Novel Bits- Robert confronts the past...now with dreams!

Ah, the first public posting of my novel. It was between this or a one-act. Neither is really much better than the other.

I have been working on this novel off and on for about a year now. Can't tell you much about it, that would be a bad idea. I can tell you this: It has vampires and werewolves in a steampunk environment. Airships, pirates, guns, adventure in the air, this book will have it all and then some! Also, romance. Duh.

This little bit is a dream sequence plus a tiny insight into Robert. Robert is around 500 years old and for the last 300 years has been living as an airship pirate trying, stupidly, to out run his former maker. As a warning, there are spoilers present in this bit, so, if you actually want to wait another five years for the novel to be done, edited, and published, then I suggest you don't spoil it for yourself now.

On with the show!

Robert looked down at the trio. Grace and Liza were in their own little world, chatting away as they always did. Christophe was by the river bank, a hand to his lips, no doubt contemplating some plan he had hatched over lunch. Looking at the scene unfold was like watching a moment out of time that he had long ago forgotten. Without being able to stop himself, a smile tugged at the corners of Robert's lips and for the first time in a long time he found himself truly happy. It had been centuries since he had visited the more pleasant bits of his memory. As his smile grew he turned around, trying to remember what happened next and to hopefully find a memory he particularly loved.

Except as he turned he wasn't greeted with the smiling faces of loving friends. There was no beautiful river lit with moonlight from above. There were no friends to laugh with, no one to call out to him. No one to come to his rescue. Instead what hit him instantly was a set of cold fingers wrapping themselves around his neck in a vice-like grip, lifting him high in the air and shattering the illusion around him.

A snarling face appeared before him and Robert shut his eyes against it. He refused to see it but the owner of the hand had other plans; the fingers tightened and suffocated Robert, forcing him to open his eyes and confront his attacker. First all he saw were the long, blood drenched canines, and as his eyes traveled higher and higher he saw a face that he has always tried to out-run. It was the face of Christophe, his most beloved mentor, contorted in the horrors of anger and his eyes flashed full of jealousy. It was a look Robert had only seen once and had tried to shake off of him for year and years, yet he never had been able to get rid of it completely.

When the realization struck him that this was the man that had once meant the world to him, Robert instantly tried to break his grasp. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to see this face. Instead, as he tugged and tugged at the hand, Christophe's cold fingers closed in tighter and tighter until they threatened to completely shut down his throat. Grasping for air, Robert fell lifeless in his hand and gave up the struggle.

Slowly Christophe pulled Robert to him, making his voice low and dangerous as he whispered, “She will die.”

Before Robert even had a second to contemplate his meaning, Christophe had tossed him to the floor with a flick of his wrist. For all his usual fight, Robert crumbled on the ground and gasped like a fish out of water for a bit of air. Slowly, as the air filled his aching lungs, Robert lifted himself up onto his hands and turned his head around, growling deep in his throat, but there was no one behind him. Christophe had vanished just as quickly as he had appeared.

He let his nerves uncoil. He let his face relax and began to take in his surroundings. No longer was he sitting near the river. His friends had all vanished. Below him was a well polished wood floor; it seemed familiar and yet strange at the same time. And then he spotted something that he was sure hadn't been there a moment before.

It started innocently enough. One small drop of red against the brown of the wooden floor. One drop led to two. Then two led to a whole pool. As he gazed at the pool a familiar smell hit his nose and instantly he recognized what it was. Blood. He stared, transfixed as more blood fell and pooled with the rest.

Afraid of what he would find, tugging at his memory for clues as to what would surly follow the pool of blood, Robert turned his gaze upward and recoiled away from the sight. Hanging from the balcony above him, her neck tied to the railing by a reddened piece of rope, was what he assumed was Liza. He tried to tear his eyes away from the sight, tried to repress the memory, but seeing her hanging there as if it were all happening again was enough to keep him firmly rooted in the present. He stared at her for a long moment, drinking in the sight again and again, until she started to morph before his eyes.

Her hair, her beautiful long black hair that fell like a sheet to her back, slowly turned brown and curled itself shorter and shorter. The beautiful gentle curves of her body slowly filled themselves out and her long dancer like limbs shortened themselves before his eyes. And lastly, the most beautiful of her features, her pale and creamy skin that was unmarked and pristine, turned tan and rugged looking as if it had seen many days in the sun. The beautiful and fair Liza, a girl that had always been likened to a china doll, had turned into the tan and rough daughter of a farmer.

Robert wasn't sure who she was at first. He couldn't place the body or the colorings of her skin. It was almost as if she were a totally foreign person to him. Then slowly the corpse raised its head and a pair of cold, dead, green eyes looked down at him and pierced him to his core. He knew this girl and as he pulled away from her, he tripped over himself and was forced to watch the abomination attempt to move.
“No. Why?” He breathed.

In a breathless, rattling voice it responded, raising its arms towards him. “Save me, Robert.”

Shutting his eyes, he tried to block it out. “No.”

Skeletal arms wrapped themselves around him and bound him to her. The smell of death and decay hit his senses. He struggled against the arms but they held him fast and as he turned to face his captor he startled himself awake. Covered in a cold sweat he breathed heavily and peered around him in the dark, trying to gain his bearings. Vic was next to him, her curly hair spread across the pillow like a halo and her arms wrapped around him protectively.

He needed out.

Slowly and tenderly Robert uncoiled the arm that was wrapped around his neck and placed it on the pillow next to Vic. The girl murmured something in her sleep. Whatever it was that she had thought and said aloud in that moment put a smile on her face as she turned over. It was something that upon hearing it made Robert frown and turn away from the bed with his sleeping visitor and cross the room to the large window that looked out over the bay.

He stared out those windows and tried to forget the terrors that had visited them. He tried to forget the cruel face of his mentor. He tried to forget the body of his dead lover. More than anything he tried to forget the girl who had asked him, in that breathless and horrible manner, to rescue him from something.

In order to keep these thoughts from revisiting him he forced himself to think of the particulars. To him there was no doubt in his mind that this was indeed a prophetic dream. Only those dreams were this vivid. Yet everything about it was wrong. For the first time he had encountered a dream that was filled with people he knew. It held scenes from his memory that had been dug up to send a strong message to him, something that had never happened before. There were no riddles to really unravel, no poems or vague images to haunt his brain for weeks; instead all he had were terrible memories and something new to stuff further and further into the back of his mind. The whole ordeal sent shiver after shiver down his spine.

From her curled up sleeping positing on the bed, Vic muttered something once again and Robert instinctively turned his ear to catch what she was saying. She was so innocent, awake and asleep. More than anything Robert wanted to curl back up against her in the bed and fall back asleep, forgetting about the dream until morning. He wanted her to make him forget; forget not just the dream, but his whole past and all the things that lurked there. When they were together he forgot those things, old memories got replaced with new and brighter ones, and he could truly be at peace with himself which was something he had long ago forgotten existed. When he was with her, wrapped up with her, watching her smile or kissing her tender, soft, beautiful lips he didn't want, didn't need, to run anywhere.

Even with all these fond thoughts running through his head, he stayed put. Slowly he broke his attentions from her and went back to the window, closing his eyes as he rested his head against the cool glass. Slowly from the depth of his mind, the image of the familiar corpse appeared before him and he didn't struggle to tune it out. It was time, finally, to attempt to face those things that he had been trying to out-run.

He knew beyond a doubt that this was a warning. Christophe had always been his enemy since the day that Liza had been taken from him. He was the entire reason that Robert had been touring around this planet in a run down airship. And he knew that for centuries Christophe had been chasing as much as he could. The only thing that Robert had always hoped for was that he was one step ahead of him. And he always had been until they finally had caught each other up the other day.

Now that they had met, now that they both saw what they were up against, Robert knew there was nothing stopping Christophe from finding him again. He had caught a whiff of Vic when she had intercepted his thoughts earlier that day. Christophe now knew what he knew. That Vic was dear to him, that she had wormed her way into his heart, and that he would do anything to protect her. Now Christophe had the unfair advantage.

Robert pushed himself away from the window and paced around the room as quietly as he could. When Christophe had found out about Liza, there had been no stopping his rage; the scene he had remembered from the river had not ended well. Everyday there was another fight, another depressed talking to, and Christophe had always tried to exert his power over Robert. Yet one day Robert had grown tired of the arguments, of the tears and power plays, and on that day he had been led to Liza's final resting place.

There as no doubt in his mind that Christophe would attempt to do something like that again. Knowing what he did, Robert was sure of it; he probably had a wounded ego that Robert hadn't come rushing back to him, that he had now, twice, chosen women over the man who made him what he was now. And in knowing this fact, Robert knew that there was only once choice left to him.

At all costs, no matter what it meant, he had to keep Vic safe from Christophe.

Written Word Attempt- Short Story

This was written months ago. I'm not going to lie and try to make you all feel better. There is something in the works; I'm re-imaging a piece I wrote years ago in high school, hopefully that'll be finished soon. For now, here's something to tide you over until it gets done.

It's called 'Alone'. There really isn't much to it. Nothing really new or exciting was attempted in this one. It is a touch more down to reality than what I'd usually write. Most of my short works tend to be fantasy or at its most real, magical reality, so in that way this is a depart from my usual world.


Alone

He sat in his car, gripping the wheel tightly in both hands, with the radio turned to some late night talk show. The phone in the seat next to him buzzed irritatingly and managed to vibrate itself right off the edge of the seat. He didn't even flinch when it landed with a dull thud on the mat, nor did he look over at it when the illumination it cast around the car faded. All he did was stare ahead out of the windshield while the cold moisture of tears left un-wiped dried on his blotchy face.

The voices on the radio suddenly switched topics. Up until that point he could have cared less about what they were saying, but at that moment he turned his head towards the noise and stared at it in the same way he had been staring at the night sky a moment before. On the other side of those radio waves they had no idea that their inane discussion about the current economic situation was affecting someone.

Now that he was engaged, awake, alive, a functioning member of society once again, he instinctively turned towards the cell phone on the floor as it made its presence known. He leaned over the car and hesitantly took the piece of technology in his hand. Flipping it open he was greeted by the picture of a smiling woman, flashing a peace sign at the camera, her red hair blowing in a wind that has since ceased, her face being warmed by the sun that was no longer shining. The name below it read 'Honey Love'; he only hesitated a moment longer before he punched the accept button and held it lightly to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice was hoarse and shaky; he cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello?”

“YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I TRIED CALLING YOU AT LEAST A HUNDRED TIMES AND YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE THE GODDAMN COURTESY TO ANSWER! AND WHAT ABOUT ERIN? YOU'D PROMISED THAT YOU'D COME TO HER RECITAL THAT, BY THE WAY, WAS HOURS AGO...”

He ripped the phone away from his ear and held it at arms length. Even from that distance he could still hear the deafening screams of Honey Love. Slowly he rested his head on the steering wheel in front of him, his free hand pressed against his face as he fought against a fresh wave of tears that threatened him; the hand on the phone was white with his restraint.

Finally the shouting let up and there was silence. Cautiously he brought the phone back to his ear.

“I'm sorry...” It was all he had time to say.

“Sorry? You're fucking sorry? Is that all you have to say? You know I'm getting really tired of hearing the phrase...”

“I know...”

“That one too. It's always 'I'm sorry this' and 'I know that.' Jesus, Rodger, can't you say anything else? Where the fuck were you?”

“I don't really want to talk about it right now.” His voice was strained as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Oh,” Honey Love's voice became deadly serious. “Who is she?”

“What?”

“Who is she, Rodger?”

“Honey, you know I haven't been sleeping around in years.”

“Don't you dare 'honey' me.” There was a brief pause in the conversation. Both parties held their breath. And then there was an exasperated sigh on the other side of the line. “I've had enough, Rodger.”

“I know, I know.”

“No, you don't know. You really don't have a damn clue just how done I am with this. All I ask is that you make time for me, make time for Erin, and you can't even do that. Instead you're off fucking your whores, like you always do. Either that or sitting around in those filthy ass bars, getting pissed. When I married you I thought things were going to change.”

“I'm trying...”

Another sigh. “You're not trying, you're not trying at all anymore. I'm tried of getting called in the middle of the night, getting asked by some bartender to come and pick you up, because you'd been drinking too much, again. I'm tried of having to explain to Erin where you are every time she asks why you aren't at her concerts, or her games, or her birthday. Rodger, we're not even divorced and yet you still can't seem to make time for your goddamn family.”

There was another pause in the conversation. Rodger was shaking; his shoulders heaved and his breathing was erratic. On the radio they had switched topics yet again. Apparently someone had called in, started talking about how when he got laid-off his wife had left him, and now the hosts were trying to extract the story from him. It seemed that he had spent all his money, gambling it away on the weekends, and there was nothing saved up in the bank accounts; his wife had had enough and so she took the kids and went to go stay with her sister until the divorce papers were finalized. He hadn't seen his son since.

Rodger finally let it all go. A heavy and wracked gust of air pushed its way past his lips and floated across the steering column. On the other end Honey Love gave an equally tired sigh of her own.

“What now?”

“I'm taking Erin and we're going to my mothers. I don't want to hear from you again.”

“Honey, don't...”

“No. Don't. I've had enough. Don't call me again.”

With that the line went dead.

Rodger pulled himself off of the wheel and looked down at the phone in his hand. It flashed the length of the call back at him; 20:15. Twenty minutes, fifteen seconds. That was apparently all the time that was needed to decide that the life you had been living up until that point was a complete lie, that a marriage was beyond saving, that starting over was the only way out from under.

Eventually the light of the phone went off. Even later still the talk show stopped and the sweet crooning of Celine Dion could be heard. She sang about love, she sang about never letting go, but most of all she sang about how she could still go on.

Rodger couldn't.

He reached up to the ignition and turned the car off. Celine went quiet. The car went quiet. It was as dead inside that car as he could make it. The vacuum of silence, that high pitched whining that you can only find inside a contained space when everything has ceased, permeated his thoughts. It made him deaf to the outside world and dulled his senses; he didn't even flinch when a car went by.

With his free hand he took the keys out of the ignition and stuffed them into his pocket. There was the distinct rustling of paper and it seemed to jolt him back into reality. His eyes lit up as he pulled from his pocket a piece of pink paper, illuminated only by the light of the half moon that hung over head. With his cell phone in one hand and the pink slip of paper in the other, he stared at his hands, numb.

The world was decaying around him, as it had done so many Americans before him. He was not a special case; all over the country people were leaving other people, employees were getting fired or laid-off because of an economy gone sour, and there were people who had crawled into the bottle to escape the weight of it all. He wished that doing the same held any sort of appeal; at a moment like this crawling into that vacuum only made him sick.

It was all laid out before him; the life he had spent building and subsequently destroying. It stared back at him as he stared at it. In five minutes he had lost his career and in twenty minutes and fifteen seconds he had lost his wife and only child, the only family that seemed to care anything for him. For the first time he felt the bitter stab of what it meant to be alone. Truly and utterly alone.

Another car passed by outside. Then another. Five minutes later another went by.

Laying the phone and note in the passenger seat, Rodger opened his door. The over-head light flashed to life and then just as quickly shut itself off as he stepped out into the chilly evening air. In a series of motions that had become so automatic, he locked the door, put his key back into his pocket and started out.

The desert evening was cold. It was sobering.

He walked on for a bit, sticking to the side of the road, watching the occasional car go past. Not too many people came out this way. It would be a shock to see someone on the side of the road but no one stopped for him.

Without any sense of hesitation he made is way into the left lane. He wanted to see the cars coming. He wanted them to see him. He wanted to not be alone anymore.

And so he walked on in the chill night air of the Nevada desert. He didn't feel it. Cars passed him, honking, as they drove past on the other side of the road. They hardly took much notice of him, except for those few seconds, and in return he hardly took notice of them.

He took even less notice of the headlights that lit up the piece of asphalt he was staring at. Even the sound of the blaring horn didn't wake him. It wasn't until the last moment that he bothered to look up and stare into the face of the driver, who had lost control of his vehicle and was very obviously drunk. For that moment they saw each other and weren't alone.

There was nothing slow about what happened next. In a second the car hit his shins, splintering them into tiny pieces that yielded to the bumper, and he was sent tumbling over the roof of the car, only to land on his skull on the other side. Intolerable pain shot through his body as blood gushed from his head and ran down the pavement.

Still, he didn't feel a thing. He stared up at the night sky. The driver rushed to his side and moved his mouth in words that Rodger couldn't hear. Slowly and surely everything got darker and darker around him until he was lost forever in a sea of black.

At least he didn't have to go alone.

Intro to Hell

Hello.
This is a new blog. A fresh start, they tell me. A chance to write it all down and get it out to the rest of the world. I'm not one for making introductions, so I'll try, for both of our sakes, to keep it as short as possible.

I happen, at this current moment in time, to live in Tokyo. City of lights, broken dreams, and twenty dollar ice cream. Where just around the corner is a Nigerian ready to swindle you out of your money by shoving scantily clad young Asian women at you. Or, if you manage to make it out of the Nigerian's clutches, a young American otaku is ready and more than willing to prattle on about how the real Japan is so much like anime Japan.

There is nothing much fascinating about my life. I'm a college student, which means I have little time as it is, and what free time I do manage to find is often eaten up by work. When, however, I find those truly rare moments where I have nothing to do, if I'm not browsing the web, I am attempting all sorts of artistic means of expressing my inner most thoughts. They tend to be in the form of the written word, be that in prose, short fiction, or, and most recently added, one acts or movie scripts. There is also the crazy and usually fruitless attempt at making music.

So, this has become long enough for a first post, I do believe. Please return later for interesting updates of the artistic sort. Until then, enjoy the rest of the life you have, my friends.