Tag Archives: a piece of a story

writing

snippet 4

Kra’s claws slid from their sheathes and clicked against the glass. The detective’s back was turned. So easily she could just slice open that vein. The one she could see pounding under his jaw. Pathetic human. He sweats under his clothes. Disgusting smells. Kra’s delicate nostrils flared, misting the window for a moment.
Sometimes her loyalty faltered when she was forced to deal so closely with humans. Duty over all. Duty. Never forget your duty.

“Miss. Please. Sit down.” the detective said quietly.

“I prefer to stand.” she snapped.

She controlled the burst of colour to her pale skin and turned to face the table. She tried her best to put a face on that appeared interested in what the human had to say. In reality, what the human thought did not matter. He was wrong on all counts. They refused to see what was really going on here on earth. The ones who did see were called crazy and put away in padded rooms and drugged until they could hardly eat on their own. So scared of something that was foreign. Anything different was banned, taboo, science fiction, fantasy.

She hid a smile at the thought of the reaction this human would have if she revealed her true self to him.
Duty, Kra. Remember your duty.

Kra compromised by standing at the table with her hands on the back of the chair that had been offered. The detective took this as a good sign and began his questioning. Kra answered using the correctly vague answers she had been taught. Nothing to rouse suspicion, no loose ends.
Keep the humans oblivious to the battle raging above their heads and under their feet.

writing

snippet 3

The farmer watched from the porch. His wife washed the dishes and watched through the open kitchen window. The sun seared the fields that stretched away from the farmhouse. Heat shimmers made the woman disappear and reappear as she knelt in the middle of the north field. The Rainmaker they called her. The farmer, a good church-going man, would never have fallen so low in years past. Five years without rain could make any man break. His wife said he could blame her for his madness, if this didn’t work.

The soil crunched under her knees and made muddy patches on her jeans. The sweat slid down her back and under her arms and down her stomach. Damnit this was hot. The sun. Reach behind the sun. Reach up to above the heat. Drag down the cool. Bring it back with you. Concentrate. Like mamma told you. Like she showed you. Swim in the heat, use it to float up to where it is cool.
She felt a wave of nausea building up. Far away, like it wasn’t her. She vomited up what was left in her stomach after 2 days. Water mostly. Some apple. But that was down there on the ground. She was up here where it was so blissfully cool. She could see all around her. The brown fields stretching away into the distance. The stars started becoming bright above her as she soared up and up. So cool up here. She could stay here. Let her body die. Just rocket up into the blissfull blue black coolness.
No! Come back! They needed you. They asked for you. The land under you needs you. She is calling to you. Bring back the rain.

The farmer leapt up from the swing chair as he saw the girl collapse in the field. He roared to his wife to get some water from the basement. As he leapt over the fencing on the edge of the field he felt something large and warm smack him on the forehead. He swatted at what he thought was a bee. He carried on running to the girl. He reached her and had to stand with his hands on his knees while he got his breath back. The girl was lying on her back, eyes closed, a smile on her face. Then he felt the warm swatting on the back of his neck. On his shoulder. On his head. Splat. The farmer turned his gaze skyward. An enormous dark cloud was boiling up from the east. Overhead, the sky was darkening.
Rain! His wife was screaming in joy on the porch. Dancing around with the dishtowel.

writing

snippet 17

Angie let out a short, harsh bark of laughter. Derisive and bitter. I’d forgotten who I was talking to for a moment there. She’d opened up to me in the last 30 minutes more than she had in our entire 20 years of friendship and I had kind of gotten a bit ahead of myself.

I apologised quietly. She shrugged and turned her gaze back to the window.

I could see the flashing neon sign reflected in the windows of the dilapidated building across the way. The rain made it difficult to see much else out there. Angie had good eyes.

 

My head ached and I gingerly touched my forehead, feeling the warmth of blood through the bandage.

Sometimes I thought I was more awesome, and way smarter than I really was. This time it had gotten me into major trouble and the most unlikely of my friends had stepped up to help me.

Angie. She’d remained the same since the first day I met her in middle school. She was a goth before goth was even a trend. All natural, of course – big violet eyes, thick black eyelashes, long, straight, raven black hair and skin so pale she was genuinely as white as snow.  Now of course, she had tattoos and piercings and wore black clothing and listened to dark music: pretty much how she’d been through high school, sans the piercings and tattoos. Angie didn’t change for anyone – I was always surprised that we remained friends all through school and then when we went out into the world. I can’t recall now what brought us, such an unlikely pair, together. My other friends in school had drifted away and we’d lost contact, but never Angie. She was always there when I needed her, and I made sure I was there if she needed me. It was not very often that she ever asked me for help, of course.

 

I had changed a great deal since school – I was a trend whore. I admit it. Whatever was in was what I was in to.

I sighed and shook my head. I felt it throb in time to my pulse. Ow.

 

Angie glanced briefly at me, her face without emotion, then she continued to peer out the corner of the window. She swapped the pistol from her left hand to her right, clenched and unclenched the fingers on her left hand for a few moments before swapping the pistol back.

I knew she was tense, frightened, by the look on her face. She brought up her walls (and they were mighty walls) when she felt threatened in any way, and while she was definitely all in for me, right now, she was also huddling down in her mental bunker. I knew her so well. She knew me even better though.

 

I saw her sit up slightly, back straight and my heart began to pound. She looked at me, this time her eyes were wide with fear, and she jerked her chin sharply toward the door across the empty room. I leapt up and scrambled over dusty, broken furniture and decaying cloth, to the door. I checked my gun. Switched the safety off.

It was time. They were coming.