A New, Nameless Piece

This piece is kind of unfinished, but as of right now I have no idea how long it will be so I thought it might be fun to post.

_ _ _ _ _

The pristine green uniform and cold lifeless eyes of the man before me are so terrifying I swear that every time he looks at me my blood curdles more. Not one single pleat or fold of him is out of place. The other girls around me tremble under his gaze. I meet it head on with a mocking challenge in my eyes. You don’t scare me.

I wish I could tell him so aloud. Make him realize that he will never break me so it would be pointless to try. I want to tell him that he doesn’t own me. That he never will.

His eyes fall on me, I stare harder. Some people say I have a piercing gaze. A few tell me that I make people uncomfortable because they can’t hide from me. Maybe he’ll be uncomfortable under my stare too. I hope so. He deserves it.

The flicker of recognition crosses his eyes. I am defying him. He knows it, he will not let my act go unpunished. But now is not the time. He has orders to follow and a schedule to keep. I’m just an annoying fly that can be killed off in his spare time. I suspect that he is the type who captures a fly and rips its wings off just for fun.

He snaps his fingers, orders his men to take us onward. They herd us into a room and we all undress. Others around me cover their bare breast in a silly attempt to hide behind modesty. Do they really think these soldiers deem us worthy of covetous stares? They thing we aren’t worth the ground they tread on. We are here to rot in living hell.

They make us file through a cold looking metal door. Overhead I can see sprinklers of some sort. We are about to have a luxury. Cold water pours over us and we rush to let it soak us. There is no telling when we can shower again.

The water turns off much too soon, leaving only a hollow drip to fall on the floor. Girls rush off to find their clothes and pick up any extras they can find.

My things are stashed away in the corner so I can ignore them. I don’t bother running since I’m not going to end up with anything extra. I’m glad now, that Mrs. Forestier made me wear all my warmest clothes. I’ve lost some, but with my regular shirt underneath Pierce’s winter shirt and both my pairs of leggins, there’s no danger I’ll freeze.

Dressed, I find my boots–Pierce’s from when he was younger, but much thicker than anyone else’s–and pull them on. Really they’re a little big for me, but I stuffed them with cloth so they fit alright.

The girls who have finished dressing are lining up for registration. The man askes name, age and type of offense then hands each girl a paper. A guard pats us down and one by one we go into our new life through another metal door. This one is a lot more frightening. It seems to whisper to me, You will never come out.

When I step through into the dim room I have to blink to see where I am. Before I can really get an idea what the place is like, a soldier grabs my arm. I think about protesting but they’re all protesting. I won’t be lowered to that level. So I allow him to take me aside and tattoo the numbers on my arm. The numbers on my forgotten paper. The numbers that mean I’ve rebelled against the empire.

Every single spot the needle pricks stings as it embeds in my arm. By the time he finishes my arm is blotched red. I glare at him. How dare he make me only a number to them? How dare he add me to their list of prisoners, waiting to die and with no name?

I am not who he says. My name is not just a number. I will never be 114283.

The musicians room

Do you remember the writers room way back when? Well here is the long awaited (Not really) sequel to one of my favorite scribbles. hope you enjoy.

The Musicians Room

The most notable aspect of the room was the clutter. Although most would call it cluttered, the owner would say it just random objects in useful locations.

For example, the clothes belong on the floor because the hamper is under the keyboard, and too full for anything more. The harmonica simply has to go on top of the dresser because if it didn’t, where would the other 11 harmonicas go? Music books obviously belong under the speakers in the corner, so that they will hold the speakers up to be heard better. Everybody knows that microphones need to be kept on the ever growing pile of paper that is always on hand, just in case the new tune pops in to head. And where else could a guitar go but leaning on the wall right next to the bed? Violins, obviously  belong by the wall next to the window because—because… Because that is the only open area space.

Most of the floor is covered in picks, capos, sheet music and cds, because if they weren’t how would he ever be able to find them? But that’s not the only thing that makes this room say, a musician lives here. Everything from the overbooked calendar on the wall right next to the Mumford and Sons poster,  to the recording software and ipods, make the owners profession clear.

But even though there are Cds in every location where there isn’t a living necessity or instrument, which some would say are a living necessity, this room is still useful. No, It can still make beautiful renditions of Moonlight sonata, all 15 minutes of it. Even though there is no room for walking, it can still have Spanish guitar ringing out the window. Who says, that even though the laundry hasn’t been done for much longer that you want to know about, that it can’t sound like bill Clinton whipped out his ol’ sax?

Actually lots of people say that. But that doesn’t make it true. Because who care what the world says? Not him, because this is the musicians room.

Inspiration Monday XXII

Wow, it’s been awhile. Between crazy vacations, youth camps, VBS and all that fun stuff in my summer, I’ve managed to add a ton to my book even past some pretty strange writing problems. Unfortunately all of this adds up to very few scribbles and even fewer prompt scribbles, which makes me very sad. But I’m back, at least for this time, so here’s my inspiration monday! Read up!

* * * * *

“Don’t let them find me.” Her torn dress barely covers her skinny, abused body; but I am more surprised by the line of numbers on her forearm. The ones that say she’s not just another desperate girl off the street, she’s a slave, probably a runaway. Her eyes are dark like the night sky, deep blue and speaking volumes beyond just what she says.

I stare down at those pleading eyes, wondering if I could really help their owner. Would I regret it if I didn’t? God, what if I didn’t want to help the stupid girl? Did anyone ever consider that I didn’t feel like helping her? Of course not. No one ever thinks what I might want. “Why?”

That question catches her off guard. She hasn’t considered that I might now want to be of service. Just like no one else has ever considered that I don’t want to live on their terms. I don’t want to be polite. I don’t want to not be selfish. I want to live my freaking life already!

The eyes find mine and meet my gaze steadily, clear and blue, deep like the sea. “Please, just this once?”

“No.” I keep walking down the alley.

I can practically feel the fleas when she grabs me again. I shake her off my jacket, and keep walking forward. Her begging voice, ragged and broken, slows me for a second, “Please I beg of you just help me for a second. Don’t let them find me again.”

Frustrated, I turn and snap at her. “Why would I break the law for you?! A runaway slave who has nothing to offer me at all, what purpose is there for me to risk imprisonment?”

“There is none, my lord.” She admits, casting her eyes to the ground timidly.

“Good, now we’re clear. Deal with your own problem, I have enough of my own.”

She slips off down the next alley and I continue my way, until another stops me. This one a man in nice clothing, carrying a crop and a heavy purse of gold. He stops and surveys me, then asks in a hurry, “Have you seen a girl wander by? Brown, scraggly hair, blue eyes, pretty scrawny with a tattoo on her forearm?”

One look at his purse and I stop, holding his gaze steadily, “What are you willing to pay for information?”

He mutters a frustrated curse about killing the girl when he finds her, then pulls out his purse, “Ten gold.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

“She just walked by, headed that way.” I take the gold from him and watch as he stomps away to give her what she’s earned.

What do I care? I’m off to enjoy a drink now that I’ve got some coins to spare.

 

My Soldier

Another random scribble. Not really inspired by anything in particular, just kind of needed to write. =)

* * * * *

“Porter! Oh god, Porter you’re here!” Megan sprinted to him, shrieking ecstatic remarks to him. “You’re back, god I missed you!”

He smiled, a warm expression lighting up his chocolate eyes. “I missed you too Megs,” he pulled her into a strong hug, warm and deep, “a lot.”

She buried her face in his shirt, enjoying the scent of his cologne. When she looked up she realized they were the only couple standing around and a few people were staring at them. A light blush warmed her cheeks. “Those little kids over there are being scarred.” She teased under her breath.

Porter reached down and swung her up in his arms, “Let them be! This is you and me. I’m home now, for two weeks–two infinitely long but depressingly short weeks–and I won’t waste a single second of them because two little kids at the airport are scarred by me *hugging* my wife.”

A small, dimpled smile creased her face and she looked up at him adoringly. The title was so perfect, so utterly descriptive but brief all the same. She was only one thing, after all. His wife. The rest were only second hand titles.

Porter carried her out of the airport and Megan spent the whole time murmuring to him about everything he had missed in the last six months. Watching the people that stopped to smile at the soldier in uniform carrying his girl through the airport. Let them smile. She and Porter were a fairytale in of itself, and they were living their happily ever after.

Porter set her down when he got to the Mustang, opened the door for her, but didn’t let her get in. Instead he stood there with his hands on her waist, looking down the eight inches to her face. “God I missed you Megs. More than I ever thought possible.”

“I missed you too baby. But what happened to not wasting a single second?” her voice was no more than a gentle hum of contentment, floating up to him with a slight hint of teasing to match the twinkle in her bright blue eyes.

“I’m not wasting,” he murmured, “just savoring.”

She smiled as he reached down to kiss her, cupping her chin in his strong hand. She kissed him back, so happy she thought she may burst trying to contain all of the emotions coursing through her. So happy she might die when he had to leave again in two weeks, except the promise of real return in six months.

Porter pulled away and helped her into the car a minute later, walking around to the driver’s seat in a few steady strides. “Well Mrs. Williams, shall we go?”

Megan grinned, “Yes Mr. Williams, do let’s.”

He turned the key and the hum of he engine started immediately, off to enjoy their short escape from reality.

Finally! A New Piece!

Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted and in that time I’ve managed to have a ton of adventures and suffer horrible writers block. But now I’m finally over that and I’m back writing. This one is loosely based off of several prompts of mine and BeKindRewrite’s. =)

* * * * *

“Don’t leave me!” She gripped the hem of his shirt desperately, blind with pain. The moderator. Pain decided everything. Whether she was awake or lost in the voids of her mind. That she couldn’t see the beach, or go to the fair with Sam.

“Never.” His soft whisper brought her back to reality. Or was this the other world? The nightmare realm? Where up wasn’t always up and color swam through the skies. Where blood flowed through the rivers and giant snakes hung in even more gigantic trees, ready to drop on anyone and devour their prey. Where nothing was certain and everything reeked of pain, retching and death. She was always trapped there, with the people all dressed as jesters. But miserable ones. Ones that even with their happy faces; were only trying to attack her and any others they spotted. Nightmares caused by the drugs. So vivid. Terrifyingly real. Never ending. Inescapable.

“Am I going to die?” It was a silly question. Of course she was going to die. After seventeen years of pain, heartache, medicine, needles, doctors, loss; all of it would be gone soon. She hoped it didn’t end here. That it was just the end of this leg of the journey, and that there was something else, far better, waiting for her.

He wrestled with her question for a while, studying her. The yellowed skin, sunken cheeks and dull lifeless eyes. Why had she forced them to take her off the meds that kept all this pain away? He knew why, of course. He’d been there at least half the nights she’ woken up thrashing, shaking in fear of whatever demon had haunted her dreams that night. She’d chosen sanity, and she paid for it with pain.

She would die. Soon. He wanted to hide that from her. Telling her it would be all right in the end was so much easier. But she couldn’t take more lies. “Yes, you are.”

A gentle nod, quiet and reassured. He hadn’t lied. They had always lied before. Always thought she couldn’t handle the truth. Didn’t they see? The lies just made her more scared of death.

Death. It had always loomed over her. A block that stopped her from all the greatest parts of life. She would never marry. Never bring a child into the world. She could never grow old with someone.

“Dad?”

He looked up from a medical report. “Yeah sweetie?”

“I’m scared.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He set the report down and picked her up with gentle arms, cradling her frail figure.

His arms were reassuring where his words failed. Death was coming. Faster than it did to most, but really no different, right? But the idea of being gone forever, it scared her. She didn’t want to be put in a box, to get buried. Earth covering her ugly, disease ruined face. Worms slowly eating away her coffin, and later her dead body. She pulled a face. How gross. But that was all she was destined for. A box. Covered by the earth’s crusty skin.

Claire leaned her head on her father’s chest. Her hairless head. She wore a hat of course, a knit beret her mother had made for her from soft black yarn. Along with a silver locket from her dad, it was her most treasured possession. A tiny, inaudible sigh escaped her. It was time to be a big girl. Brave and ready to face what would come.

It was tonight. The very end had finally come. Just breathing for a little longer, and she’d never have to fight again. She’d be comfortably numb.

“Hey dad?”

He glanced down at her.

“I love you.”

 

Pianolover’s Inspiration Monday

The prompts were a strangers thankyou and I’m the only one who can’t. I underlined them.

A Strangers Thank You

The busy shouts of rush-hour echo in my ears. They all need to go somewhere. The man with the red shirt needs to go to the football stadium. The short old lady needs to go to target. I need to make it to the train station so that I can report the weather for channel 7 news.
It’s a good job. I love reporting weather. I do it all the time. My shoes click on the stairs in time with the rain drops leaking from the sky. A heavy rainstorm is on approach and will hit southern Springfield first, before heading west towards Jacksonville.
Hmm, I should buy an umbrella, I’m headed to Jacksonville.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my days history. A receipt, half chewed gum placed back into it’s wrapper, a ticket that says Troy Jameson, train number 623 and $10.26. Perfect, I think walking into the store. I can get a red umbrella. Like that one. I love the color red because it reminds me of the sun setting the evening air in fire, as it dips beneath the mountains.
“That ‘ll be $9.99” the cashiers southern accent reminds me of the new intern., Bethany. She tried to get MY weather segment. Stupid hick. Nobody gets MY weather segment.
As I step outside, I see a stranger walk in the same direction as me. His face is long and he has a blonde beard. I can’t see his hair, which is underneath a business hat. It perfectly matches his large trench coat. As he walks past me, I hear him say thank-you.
“for what?” I raise my eyebrows.
“for this!” he teases me, flaunting my ticket in front of my face.
“hey! Thief!” I yell, hoping someone will stop him, but, unfortunately, no one does.
-Sigh- It’s okay. I wanted to walk home anyway.

∞                            ∞                            ∞

“Hey chuck,” I sigh into the cell phone standing out-side of my house. “sorry I missed work today.”
“Who is this?” Chuck asked over the phone.
“It’s Troy. Didn’t you recognize my number?”
“Troy?! Thank God your okay!”
“Chuck, what do you mean?”
“Listen, don’t worry about your weather segment.”
I bury my head into my hands and sigh. “Please tell me you didn’t give it to Bethany?”
“You still don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?! What are you making such a deal of!”
“Go inside and watch channel seven. You’ll see then.”
“Okay. Fine. Talk to you later.”
I step in to my house and feel the familiar cold of a house that hasn’t been occupied for a day. What could be so important? It probably doesn’t even affect me. I grab the remote and hit power, than 7. I did not expect the sight that greeted me.
A beautiful reporter with long blonde hair and a white jacket was standing in an open field. In the background was a train lying on it’s side. The reporter was saying, “I’m at the site of a tragic train wreck. The cause remains unknown. Luckily it was a small train and wasn’t very full. 17 have sustained serious injury and are currently in the hospital in critical condition. 49 have escaped with only minor injuries and remain in the hospital for observation. A handful of lucky people, 7, remain unscathed. Shockingly only one death has been reported. This man had no identification on him and no one is sure of his name yet. If you have information regarding the identity of this man,” She said, as the screen zoomed out to show a mans face, “please call us at….” here the phone number for the news station flashes onscreen.
Who could that be? I wonder. To the left of the reporter is a very recognizable face. I see a man with a long face and a blonde beard. His hair is hidden underneath a large business hat. All that i can see of his body, is a blood-stained trench coat.
How can the world just keep on going? I wonder. this man just died, because he got on the train I was supposed to be on. I should be dead, but im not. And no one know or cares. life goes on.

∞                              ∞                            ∞

“This is Bethany Hodges, bringing the weather to you.” I turn the T.V. off. Years later, I’m the only one who can’t get over his death.
‘It doesn’t make that much difference’ They say. ‘You never even knew him’ ‘Let life go on, move on’ But what they don’t realize is that I already did. It does make that much difference, it changed my life. I never would have let Bethany even help me with the weather segment, but now I just gave it to her. I never even knew him, but he was still a person with a family and a life. Just like people would say of me if he hadn’t stolen my ticket. And i am letting life go on, I am moving on. In fact my life is moving on even better than before.
I can now enjoy each day like it was my first, and live each day like it was my last, because a strangers thank-you has changed my life for the better.

* * * * *
Hope you like.

The Talisman

Talisman by Sarrah Nussbaumer

Mace ran a finger over its smooth surface. His symbol, his luck, his talisman. The first bounty he’d ever taken from a raid. He grinned and turned back to his current prisoner, a girl about eighteen, chestnut brown hair, slim build, dark brown eyes that burned with hatred toward him.

Her name was Brissa. She’d gone to his school, they’d known each other a little. Enough that he’d remembered her the moment the others mentioned her. She was an idealist. One who thought that utopia could be achieved and war stopped forever, if only the two sides would talk and settle their differences.

Bah, talk. It was a woman’s idea. Talk didn’t belong in war. No matter how despicable war was, humans were greedy, always seeking more. Land, money, power. War would exist until the end of time because humans would always fight and no amount of talk could change that.

But Brissa had never understood that. She still thought her utopia could exist. Dumb girl. She’d learn the lesson now. She could have had respect, if she hadn’t turned traitor, gone to play peacemaker ‘carrying messages’ on both sides. Her precious cause would be extinguished without second thought and she’d shut up then.

He turned to his comrade, a fellow young soldier, “Go get yourself a drink. This one couldn’t escape me if I had one hand tied behind my back.”

Brissa glared at him, with that same angry passion she used to get while she tried to save a dying animal, while they were kids. Mace shook his head. Age hadn’t changed her a bit. She might be a woman now, but she was still that same fiery tempered tomboy on the inside.

His comrade hadn’t noticed the glaring, too happy going to help himself to the ale. A chance to drink instead of being on duty? A dream come true.

Spinning on his heel, Mace turned back to Brissa. One finger lifted her chin as he forced himself to carelessly inspect her face. There had been a time when her features were more familiar to him than the back of his own hand, but he hadn’t seen her in three years, and those years had changed her greatly.

“Tell me,” he began flippantly, as if torturing an old friend was something he did every day, “why would you throw your life away, just to end up here?”

She jerked her chin away, “Because I would rather die for something that has meaning, than live in pointless luxury.”

He grinned, so like Brissa. Of course she would. “Ah, so die saving a small child, why would you betray your own people, knowing you would end up being tortured? You knew. There was more to your decision than that.”

Her eyes shifted away but she didn’t answer.

Mace frowned, he’d hoped he could get her to talk about nothing important, so that when he had to ask the harder questions, the names of her comrades, she might list them off without forcing him to do what his commander required of him.

He gripped her chin between his index finger and thumb, tilting her face up at him, “Brissa let me make it abundantly clear, you are here because you have information. Information that you *will* tell me. Whether you tell me willingly or not I will report to my commander with what he asks for, or this will be incredibly painful for you, got it?”

She glanced at the floor. Of course she got it, he thought, she bore the scars. She wasn’t a new prisoner. Every one of these sessions had driven that fact into her mind. He sighed and rubbed his talisman again.

“You still carry that…..thing.” She noted, glancing at the twisted piece of metal. It had once been something, made of silver or white gold, but during the raid it had been melted down in a fire, leaving a twisted object with the shape of an incredibly small wishbone, but at the very top was a small hole. He’d put it on a chain around his neck. He never took it off.

He ignored her subject-change and turned off his feelings. The emotions that ran through him, pity, regret, anticipation. All blocked out. He had to be cruel.

He turned around, “Have you ever felt like glass, so easy to break, but trying so hard to appear solid?”

Now it was Brissa’s turn to hesitate, and Mace got his answer immediately. She’d already been broken in a way. There was nothing left that could ruin her. Her family was dead, he knew that personally, and she’d already withstood enough pain, they couldn’t hurt her worse without killing her.

He pounded the table angrily. Why did he have to get assigned to her? Of all the prisoners there, why her?

“Yes Mace.” He jumped at her whisper, “Of course I feel like glass. Only I don’t feel like the glass that is unbroken, and trying hard to remain so. I’m the shattered glass. Broken beyond repair. I know what fate awaits me.”

He nodded and pulled off his talisman, running his hands across the surface. Of course she knew. But he had to begin, because if he didn’t, they would know and she would only be hurt worse in the long run. He scanned his orders once more and pulled the iron from the fire. As he approached her, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

She looked at him, not with fire in her eyes, but with compassion and sadness, “I know.”

He pressed the talisman in her scarred hands, then did what he had to do.

_____________________________________________________________
The above piece was a combination entry to Inspiration Monday, and Indigo Spider’s Sunday Picture Press. Thanks to both of you. =)

And as a disclaimer, I did not choose to end it like I did, it was just the only thing that fit the story and the characters. I wanted him to let her go.