantee.
I actually tremble at its name, and I'm ashamed to admit that once, having spelled it right without going to http://www.m-w.com for the millionth time, I immediately IM'ed every person I knew who was online to tell them of my triumph. I know there will come a day where I will awaken in the dead of night, Guarantee having roughly kicked my pillow out from under me, and we will fight. And there can be only one.
And, just for a little bit of an upswing in tone...
While working on revisions, I've noticed that there are a bunch of words I screw up spelling constantly. "Occasionally" is probably one of the big offenders, as well as "embarrass", and even time I type them I wince, try to remember which letters are doubled. But one word rises above all the others, stands cackling with derisive laughter above the mocking sneers of "psychedelic", "calendar", and "occurrence".
Guarantee.
I actually tremble at its name, and I'm ashamed to admit that once, having spelled it right without going to http://www.m-w.com for the millionth time, I immediately IM'ed every person I knew who was online to tell them of my triumph. I know there will come a day where I will awaken in the dead of night, Guarantee having roughly kicked my pillow out from under me, and we will fight. And there can be only one.
December 5, 2010
From Twitter 12-05-2010
12:45:06: HUGE financial emergency. Selling off DVDS. Please RT, I'm facing homelessness here. http://shop.ebay.com/gwydion78/m.html
12:53:26: I Hate Begging http://j.mp/dL66cQ
15:45:20: Selling my X360 games too. System's been sold, but thanks for the support. Everything helps. http://shop.ebay.com/gwydion78/m.html
17:54:14: Thanks to everyone for the positive energy, signal boosts, RTs, and kind words. Everything helps. http://j.mp/dL66cQ
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I Hate Begging
So, in light of a massive financial emergency, I'm selling off DVDs that I believe would actually sell. Please reserve judgment on my entertainment choices.
http://shop.ebay.com/gwydion78/m.html
Please please please spread the word, bid, all that, I'm still not back at work yet and facing living on the street. I am seriously not kidding about this.
If you want to just donate, which I would deeply appreciate, my Paypal is solomonphoenix[at]yahoo.com
Again, I'm really sorry about this.
http://shop.ebay.com/gwydion78/m.html
Please please please spread the word, bid, all that, I'm still not back at work yet and facing living on the street. I am seriously not kidding about this.
If you want to just donate, which I would deeply appreciate, my Paypal is solomonphoenix[at]yahoo.com
Again, I'm really sorry about this.
December 3, 2010
December 2, 2010
Free Fiction Friday: The King's Confidante - Part 29
x-posted to
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Welcome back to Free Fiction Friday!
This week's chapter is average length, coming in at 3300 words, and I've completed the first draft of Spence's story, the rest of the chapters will be posted as I empty out the buffer. :)
The archive for the
freeficfriday
community is up to date, so if you've been looking for where you can read all of the FFF material from all of the participating authors in one place, you're set. :)
Everything's tagged according to author, title, and genre for easier reading, but if you prefer to stick with Spence on my blog, just click the "free fiction fridays" tag if you need to catch up.
This week's posting roster consists of: Vaughn R. Demont![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380442897i/1319734.gif)
vaughn_r_demont
, I.D. Locke
id_locke
, Cassandra Gold
cassandra_gold
and Michael Mandrake
desiresdd
Interested in joining the Free Fictioneers? We have weekly and bi-weekly slots open for interested authors. For more information, please send any inquiries to the moderators
vaughn_r_demont
and/or
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Anyway, without further ado, please enjoy this week's chapter of "The King's Confidante". :)
For all the times I know it would suck for life to be more cinematic, there would be a few distinct advantages. In particular, the montage.
Considering the current situation, it would fit perfectly, because prep for a big con is, well, actually kind of boring. My part would be pretty uninteresting, at least, considering that despite having drunk an espresso I pass out shortly after getting back into Rourke's Range Rover. I have been running almost non-stop for the last few days you know, and who would honestly want to watch me snoozing for six hours?
Well, I'm sure there are people, but they're probably pretty creepy.
On TV, or in the movies, you'd just cut away from me and show my cohorts doing their heavily edited preparations, either in jump cuts showing different parts of the day, possibly with some voiceover either from me explaining the intricacies of a big con, while it switches between the two of them. Rourke would probably go into expounding on his praising of humans for their obsession with technology while he buys a Bluetooth headset and a throwaway cell phone. Shiko would more than likely discuss knowing your target, doing perfect recon, and doing setup on however Foxes manage to do magic.
During all of this, they would be espousing their own personal philosophies on trickery, certain shots only serving to punctuate their points which at first glance run counter to each other, but deeper analysis would show the similarities. Also in this would have to be occasional shots of me snoring, possibly drooling onto a pillow while some cool "sneaky" music would be playing in the background that would get stuck in your head in order keep the mood light, because we're the good guys after all.
God, I really, really hope we are. If it turns out I'm personally preventing the Second Coming or something I'm really going to have to reconsider leaving town. Anyway, the montage would be better.
Instead, as I said, I pass out in Rourke's car, only having a vague idea of what everyone's supposed to be doing, and when I wake up, I'm on the couch in Rourke's apartment, and my mother is sitting across from me on the coffee table. She's still wearing the same clothes, only more disheveled. Her eyes have dark circles underneath, but are stern, her face is a bit gaunt, but her jaw is set, and I can see the anger there.
We stay like that for a minute. I don't know if she's trying to come up with the right words, or if she's had them for a while and is just working up the will to say them, or if she's just waiting for me to say the wrong thing, or anything at all.
"I'm sorry." It seems like a good place to start.
"I…" She closes her eyes, and I can see she's using anger to hold back tears. "I don't know what to do with you, Spencer."
I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that this conversation could possibly end very badly.
"Mom, please, I know I screwed up, I'm sorry—"
She holds her hand up. "Spencer, you're eighteen. I'd be stupid to think you weren't already sleeping around, considering who your father was." Ouch. "I could even be angry that it was Robert, though I had a few words for him too. I just don't know what's going on with you anymore."
Usually when Mom's mad, she yells, most parents are like that. She's quiet now, her voice subdued. Defeated.
"Spencer, I've tried. I know it's been hard, with Justin leaving, and with you finding your brother, and everything happening between you and Robert, but… This has been building for a while now. Too many calls from the police, from the school, from…" She swallows hard. "But here you are. You risked your life to save me from Justin, done things to keep me safe."
Mom reaches forward and takes my hand. "I can't do this anymore, Spence. I can't keep you safe, and I'm becoming a burden to you, and you're old enough now to…"
Oh shit. Oh shit. "Mom, what are you saying?"
She starts crying now, leaning forward, her head resting on my shoulder. "I need help. I… I see things now, terrible things, all the time. Robert and Justin and, oh God, Spence, even you, it's all wrong and not real but it doesn't go away no matter how much I close my eyes and open them or sleep it just doesn't go away and…" Mom's breaking down. Breaking. I hold her close to me, wanting to believe she'll just get it out of her system, and maybe laugh, but that's not going to happen.
When she pulls back from me, she's going to see my grandfather's eyes. When she looks at Dad, she'll see a Coyote. That's never going to change for her, this is a dream that she's not going to wake up from, and it's something she can't learn to accept.
"Maybe you should get away for a little, go see Grandma for a bit." Normally this would be a bad idea, considering Mom and Grandma haven't seen each other in fifteen years, or spoken in three. She never really forgave Mom for messing things up with Rourke, for Dad walking out on her instead of Mom kicking him out, for me turning into a "hoodlum" and Mom doing nothing to stop it. Hell, I only met her once and all I remember is a gray-haired disciplinarian in a housecoat who forced me to eat Brussels sprouts by the truckload. Still though, I think she'd be a better alternative.
Because if I tell her that she's not crazy, that all of this is really real, then I think she'll go deep inside herself and never come out.
"C'mon, Mom, we'll go back home, give Grandma a call, pack you a few things. She's over in Allora now, right? Won't take more than half an hour." After helping myself to a couple Jacksons from Rourke's sock drawer, I help her to her feet, and it's like she's sleepwalking again, but occasional sobs let me know she's still with me. "It'll be okay. You'll be safe there, just open with telling her she was right, that should buy you at least a couple hours of peace, right?"
We make our way out into the hall, and then toward the elevator. I can give Rourke a call after I get home and let him know what's going on, as well that I owe him forty bucks. There's still plenty of time before sundown, and we're just a cab ride from knowing Mom will be taken care of without my supervision, maybe for longer than a day. And, I do feel a little relieved.
And yes, I feel like a complete shit for that, but I can beat myself up about it later.
We get outside without incident, and I whistle for a cab, and considering we're in a decent neighborhood, one quickly pulls up to the curb, though it appears to be occupied. When I lean toward the window, I see three women, one driving the cab, the other two in the back. The driver is in her forties, her face evenly tanned, her hair red, but graying, with full lips and cheeks marked with rouge, and she's dressed simply, in jeans and a blouse with a faded leather vest. The two passengers are a younger and older, respectively. The girl, sitting in the middle, is in her late teens, early twenties, long raven hair, almond eyes with a mirthful light in them. She reminds me of Selah, but there's no wickedness underlying here, when she smiles at me, it's like one from an old friend.
The older woman looks like money, but not like a mark. She's wearing a pantsuit, expensive, black, her hair white and tied back into a severe bun, eyes having crow's feet, but are black, like a shark's. She does not, in fact, smile mirthfully at me.
The young girl looks at my mother and I, her voice nearly melodic. "Please, get in."
The older woman nods curtly. "We won't mind sharing for a little while."
The driver glances at me. "You'll have to sit up front, though, boy."
"Spencer?" Mom understandably sounds a bit worried, her hand squeezing my arm.
I look between the three of them, and feel an unbelievable weight pressing down on my words. I don't think I really have a choice in this, and I have no idea why. I'm not scared, I don't think we're in any danger, but…
"It's fine, Mom." I smile to her, and she's frazzled enough to miss that it's fake, a reassuring grin I'd practiced. For marks. "We'll be okay." I look to the passengers. "We're headed to B'ville, I hope that's on—"
"We know where you're going." The driver says it simply, matter-of-fact, no malice, but it's chilling nonetheless.
I help Mom into the back seat, close the door, and then get in the front. The young girl gently pats my mother's knee, her face warm, sincere. The taxi pulls away from the curb, and the older woman looks out the window, letting the passing crowd take up her attention.
The ride is relatively uneventful, albeit a bit quiet. Mom sits stock still, and I'm afraid if anything sudden happens she'll break down again.
"So, uh…" I glance in the back seat. "Where are you ladies heading?" I shrug to the driver. "Isn't that how this works when you're in the front of one of these?" The young girl smiles to me, amused, and I return it. "Got a smile at least."
"Spencer." Mom looks at me, worry in her eyes, and a little shock. "Please."
"C'mon, Mom, she's a pretty lady, it'd probably be rude to not at least hit on her a little."
That earns a laugh from the girl, and it's genuine, and beautiful, melodic. I give her a once over again, making sure she can see. Definitely doable. And dateable. And hey, she's already met my Mom.
Shit, everything that's going on and I'm still trying to score a girl's digits. I really am a Coyote, aren't I?
"Sorry." I return my attention to Mom, and try to reassure her, but she just looks at my eyes. Not good, so I sit back in the seat normally, and cast my gaze outside, where Mom might not accidently catch it in the rearview.
The silence returns, and the trip goes quickly, as we catch every light, every opening in traffic, even score Doris Day parking in front of our building. Still, it begs the question. "How'd you know where we were going?"
The driver looks to my mother. "This is your stop, miss." And then looks at me. "You should say goodbye."
Oh shit. Not good.
Mom gets out of the car, sleepwalking, and she starts toward the front door of the building.
"What'd you do to her? What's happening?" I'd grab the driver and shake her shoulders but I'm getting the feeling if I did I'd end up someone's exempli gratia when defining a Bad Idea.
"She's simply doing what she's meant to be doing, Spencer Crain, just as you are. I can assure you that barring the meddling of a sorcerer, your mother will come to no harm, but you will leave her here, and come with us." The driver runs a finger along my face. "I see two paths that lead from here, Spencer, you will want to take the one where you said goodbye."
I swallow hard. "Am… am I going to die—"
"Yes." The older woman flashes a dark grin and looks back out the window. I place my hand on the door handle. "And you can't outrun me, boy." She brings her hand up, and I see an old pair of scissors in her grasp, the edges bright and sharp. "Now do as you've been told."
My throat feels hot as I nod once, and get out of the cab. Mom is going through her keys, and I touch her shoulder to get her attention.
"You should head up without me, I need to pay the fare." I take a breath. "Uh, you should call Grandma too, soon as you get in, pack, maybe she can come pick you up." Is this really the last time she'll ever see me? Fuck, I don't want to die. But… If I am? Maybe it can work the other way too. I'd heard Rourke say a few blessings, and maybe if I'm a Bard, it'll stick, even after I'm… I feel all of the sounds in my head rearranging, the words flowing out, my tongue unable to stop them as they emerge in Lorus. "May love and laughter light your days, and warm your heart and home. May good and faithful friends be yours, wherever you may roam. May peace and plenty bless your world with joy that long endures. May all life's passing seasons bring the best to you and yours." I sniff back tears for a second longer, and hold her tightly to me. "I love you, Mom."
When I pull back from her, her eyes are slightly glassy, locked on mine, and she starts to tremble. She's about to break down again, realize that she's surrounded by things that shouldn't exist, that her son is one of those things. I steel myself a moment longer, and kiss her forehead. "Goodbye."
I wait by the cab until Mom gets into the building, and then I get back in the taxi, and finally break down myself. To their credit, the three women in the car don't make comment as the car pulls back into traffic.
"Do I at least get to know why?" I wipe my eyes with my hand, which only serves to make my face wetter. "I mean, I know it's because of Selah." I shrug once. "Hell, if I'm going to die I shouldn't worry about saying her name out loud, right?"
The young woman smiles again, and laughs lightly, shaking her head. The older woman looks unmoved. The driver glances toward me, and then hands me a Kleenex from her vest pocket.
"Thank you." I dab my eyes dry. I then look at the younger woman. "What's funny? Is it going to be ironic? Am I going to fall off a cliff? Have a big rock fall on me with only a tiny umbrella to shield me? Perhaps O.D. on earthquake pills?"
This only gets her to laugh louder, but it's not sinister.
I glance over at the older woman, and then back to her. "Listen, since I'm going to die anyway, you think I got a shot with you?" I try my easy smile. "I mean, I know I'm nowhere near being in your league—"
She smirks genially. "You have no idea."
Okay, that hurt a little.
"I have to admit, I saw this ending differently. I mean, I'm supposed to be the Hero. Heroes die, yeah, but not if they're occasionally funny. Should've angled for a sidekick gig, you know? Then I'd just have to worry about being kidnapped and unresolved sexual tension." I look between the three of them. "Would one of you please say something? The suspense is driving me nuts here."
The driver is the one to speak up. "I'm the only one you need to talk to, Spencer. My daughter has finished with you for now, and my mother isn't quite ready for you yet."
"So who are you?" I settle back into the front seat and keep my eyes on the driver. "I mean, you're obviously not human, right?"
"No. We're not."
"Did I do something wrong?"
Her smile is gentle, reminds me of Mom's, actually. "Why didn't you try to leave when you were told you were going to die?"
"What, you've never read that story? The guy runs away and ends up getting killed a bit more brutally. If I'm supposed to die there's really not much I can do about it, especially if Coyotes are tied to Fate." I swallow, glancing at the older woman. "I mean, I'm not really all that excited about the idea, I'd certainly like to go out older, and in love with somebody, and maybe a kid or something so someone will remember me." I look out the window, and sniffle again. "I'm supposed to be in school not doing a paper on a rice factory."
"You're doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing." The taxi pulls over, and I feel the driver's hand on my shoulder. "Everything I planned for you, you've done it. You're following your thread, and in turn making my tapestry beautiful. So many seek the fray the edges, tear, some even pull their threads completely free, not knowing how interwoven they are."
"Who are you, really?" When I turn back to look at her, the driver is gone, replaced by the young woman. The back seat is empty.
"I am the one who spun you." She then shimmers before my eyes, the driver replacing her in a second. "And I am the one who weaves you." She shimmers again, and the older woman is in her place, holding the shears still. "And when the time comes, I am the one who cuts you free." Her smile is wicked, but I don't sense any malice, just that she probably rather likes the job. "One is to be cut this night, and should all go to plan, it will not be you." The blades of the scissors are then held right in front of my eyes. "But do not tempt me, half-blood. I have seen where your thread leads, and I still feel all would work out finer if I were to slit it before the dawn. I'll not have another usurper to the throne to keep my eye on."
I back away from the scissors, pressing against the door, and she grins wider, enjoying my fear, but the driver returns, and her hand draws away from my face, the shears vanished.
"You're Fate, aren't you? I mean, I didn't think you were a real person, er, uh, people."
"We are not, as you put it, people." The young woman returns. "We are gods."
"No wonder I'm so far out of your league."
And she laughs again, and then leans forward, her lips pressing gently to mine. I don't really try to kiss her back, I don't know if that would be grounds for killing me, so I just relax, and enjoy it. If only lasts a few seconds, but I taste honey, smell fresh flowers, dew, and the touch of her lips to mine, even though I've made out with plenty of people, it felt like the first time I'd ever really kissed anyone. "Your father and his mistress sought to command me, Spencer, to spin your thread to their liking, with no regard for my mother's tapestry. In return for their arrogance, for their insult to my station, I gave you everything you would need to face them, and claim victory. You need only to trust in that."
I swallow hard, and weakly nod.
The young woman, Clotho, youngest of the Fates, motions beyond me, where I can see we're parked back in front of Rourke's building, and I can see both Shiko and Rourke approaching the entrance from opposite directions. "Your companions have returned. The time is drawing near. Go, Spencer Joseph Crain. I have waited eighteen years for this night, for my honor to be avenged." Her eyes darken with a long-simmering rage. "Reap what they have sown."
To be continued next Friday!
And that's it. I'm going to bed. :)
freeficfriday
Welcome back to Free Fiction Friday!
This week's chapter is average length, coming in at 3300 words, and I've completed the first draft of Spence's story, the rest of the chapters will be posted as I empty out the buffer. :)
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This week's posting roster consists of: Vaughn R. Demont
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, I.D. Locke
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, Cassandra Gold
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and Michael Mandrake
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Interested in joining the Free Fictioneers? We have weekly and bi-weekly slots open for interested authors. For more information, please send any inquiries to the moderators
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Anyway, without further ado, please enjoy this week's chapter of "The King's Confidante". :)
For all the times I know it would suck for life to be more cinematic, there would be a few distinct advantages. In particular, the montage.
Considering the current situation, it would fit perfectly, because prep for a big con is, well, actually kind of boring. My part would be pretty uninteresting, at least, considering that despite having drunk an espresso I pass out shortly after getting back into Rourke's Range Rover. I have been running almost non-stop for the last few days you know, and who would honestly want to watch me snoozing for six hours?
Well, I'm sure there are people, but they're probably pretty creepy.
On TV, or in the movies, you'd just cut away from me and show my cohorts doing their heavily edited preparations, either in jump cuts showing different parts of the day, possibly with some voiceover either from me explaining the intricacies of a big con, while it switches between the two of them. Rourke would probably go into expounding on his praising of humans for their obsession with technology while he buys a Bluetooth headset and a throwaway cell phone. Shiko would more than likely discuss knowing your target, doing perfect recon, and doing setup on however Foxes manage to do magic.
During all of this, they would be espousing their own personal philosophies on trickery, certain shots only serving to punctuate their points which at first glance run counter to each other, but deeper analysis would show the similarities. Also in this would have to be occasional shots of me snoring, possibly drooling onto a pillow while some cool "sneaky" music would be playing in the background that would get stuck in your head in order keep the mood light, because we're the good guys after all.
God, I really, really hope we are. If it turns out I'm personally preventing the Second Coming or something I'm really going to have to reconsider leaving town. Anyway, the montage would be better.
Instead, as I said, I pass out in Rourke's car, only having a vague idea of what everyone's supposed to be doing, and when I wake up, I'm on the couch in Rourke's apartment, and my mother is sitting across from me on the coffee table. She's still wearing the same clothes, only more disheveled. Her eyes have dark circles underneath, but are stern, her face is a bit gaunt, but her jaw is set, and I can see the anger there.
We stay like that for a minute. I don't know if she's trying to come up with the right words, or if she's had them for a while and is just working up the will to say them, or if she's just waiting for me to say the wrong thing, or anything at all.
"I'm sorry." It seems like a good place to start.
"I…" She closes her eyes, and I can see she's using anger to hold back tears. "I don't know what to do with you, Spencer."
I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that this conversation could possibly end very badly.
"Mom, please, I know I screwed up, I'm sorry—"
She holds her hand up. "Spencer, you're eighteen. I'd be stupid to think you weren't already sleeping around, considering who your father was." Ouch. "I could even be angry that it was Robert, though I had a few words for him too. I just don't know what's going on with you anymore."
Usually when Mom's mad, she yells, most parents are like that. She's quiet now, her voice subdued. Defeated.
"Spencer, I've tried. I know it's been hard, with Justin leaving, and with you finding your brother, and everything happening between you and Robert, but… This has been building for a while now. Too many calls from the police, from the school, from…" She swallows hard. "But here you are. You risked your life to save me from Justin, done things to keep me safe."
Mom reaches forward and takes my hand. "I can't do this anymore, Spence. I can't keep you safe, and I'm becoming a burden to you, and you're old enough now to…"
Oh shit. Oh shit. "Mom, what are you saying?"
She starts crying now, leaning forward, her head resting on my shoulder. "I need help. I… I see things now, terrible things, all the time. Robert and Justin and, oh God, Spence, even you, it's all wrong and not real but it doesn't go away no matter how much I close my eyes and open them or sleep it just doesn't go away and…" Mom's breaking down. Breaking. I hold her close to me, wanting to believe she'll just get it out of her system, and maybe laugh, but that's not going to happen.
When she pulls back from me, she's going to see my grandfather's eyes. When she looks at Dad, she'll see a Coyote. That's never going to change for her, this is a dream that she's not going to wake up from, and it's something she can't learn to accept.
"Maybe you should get away for a little, go see Grandma for a bit." Normally this would be a bad idea, considering Mom and Grandma haven't seen each other in fifteen years, or spoken in three. She never really forgave Mom for messing things up with Rourke, for Dad walking out on her instead of Mom kicking him out, for me turning into a "hoodlum" and Mom doing nothing to stop it. Hell, I only met her once and all I remember is a gray-haired disciplinarian in a housecoat who forced me to eat Brussels sprouts by the truckload. Still though, I think she'd be a better alternative.
Because if I tell her that she's not crazy, that all of this is really real, then I think she'll go deep inside herself and never come out.
"C'mon, Mom, we'll go back home, give Grandma a call, pack you a few things. She's over in Allora now, right? Won't take more than half an hour." After helping myself to a couple Jacksons from Rourke's sock drawer, I help her to her feet, and it's like she's sleepwalking again, but occasional sobs let me know she's still with me. "It'll be okay. You'll be safe there, just open with telling her she was right, that should buy you at least a couple hours of peace, right?"
We make our way out into the hall, and then toward the elevator. I can give Rourke a call after I get home and let him know what's going on, as well that I owe him forty bucks. There's still plenty of time before sundown, and we're just a cab ride from knowing Mom will be taken care of without my supervision, maybe for longer than a day. And, I do feel a little relieved.
And yes, I feel like a complete shit for that, but I can beat myself up about it later.
We get outside without incident, and I whistle for a cab, and considering we're in a decent neighborhood, one quickly pulls up to the curb, though it appears to be occupied. When I lean toward the window, I see three women, one driving the cab, the other two in the back. The driver is in her forties, her face evenly tanned, her hair red, but graying, with full lips and cheeks marked with rouge, and she's dressed simply, in jeans and a blouse with a faded leather vest. The two passengers are a younger and older, respectively. The girl, sitting in the middle, is in her late teens, early twenties, long raven hair, almond eyes with a mirthful light in them. She reminds me of Selah, but there's no wickedness underlying here, when she smiles at me, it's like one from an old friend.
The older woman looks like money, but not like a mark. She's wearing a pantsuit, expensive, black, her hair white and tied back into a severe bun, eyes having crow's feet, but are black, like a shark's. She does not, in fact, smile mirthfully at me.
The young girl looks at my mother and I, her voice nearly melodic. "Please, get in."
The older woman nods curtly. "We won't mind sharing for a little while."
The driver glances at me. "You'll have to sit up front, though, boy."
"Spencer?" Mom understandably sounds a bit worried, her hand squeezing my arm.
I look between the three of them, and feel an unbelievable weight pressing down on my words. I don't think I really have a choice in this, and I have no idea why. I'm not scared, I don't think we're in any danger, but…
"It's fine, Mom." I smile to her, and she's frazzled enough to miss that it's fake, a reassuring grin I'd practiced. For marks. "We'll be okay." I look to the passengers. "We're headed to B'ville, I hope that's on—"
"We know where you're going." The driver says it simply, matter-of-fact, no malice, but it's chilling nonetheless.
I help Mom into the back seat, close the door, and then get in the front. The young girl gently pats my mother's knee, her face warm, sincere. The taxi pulls away from the curb, and the older woman looks out the window, letting the passing crowd take up her attention.
The ride is relatively uneventful, albeit a bit quiet. Mom sits stock still, and I'm afraid if anything sudden happens she'll break down again.
"So, uh…" I glance in the back seat. "Where are you ladies heading?" I shrug to the driver. "Isn't that how this works when you're in the front of one of these?" The young girl smiles to me, amused, and I return it. "Got a smile at least."
"Spencer." Mom looks at me, worry in her eyes, and a little shock. "Please."
"C'mon, Mom, she's a pretty lady, it'd probably be rude to not at least hit on her a little."
That earns a laugh from the girl, and it's genuine, and beautiful, melodic. I give her a once over again, making sure she can see. Definitely doable. And dateable. And hey, she's already met my Mom.
Shit, everything that's going on and I'm still trying to score a girl's digits. I really am a Coyote, aren't I?
"Sorry." I return my attention to Mom, and try to reassure her, but she just looks at my eyes. Not good, so I sit back in the seat normally, and cast my gaze outside, where Mom might not accidently catch it in the rearview.
The silence returns, and the trip goes quickly, as we catch every light, every opening in traffic, even score Doris Day parking in front of our building. Still, it begs the question. "How'd you know where we were going?"
The driver looks to my mother. "This is your stop, miss." And then looks at me. "You should say goodbye."
Oh shit. Not good.
Mom gets out of the car, sleepwalking, and she starts toward the front door of the building.
"What'd you do to her? What's happening?" I'd grab the driver and shake her shoulders but I'm getting the feeling if I did I'd end up someone's exempli gratia when defining a Bad Idea.
"She's simply doing what she's meant to be doing, Spencer Crain, just as you are. I can assure you that barring the meddling of a sorcerer, your mother will come to no harm, but you will leave her here, and come with us." The driver runs a finger along my face. "I see two paths that lead from here, Spencer, you will want to take the one where you said goodbye."
I swallow hard. "Am… am I going to die—"
"Yes." The older woman flashes a dark grin and looks back out the window. I place my hand on the door handle. "And you can't outrun me, boy." She brings her hand up, and I see an old pair of scissors in her grasp, the edges bright and sharp. "Now do as you've been told."
My throat feels hot as I nod once, and get out of the cab. Mom is going through her keys, and I touch her shoulder to get her attention.
"You should head up without me, I need to pay the fare." I take a breath. "Uh, you should call Grandma too, soon as you get in, pack, maybe she can come pick you up." Is this really the last time she'll ever see me? Fuck, I don't want to die. But… If I am? Maybe it can work the other way too. I'd heard Rourke say a few blessings, and maybe if I'm a Bard, it'll stick, even after I'm… I feel all of the sounds in my head rearranging, the words flowing out, my tongue unable to stop them as they emerge in Lorus. "May love and laughter light your days, and warm your heart and home. May good and faithful friends be yours, wherever you may roam. May peace and plenty bless your world with joy that long endures. May all life's passing seasons bring the best to you and yours." I sniff back tears for a second longer, and hold her tightly to me. "I love you, Mom."
When I pull back from her, her eyes are slightly glassy, locked on mine, and she starts to tremble. She's about to break down again, realize that she's surrounded by things that shouldn't exist, that her son is one of those things. I steel myself a moment longer, and kiss her forehead. "Goodbye."
I wait by the cab until Mom gets into the building, and then I get back in the taxi, and finally break down myself. To their credit, the three women in the car don't make comment as the car pulls back into traffic.
"Do I at least get to know why?" I wipe my eyes with my hand, which only serves to make my face wetter. "I mean, I know it's because of Selah." I shrug once. "Hell, if I'm going to die I shouldn't worry about saying her name out loud, right?"
The young woman smiles again, and laughs lightly, shaking her head. The older woman looks unmoved. The driver glances toward me, and then hands me a Kleenex from her vest pocket.
"Thank you." I dab my eyes dry. I then look at the younger woman. "What's funny? Is it going to be ironic? Am I going to fall off a cliff? Have a big rock fall on me with only a tiny umbrella to shield me? Perhaps O.D. on earthquake pills?"
This only gets her to laugh louder, but it's not sinister.
I glance over at the older woman, and then back to her. "Listen, since I'm going to die anyway, you think I got a shot with you?" I try my easy smile. "I mean, I know I'm nowhere near being in your league—"
She smirks genially. "You have no idea."
Okay, that hurt a little.
"I have to admit, I saw this ending differently. I mean, I'm supposed to be the Hero. Heroes die, yeah, but not if they're occasionally funny. Should've angled for a sidekick gig, you know? Then I'd just have to worry about being kidnapped and unresolved sexual tension." I look between the three of them. "Would one of you please say something? The suspense is driving me nuts here."
The driver is the one to speak up. "I'm the only one you need to talk to, Spencer. My daughter has finished with you for now, and my mother isn't quite ready for you yet."
"So who are you?" I settle back into the front seat and keep my eyes on the driver. "I mean, you're obviously not human, right?"
"No. We're not."
"Did I do something wrong?"
Her smile is gentle, reminds me of Mom's, actually. "Why didn't you try to leave when you were told you were going to die?"
"What, you've never read that story? The guy runs away and ends up getting killed a bit more brutally. If I'm supposed to die there's really not much I can do about it, especially if Coyotes are tied to Fate." I swallow, glancing at the older woman. "I mean, I'm not really all that excited about the idea, I'd certainly like to go out older, and in love with somebody, and maybe a kid or something so someone will remember me." I look out the window, and sniffle again. "I'm supposed to be in school not doing a paper on a rice factory."
"You're doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing." The taxi pulls over, and I feel the driver's hand on my shoulder. "Everything I planned for you, you've done it. You're following your thread, and in turn making my tapestry beautiful. So many seek the fray the edges, tear, some even pull their threads completely free, not knowing how interwoven they are."
"Who are you, really?" When I turn back to look at her, the driver is gone, replaced by the young woman. The back seat is empty.
"I am the one who spun you." She then shimmers before my eyes, the driver replacing her in a second. "And I am the one who weaves you." She shimmers again, and the older woman is in her place, holding the shears still. "And when the time comes, I am the one who cuts you free." Her smile is wicked, but I don't sense any malice, just that she probably rather likes the job. "One is to be cut this night, and should all go to plan, it will not be you." The blades of the scissors are then held right in front of my eyes. "But do not tempt me, half-blood. I have seen where your thread leads, and I still feel all would work out finer if I were to slit it before the dawn. I'll not have another usurper to the throne to keep my eye on."
I back away from the scissors, pressing against the door, and she grins wider, enjoying my fear, but the driver returns, and her hand draws away from my face, the shears vanished.
"You're Fate, aren't you? I mean, I didn't think you were a real person, er, uh, people."
"We are not, as you put it, people." The young woman returns. "We are gods."
"No wonder I'm so far out of your league."
And she laughs again, and then leans forward, her lips pressing gently to mine. I don't really try to kiss her back, I don't know if that would be grounds for killing me, so I just relax, and enjoy it. If only lasts a few seconds, but I taste honey, smell fresh flowers, dew, and the touch of her lips to mine, even though I've made out with plenty of people, it felt like the first time I'd ever really kissed anyone. "Your father and his mistress sought to command me, Spencer, to spin your thread to their liking, with no regard for my mother's tapestry. In return for their arrogance, for their insult to my station, I gave you everything you would need to face them, and claim victory. You need only to trust in that."
I swallow hard, and weakly nod.
The young woman, Clotho, youngest of the Fates, motions beyond me, where I can see we're parked back in front of Rourke's building, and I can see both Shiko and Rourke approaching the entrance from opposite directions. "Your companions have returned. The time is drawing near. Go, Spencer Joseph Crain. I have waited eighteen years for this night, for my honor to be avenged." Her eyes darken with a long-simmering rage. "Reap what they have sown."
To be continued next Friday!
And that's it. I'm going to bed. :)
November 30, 2010
From Twitter 11-30-2010
05:12:19: One hundred thousand words. I am going to bed now. #kingsconfidante
20:06:18: Just... Brilliant. "So You Want to Write a Novel" http://t.co/qAAgrDU via @youtube
20:38:38: @darkonfire Indeed. There are sooooooo many people who need to see that, many of whom I'm related to.
20:45:19: @darkonfire Seriously. It's like grad school all over again. :)
21:22:22: Ok, let's see how much closer I can get to the end. #kingsconfidante
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November 29, 2010
From Twitter 11-29-2010
15:38:24: The words will not come. They're not even breathing hard. The words have a headache and an early morning meeting. *sighs* #kingsconfidante
19:50:35: @reech_me All words that the protagonist would gleefully lay down in Scrabble, though his favorite is Quixotry.
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