|I'm a writer, not a mechanic!|
HS: This tune will dive me madRose is sitting on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. It's cold. The power has gone out again. (At least that thrice-damned vacuum cleaner has stopped.)HS: This tune will dive me mad by hiccoughing
She blames Mother, of course.
Everything's Mother's fault.
Snow is falling softly on the windowsill outside. It's dark, but the clouds obscure the stars.
There's a candle burning on her desk; for atmosphere, she'd explained when she asked for the candles. You understand, Mother. I'm a writer. I take such things seriously.
An overdramatic sigh. Of course, my dearest heart. Whatever you wish. Do take care not to set anything aflame. Said sarcastically, distanced, aloof. Far, far away from her daughter.
Rose does not often ask her mother for anything.
It's too early to go to sleep, but there's not much else she can think of to do. The wifi is out because the power is out because Mother simply cannot be bothered to pay the bill often enough to satisfy the electric company.
There must be some sort of law agains
321It was an unseasonably cold January morning, and my watch had stopped about ten minutes ago.321 by hiccoughing
Florida has always been one of the places I hate the most.
The year was 1986, or to be a little more specific, 01986. In actuality there are any number of leading zeros, but usually we try to be as concise as possible.
But I digress.
It was unseasonably cold for a January, and that should have been my first clue that something was up. To folks of my kind, weather extremes spell disaster with a capital D. That or promotion, with a minuscule p. We take what we can get.
Allow me to take a moment to explain to you what I mean by "folks of my kind".
You see, ever since I can remember, I've been working for the Big Guy. No, not God or anyone in Management like that; I mean the Big Guy that absolutely everyone ends up talking to once or twice in his life.
Death. The Man. The Big Guy. Him, or occasionally, Her.
Anyway, my department is Space and Aeronautics. Every single aerospace
HS: JOHN. RISE UP.He gasps. Looks around. Red everywhere. His blood everywhere.HS: JOHN. RISE UP. by hiccoughing
There are fireflies. There are fireflies like stars and stars like fireflies, and one thing or another is coming down and nearly drowning in the red. Taking it away. They're going back into the sky where they belong. The name Serenity comes to his cloudy mind for some reason.
He's dressed in gold and he's in a field of white and black. A giant chessboard.
Clouds. Lots of clouds.
He's glowing. They can see him. He doesn't know this, but they're looking up at Skaia and it's glowing with the radiance an Heir deserves.
Bewildered. They all are.
And he is the Savior of the Waking World.
HS: John Dies At The EndThe snow fell heavy, like eggs dropped from the top of a high-rise building, and John was dying.HS: John Dies At The End by hiccoughing
Dave'd known that this one was a doomed timeline, of course; he'd been aware of that from the beginning, or near enough to the beginning, anyway, but it still stung a little to see the kid lying there staining the snow bright fuckin' red.
He glanced over at John for the millionth time. The tall, bare trees of the Land of Frost and Frogs pointed down at him with judgmental fingers. Fuck you, they said. You're going to let him die again, you insufferable prick.
Although he'd never understood why it had to be his sword that the Chump of Shoosh got impaled on. It couldn't've been one of Lalonde's stupid goddamn lousy ghostly knitting needles, or Jade's hazardously sharpointy bayonets; no, his sword.
He guessed he felt a little guilty. In an ironic way. Obviously.
"Hey, man. How're you holdin' up?" said the guilt, not Dave.
John said nothing; nothing really. Just mumbled a c
|I'm a writer, not a mechanic!|