Submission 4 inspiration: create a narrative that gives a different perspective of a well known historical event.
~33 A.D.
GOD: sup
JesusChrist0: nm, goin 2
GOD: o sweet
JesusChrist0: ? i hurd
GOD: no its so awesome
JesusChrist0: ppl r sayin i shouldnt go.
GOD: y
JesusChrist0: romans h8 on me
GOD: no they think
JesusChrist0: o rly?
GOD: ya rly
JesusChrist0: judas is here
JesusChrist0: brb
GOD: lol ok
JesusChrist0 signed off at 1:22 a.m.
Twenty-one of October, the year 1805,
To God, prayer from men that they still were alive.
I praise you, I love you, I weep for this man,
But for France, I remember I must do what I can.
Victory, Roy’ Sovereign, Euryaius, Defence
Vs. Redoutable, Héros, Pluton, and Hortense.
Yours twenty-seven, white canvas and sea,
Outweighted, by the numbers, from our thirty-three.
Prediction, they say, your success quick will be,
Triumphant for London, but violent for we.
“A Hero,” “A Saint,” “An Inspiring Name,”
Sans arm, minus eye, and a ballet-like frame.
Hand over hand up the ratlines crawl I
“Observe,” ordered he, “watch, listen and spy.”
Ensuing conflict brought mayhem to the day,
Cannon, commands, all a handsome display.
You halve our ship’s compliment and cut down our chances.
Endure: for your men, but cause-ending for France’s.
I have but one shot, so I carefully aim
For your heart from my heart, for a life bless’d by fame.
Conscience speaks through the sound and debris,
“Be remembered though history--kill Nelson,” says he.
Valediction, My Lord, God bless d'etat,
Your end sure will be my great oeuvre.
“Whoa,” he thought. “If that column wasn’t there I could have been dead meat.”
By then he was past the car and he strained his neck to see the reflection of the Mercedes in his rearview mirror.
As a doctor, he knew he had the obligation to turn around at the other end of the tunnel and make his way back to the scene of the accident. It was late, it had been a long day, and he wanted nothing more than to get home and go to bed. He thought about the expression “crash” to describe the action of going to bed and wondered where that originated. He called for an ambulance on his car phone as he turned around and headed back into the tunnel
By the time he got to the scene of the crash, several cars and motorcycles were stopped and some photographers were taking pictures of the scene. He announced himself as a doctor, told the photographers to back off, and looked inside the vehicle.
“Who are these people?” he thought. “These guys must be pretty desperate to get pictures of the occupants of the car.”
He could tell there were four people in the car, and it was clear that none of them were wearing seatbelts. The driver, slumped over the steering wheel, had sustained serious head injuries and was most likely dead. He could hear groans coming from the woman in the back and the guy in the passenger seat. The head of the man next to the woman in the back seat was bent back at an awkward angle.
In spite of the blood covering her face from a gash in her forehead, he recognized the woman and understood the presence of the paparazzi.
“Oh, no,” he thought. “Do I deal with her first because of who she is or deal with the most critically injured? Triage is such an unexact science. Why wasn’t she wearing a seatbelt? Do these photographers have any respect? Where’s that ambulance?”
He decided to assist the woman first because her door was the only one that was not jammed. Still, her position partially under the driver’s seat made it difficult to reach her. He talked to her in English, but she only groaned in response. He solicited the help of one of the photographers to pull her out of the car with great care, and laid her on the road. A bystander offered his coat as a blanket. It was obvious that she was in great pain, and she was having difficulty breathing, probably due to broken ribs. Her head injuries were addressed with gauze, which he happened to have with him in his case in the car, and it stopped the bleeding, at least for now.
Finally the ambulance arrived and he told the EMTs who he was and barked orders to check the other passengers in the vehicle. The woman had lost a lot of blood, and one of the EMTs quickly put an IV in her. Finally she was put on a stretcher, loaded into the ambulance, and taken to the hospital.
Claude then turned his attention to the other passengers. The man in the passenger seat was pulled out gingerly through the window, and he, too, was put into a second ambulance and taken to a hospital. There was nothing that could be done for the other two.
By then the police had arrived and took statements from Claude, the photographers, and the other bystanders.
Claude was exhausted. It was close to 3:00 am by this time and he needed to go home. He collapsed on his bed once he got home but could not immediately fall asleep because his head was spinning with all the events of the night. He did eventually fall asleep and slept soundly until the phone rang around 9:00 am. Claude thought about not answering it, but picked up the phone before the call went to the answering machine. It was a reporter asking him how it felt to be the rescuer of Princess Diana.
He stops a verse in, not hearing it right. Takes a step back and repositions his fingers on the strings of the ancient acoustic. The crowd is patient and quiet. He starts again from the beginning but the guitarist starts again from where they left off. Again they both stop. A small encouraging, laughing cheer rolls across the crowd. The guitarist moves closer to him now, face to face. They look down at each other’s hands watching for cues on when to start. They begin.
A song about a girl he knew for six months ten years ago. A song about a girl he thought mattered then but doesn’t in any way matter now, at least to him. To the people that recognize the opening chords and hum along, then sing along, it may mean more. But now he watches the hands, the long and skinny fingers of this man he’s known for seven albums and thirteen tours and how many years before that when the band didn’t have a name and was really nothing but noise coming from the basement of his mother’s house. Watches them strum out this tune that comes out mechanical to their ears now, so stale is it from repetition. And wonders what it felt like when it did matter. Yet when he begins to sing his face cringes out the words achingly. A twenty foot screen behind him magnifies the feigned anguished for those on the lawn to see.
Here’s the verse he penned on the side of the expressway when it came to him as he drove. He’d pulled over just to write it down. His eyes close as he tries to conjure the air that day in his nostrils. The guitarist slides gracefully into the chorus, still standing close. For a moment they sing together.
The crowd cheers its approval when the song picks up and his voice deepens to a bitter anger for just a moment before returning to the indifferent whine he has become famous for. He squints out through the spotlights. The audience is a shadow swaying along to the rhythm. Massive and empty, like standing on the beach and looking out over the ocean on a moonless night. He feels as if he could fall into them.
The original recording was much too short to be a single so the producers had them stretch and pad out the song with him singing (in various strained tones) the girl in question’s name over and over while the guitarist belted out the hook in sync with the repetition. It sounded better that way, he admitted then and still thinks now. Even if the name seemed to lose weight with each utterance. The critics then pointed out how the song was the culmination of the album’s intensity, it being the last track on a ten-track LP they released in 1994 that eventually went triple platinum. The conclusion, this girl’s name indifferently whined to infinity, the strongest testament to the band’s new sound. Nay, not just the band’s new sound…a new sound in general. Critics today cite the song regularly when the Next Big Thing releases their annual album, and it’s always been a fan favorite at these sold out pavilion concerts.
In his periphery he sees the drummer and bassist come back out on stage for the fiery conclusion. The crowd cheers so loud it drowns out the sound of his own guitar. Lights on stage ignite in a dark rainbow of blues and reds and yellows. Lighters flick to life among the blackness in front of him. He releases his grip from his guitar as the band kicks in. He grabs the mic with both hands and slowly, deliberately, effortlessly, painfully, indifferently whines out a forgotten girl’s name.
"What's with all these brochures?"
"They're from adoption agencies. I'm thinking about adopting a child."
"You're serious? YOU are going to try and adopt a kid?"
"Yeah, but I'm going about it a little differently."
"Oh yeah? How so? Why are you even trying this anyway? You know you don't stand a chance at passing the 'parental' tests and crap they do to see if you're fit."
"I think I am fit and prepared, and I think they will see that. Perception is reality, my friend. Besides, the babies I am interested aren't in high demand. They'll practically be giving them away."
"How's that? What kind of baby are you trying to adopt?"
"An A.I.D.S. baby."
"An A.I.D.S. baby?"
"Yes, an A.I.D.S. baby. You know – like those babies that are born addicted to cocaine, because the mother was addicted? Like that, but…"
"Yes, Yes! I know what an A.I.D.S. baby is! Why in the hell are you even thinking about this?"
"I want to adopt a tragedy."
"You want… WHAT? That is some of the lamest, post-modern, 'I'm trying to be shocking – thus deep – thus substantial' bullshit I've ever heard. I am seriously questioning our friendship, right now."
"Chill out man. The kid gets a loving home environment and I can see if I like being a parent. And, if I don't, well, the kid does have A.I.D.S. so it's not, you know…"
"Oh my God."
"…a permanent situation."
"I don't know if I can go on with this narrative. This is, maybe too fucked, even if it is just a short fiction story."
"Stop it. No breaking the fourth wall."
"Third wall."
"Is it? Maybe you're right. Yes, third wall, or whatever. Either way, knock it off. Besides, think about all the trim I will score with this! Girls will go apeshit when they hear I've adopted an A.I.D.S. baby. They'll see how sweet and sensitive and tragic it is."
"Fuck you, man. That's what this is all about, isn't it? Women. And, not even just trying to get laid. Admit it; this is some sick manifestation of your fucking intimacy issues."
"You're ruining this. You're ruining the dark, humorous punch line that I was building up to."
"Fuck that and fuck you. You're so terrified of building intimacy and it failing again and getting hurt that you're just going to go ahead and manufacture an intimate relationship of an already known quantity, which has a predetermined point of failure. Like a motor part in a car – built to fail at a certain mileage."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. And, by the way, you stole the whole 'wall-breaking' thing from that one guy's first book. Fucking plagiarizer."
"Plagiarize is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as a tribute. And, you've totally ruined the path this story was going to take originally."
"Good. You need to face this shit. You know what the biggest bitch of this whole situation is? It's that you know your mindset in this is fucked up, but you still maintain it, because you've completely lost your way. A.I.D.S. babies are not a proper metaphor for women. Intimacy isn't destined to always fail, like those kids are. And you know that, so quit being a self-fulfilling prophecy. You're smarter than that. Fix you're fucking life and learn to love yourself again."
"God, expository prose is so trite."
"Whatever, you're the one who got yourself in this situation. Don't be such a fucking cliché."
Treat me like a confession---
Hide me angry deep and hard
Beneath desires dreams obsessions
Prayer hate struggles and love.
When you see me run,
Then hide from me,
Break my chains
Then tie me.
Close your eyes and struggle blindly.
Suffer long and then in irony
Release me to make agony
And torture others mercilessly.
Now revel in their misery.
O vampire of pity,
I have a dark secret.
Dark 3mo 93
Their marriage was in shatters, but rekindling an old flame was not what he had in mind. He thought there would be no harm in looking up a college girlfriend and catching up over a drink. He just needed to sort through some things with somebody who understood him. His recollection of his former flame was that she was a good listener, unlike his wife, who came across as increasingly aloof.
He looked up her number and called her.
How long had it been? Eight years?
“Yeah, let’s get together.”
He was honest with his wife. Told her he was seeing an “old girlfriend” for a drink, and she didn’t ask any questions.
So there he was, sitting at the designated bar waiting for his former girlfriend to walk in. She peeked in, as if she wasn’t sure if this was the meeting place. She saw him and smiled. She was just as he remembered her. Brunette. Spunky. Fun. Just a few additional wrinkles around her eyes.
They quickly ran through their “How’ve you been’s” and “Remember when’s” and got down to more serious catching up. He found out she was recently divorced. She kept talking about her adjustment to being a divorcée and inability to cope alone. He felt obligated to help, but knew his boundaries. After a couple of drinks they parted and he promised to keep in touch. It was an overall pleasant encounter between old friends, and it felt good to unload, but he didn’t like seeing her so sad.
A chance encounter with her the following month lead to another friendly chat and another invitation to meet more formally. This time they decided to get together at a restaurant that he suggested, and she told him to invite his wife. He made some excuse about his wife hardly ever being around and told her it would just be him.
So they met again.
Again, over dinner, the divorce came up. He expressed his concern. She thanked him. He felt strangely attracted to her, but remained professionally platonic.
Is this being unfaithful? No, nothing had happened. He had even told his wife that he was meeting her again, this time for dinner.
“So who is she, just out of curiosity?” asked his wife.
Other than an intrigued look on her face when he mentioned her name and who she was married to, she was cool with it. Cool?
Did she suspect?
Did she know?
Did she even care?
Another encounter was arranged between the old friends. This time she chose the restaurant and it was more cozy. At one point during dinner, during a particularly vulnerable remark that he was making, she reached out and briefly placed her hand on his. He let her. She quickly withdrew her hand and visibly blushed. He gave an awkward smile, but he was just trying to be polite. Then he reached for her hand, and they held hands across the table. His heart was beating audibly, and his mind was just a blur. What were they, teenagers again?
Slippery slope. Point of no return?
Oh, but the thrill!
Nip this in the bud, he thought. Later that night after he got home and after much mental turmoil, he called her and told her he couldn’t see her again. She understood. The tryst was over.
Next, he decided to confess his wandering heart to his wife. He assured her that nothing had happened. Not even a kiss. Just friends catching up.
His wife listened at first, then smiled and finally burst out laughing. She couldn’t contain herself. The irony was unbearable. She finally leaned over and told him uncharacteristically bluntly:
“Honey, why do you think she’s divorced? I’m having an affair with her husband!”
“I’ll be home soon, honey. I had an impromptu astromeeting,” said David.
“Ok. Would you like me to generate FishStics® for tonight’s eating interval?” asked David’s wife Helen.
“Nah, I was thinking cosmoburgers.”
“Sure! I’ll see you when you come home!”
David winked at the screen in his autotran, and the connection was closed. He kicked back and looked through the clear glass bubble above his head. His sunglasses shone with the reflection of a clear blue sky while a stock price ticker passed at the bottom of the right lens. “Life is good,” said David, and so did the sticker on the back of his autotran pod as it zoomed over the courseway on his trip back home.
He knew somewhere above him, or perhaps below him, Helen’s autotran was flying back home, too.
“Yuck, FishStics®. So gross.”
Their pods arrived at their home dock at almost the same time. Helen stepped out wearing a streamlined black and silver dress, large globular silver earrings, and tall chrome boots with glowing colored lights that brought her just under David’s height. David stood at the front door, silver jacket over his shoulder, two days worth of a beard, black-and-orange striped tie loosened over a silver shirt. Helen smiled at him as she walked toward the door.
“I wonder if the kids are home yet,” said Helen.
Their HomeTM was a recent model with tall windows framed in a durable concrete mixture. From the 132nd floor they had a wonderful view of the opposing 132nd floor of the adjacent units.
David turned to smile at his wife as he held his wrist to the doorplate, and after a soft click and a little tune played from a small speaker, the door swung open. The sunlight poured over their modern furniture and plants. Little screens on the walls told important bits of information; temperature, pressure, percent of breakfast cereal consumed per person per day…all the metrics to lead a modern life.
“It feels a little cool in here…” said Helen. “ALICE! What temperature is set as the default for Friday afternoon?” she asked. “Hello, Helen. Our unit is configured to offer an average Friday afternoon temperature of 68°. Would you like a cappuccino?” replied a squeaky voice from a recessed speaker in the ceiling. Helen set her astrobag down on the mech-couch. “Well it feels much colder than that! And the digiLamp is missing! And where is my compuCoffeepot?” Small shiny pieces of metal, screws, and wires were sprinkled on the floor.
“Honey! In here!” exclaimed David.
Helen ran into the kitchen, only to find a large hole in the wall. They gazed out at the autotran pods flying by on the countless courseways.
“Billy? Jane?” called David. “I think our house has been iBurglarized!”
“Are you serious?” cried Helen.
“Helen, I am e-serious.”
“Honey, look…” whispered Helen.
On the table sat a note, hastily written in crayon.
“Dear mom and dad,
I turned Jane into a cyborg. I’m sorry!
-Billy.
Submission 2 inspiration: anti-drug commercial, what happened the night before.
“I got the recipe off the Internet,” I say and begin to slowly stir the rapidly greening chemical swirl with the oar I found near the river last year after Alexa first broke up with me and I got lost in the woods.
“You got a crystal meth recipe from the Internet?” Tim asks and leans over my shoulder, looking down into the bathtub. I can hear the disbelief in his voice. Maybe if I had cleaned the bathroom up a bit more this wouldn’t be so hard to believe.
“You know you’ll love it”
“Didn’t you try a bathtub gin recipe you got off the Internet last semester?”
I sigh audibly.
“That was toilet wine, Tim,” I say and remove the handkerchief from my mouth, turning to him. I lean casually on the oar as it sticks out of the tub. “And it turned out amazing”
He rolls his eyes and walks out of the bathroom, takes the corner for the living room. I can hear him collapse onto the couch. The fumes are getting to me I think, even though I don’t really smell anything yet. My fingers are tingling a bit. Better take a break. The oar I leave resting gently on the edge of the tub. The wood’s stained already around the tip. A good sign?
“Wait a minute,” Tim begins when I enter the living room. “You don’t even smoke pot, you barely even drink, what would compel you to do this?”
“I’m sorry Tim, you’ll have to repeat that. I’m a little high from the fumes”
Tim sits up, annoyed I think. “You’re high from the fumes?”
“Yeah I think it’s going to be a pretty potent batch,” I say standing over him. My eyes peruse the walls. I have let the posters in my apartment fall into a tragic state of disarray.
“I’m not sure that’s how it works”
“Listen, I’m new at this Tim, so I don’t know either,” I begin. I stare again at the posters along the wall, admiring the wrinkled and cracked image of Carmen Electra. She’s on a beach. “I’m that guy who looked over the
“Magellan died in the
“And that’s just it, Tim. I have no plans at present to visit the
“You’re dodging the question”
“I’m not, really. What’s now slowly fermenting in that tub back there is a means to an end. My ticket from this mundane apartment to the exoticism of the Orient. Or, you know, whatever. I use ‘the Orient’ figuratively”
Just then Tim’s pants emit a soft buzzing sound, followed by a series of for-some-reason arrhythmic electronic drumbeats. He digs into the pocket and retrieves his phone, flips it open. The blue hue of light from the display just barely reflects off his glasses that form the top line of a triangle that’s lower point is dotted with an auburn soulpatch below his mouth. His thumb stumbles across the keypad slowly and deliberately. It’s a short response.
“I have to leave here in about five”
I don’t ask why for and just assume. I finger the phone in my pocket, waiting for it to vibrate. I haven’t spoken to Alexa in six months.
“So you interested?” I ask maybe too casually and fall onto the recliner across the room from the couch Tim’s using.
“On being an Internet drug lord? No, I really am not”
“Don’t gotta be a dick about it,” I rub my eyes and feel dizzy. My heart’s racing.
“You don’t need my help anyways,” Tim stands and looks down at me from across the room.
“I may though,” and then I have it. How I’m going to do it. I once saw a kid seize back in middle school, and I try to conjure him now. My teeth clench. I flex my arms and legs until they feel like they’ll burst. A slight twitch to start.
“What’re you doing?” he asks. I can tell he’s genuinely afraid.
“Seizing, Tim. I’m seizing from the bathtub drugs,” I manage to spit out from my clenched jaw. By now my legs are in full jerk mode.
“Shit man, don’t do that”
“Do what, Tim? Die?”
“No this bullshit where you fake being high”
“This is as real as a high gets, brother,” I say and punctuate it with a swift shift of my weight in the chair. I’m slipping off to the carpet.
“Aleee…I need to pick her up in like 2 minutes, seriously”
“Oh so she let her license expire? I knew she would,” I say, half on the ground. I’m afraid that came off too effortless so I flop myself out of the chair and begin the truest-to-life imitation of that kid in middle school that I’ve yet done in my short life.
“Oh so that’s what it is,” Tim says and I imagine the tight concern on his face has disappeared, replaced by that bemused smug he had moments ago in the bathroom. I can’t tell though, what with my eyes rolling into the back of my head and all. I just grunt a response.
“Get up, dude. I’m not playing along. You just need to get over her and me. I…”
“This may require hospitalization,” I grumble out between spasms.
“Seizing people don’t talk”
“This must be some new type of seizure then,” I say, letting my spit froth a bit on the ends of my lips. Seizing takes a lot out of a man.
Tim is quiet again for a moment. I can tell he’s considering his options.
“I’m going to take you to the hospital just so they can tell us both you aren’t high and aren’t seizing”
I take the seizing down a notch.
“You’re an angel, Tim”
He walks over me to the coat rack. He gets both his and mine. When I know his back’s to me I relax my muscles for a brief moment and breathe in deep. Look up at the wall again. The ocean framing Carmen is still and calm and easily navigable. I consider asking Tim to bring the oar along too but it’s asking too much, I think. Tim drops my coat on me and I start to think of a ways to convincingly develop a facial tic by the time we get to the emergency room.
At this point there's more beer in the carpet than the cups. Something else needs to be done to maintain interests as the embers fade. “I know of this party at the quarry. Everyone’s supposed to be there. They said some big show’s going down” said Jason. Tim is already passing out. There’s no chance he’s going to make it out the door. “Well I guess it’s up to us” yells Gabi as she jumps up, grabs the keys, and throws them at Jason faster than he can catch.
They arrived too late. Instead of feeling they missed out they are relieved. It’s better not to imagine why a donkey is being lead off stage. The car is playing a lonely game of chicken as they watch . Jason hits what he thinks are the brakes hard. The car accelerates kicking up stones. Startled by the barrage the crowd disperses into the night. With few options Gabi jumps out of the car followed by Jason. They roll to a stop as the car continues into the quarry.
“Now how are we supposed to get back” screams Gabi. Jason looks over to the donkey, Gabi mounts. “How do you get it started?” asks Jason as he puts his hand to his chin because he believes it gives the look of deep contemplation. A voice comes from the shadows, “smack the ass.” Gabi looks back in disgust as she rides off into the distance.
The voice didn’t clarify which ass should have been smacked. What got the donkey moving was Gabi’s heels when she jumped at the surprise of getting smacked by Jason.
"Where the fuck is Casey?"
"I don't know. She was here a second ago. I had a beer with her."
"You got Casey to drink a beer? Dude, where the fuck is Casey?"
Dark, straight, short, soft hair. Casey was just here a second ago. Soft, kind, brown eyes. Or, maybe she wasn't? Casey was muscular, for a girl. Time is measured in drinks. How many beers ago was Casey actually here? My friend walks back inside, calling again and again for Casey. Percocet mixes with alcohol to produce a heightened buzz. Should've tried this long before. The night air is warm tonight. Humid. This party smells redundant. I doubt I'll fall in love tonight.
"The line to the bathroom is too long, man! I gotta take a piss!" This fucking guy has two polo shirts on for some reason. He's somebody else's friend.
"Just go around back, man. That's what I did. I opened the gate from the other side – it should still be open. Piss over in the side yard."
Two-polo comes back.
"Check it out man."
Two-polo produces a plastic bag.
"Ever had 'shrooms?"
Two-polo likes to share. So many shots. So many beers. Kissing some girl I've known for awhile. Now we're on the side yard by the gate. Entangled tongues. My fingers sticky between her legs. Her hands around my cock. Heavy breathing. Bare chests, the grass is chilly. Skin to skin contact feels important. I feel important.
"What the FUCK?"
What-the-fuck guy cuts through my buzz. He can't possibly be pissed about this – this is fine. She wanted to. He knows that we like each other – we've hooked up before. What is his problem? She said yes, and yes still means yes, yes?
"Did you open the fucking gate?"
I roll my head back and look, upside down, at the gaping hole that a gate normally fills. She's still on top of me. She's on top. She's a totally willing party. He can't be pissed about this. I'm still inside and her cunt gives a little squeeze. I laugh at her audacity.
"You think this is fucking funny?"
I prop myself up on both hands.
"The line to the bathroom was too long. Just needed to take a piss, so I used the side yard."
"FUCKING Christ. You motherfucking asshole. Casey was out here."
"Oh shit."
I move to get up.
"No, you've done enough, thanks. You're too trashed anyway. I'll fucking find her. Her leash is still in your car, right?"
----
"Hola chica!" "Hey, baby!" "Wooo WOOO!" Sara stood facing the brick wall in the dim and surreal orange streetlight. So far everything had gone to plan. She closed her heavily black-rimmed eyes and took a deep breath. Her hand closed tight on the black handle sticking out of a long cardboard box. Striped socks, spiky black hair, buttons. She was the bait, and about 50 men had come to take a bite. She was ready; they all were.
----
They had planned it for months. Their plans evolved, their numbers grew. Kids had come from the cracks in the walls it seemed.
They all new her name, but out of respect they referred to her as "Her" or "She." They came to secret meetings with colored hair and strange bracelets. She was surprised how quickly things evolved...changed...grew. The New Youth grew from the ashes of the burned dreams that Progress had torched to pave the way for Tomorrow.
-----
His dark and heavy hand squeezed her shoulder. His grip tightened. Sara's hand clenched on the black handle. "Aren't you in the wrong part of town, chica?" He asked with ethanol breath.
"Yes. And so are you."
-----
"Just try to stay sober tonight," begged Sara. Tim stood glaring at Matt. Sara looked at the concrete floor of the TNY meeting room, a dank hole forgotten during the Conversion under a luxury hotel. "Try."
Matt had a penchant for drugs. E2E, Meth, pot, whatever. He was probably the only real addict in TNY. Sara recalled Tim telling her that the only reason he didn't throw Matt out was that he was with them from the beginning. "It just takes the edge off!" he'd say while hitting some E2E before a practice session, or before doing a line off his sword before a recon.
"We're depending on you," said Sara. "We all are. I am."
"I can. I will," said Matt. Sara looked back at Tim, who was draped in the shadow of the corner. She couldn't see his face but she knew what he looked like right now. She always could tell.
------
The steel of Sara's sword flashed like a strobe. That was the signal. The man's hand fell to the ground. He raise the stump to his face; Sara turned to see his body silhouetted in the orange streetlights, 50 men behind him. She was ready. The pink highlights of her black hair glowed. She plunged the sword right into his stomach. She exhaled, and through the hilt of her sword she felt him do the same. It was just like she imagined it.
He fell to the ground. At 5"5" she craned her neck up at the men slowly advancing toward her. Any second now. She could feel their breath on her from 10 feet away. They growled. They hated her kind...strange hair, strange music...strange ideas. Any second now. Her eyes flicked left, then right, rimmed in black. "Matt..." she breathed.
The men advanced.
They practically piled on her, which is probably what saved her life. She felt her leg break...a knife across her back...her shoulder. She could hear the flapping of the sneakers of her friends finally arriving. 30 kids, 30 swords...only 30 of the kids had progressed to the level where they felt comfortable taking on this large of a group. Blood dripped onto her face in the dark, surrounded by the men. Was it her's? She could tell she was suffocating...after what felt like days she felt the weight fall away and the darkness came back to life with the golden streetlight. Triumph. Tim picked her up.
"Matt..." she whispered. "No, it's Tim. Matt didn't show. I am glad I had decided not to trust him. I sent lookouts watch you tonight. But we came out ahead. We got all but two...we want the story told to the rest of them, so we let them go. This is the beginning, Sara. This will be a blow they won't soon forget, let alone recover from.” She passed out in his arms as he walked past Genesis Club toward the meeting room under the hotel.
------
