The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column

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Coyote -> The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/26/2008 15:05:48)
Notice that it's writer's, singular. =P Comments thread: http://forums2.battleon.com/f/tm.asp?m=14063543 Table of Contents Against the Tide (A vignette) A Blaze of Glory Demons of the Mind A Fallen Sun A Flash of Orange (A vignette) A Light in the Dark Shattered Memories The Sound of Silence (A monologue) The Taste of Cinnamon Why You Shouldn't Trust a Talking Coyote The Wrath of Truth

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/26/2008 15:12:02)
A Blaze of Glory Dec. 1, 2006 I actually wrote this way back in spring of 2006. Or started on it. It was for the Young Authors writing thing (I don't know what to call it), and I started on it so I could enter it then. Except I got lazy, didn't finish it, and decided to finish it months later. If I had entered it, this might've gotten me somewhere. >_> An old man hobbled down the dirt road. He seemed unnaturally out of place compared to the rest of the life-filled world around him. Birds chirped in joyous delight as they flew from tree to tree. The woodland area around him boasted many splashes of color. Flowers grew in the brush. Green, the symbolic color of life, was spread like an enormous blanket over all the scenery. Somewhere up above, a chipmunk chattered eagerly. But all that life came suddenly to a halt. The forest was not the man’s target. It was the graveyard beyond it. It was a bright, sunny afternoon. There was nothing gloomy about the place. It almost seemed cheerful in the sun’s light. Gravestones were scattered about the area like bread crumbs after breakfast. A gigantic black iron fence separated the living from the dead. Let the fallen rest in peace. The old man opened the black gates. They screeched in protest as they haltingly opened. The old man had only so much strength in him. What were once bright, vigorous eyes had grown dull and listless from many years in a long life. What had once been hardened muscle hung as flab off of his wiry frame. He used a cane to walk, although he had once stood proud and strong. A single songbird flew overhead as if mocking the dry lifelessness of the graveyard. It had no place in there; it was life among death. The old man had one foot in the grave but the songbird was untouched. It had no place there… Graveyards are a place of memories. It is not the physical body that keeps one’s fallen spirit alive. It is memory of that person. Although there was a certain person the old man wanted to meet, the graves he passed brought back memories as well. Oh, those were good times. Oh, what memories… * * * “Loser!” That word rang like church bells in his ears. They brought up memories, but they weren’t quiet and solemn ones like the one that rang in the steeple back at home. “Hey, it’s that loser! Let’s see it he’ll worm his way out of this one! Loser!” He tried vainly to ignore the calls coming from the bigger, sturdier people in the room. They were excelling at camp. He wasn’t. There was, at least to them, a very fine line that divided ‘loser’ and ‘winner’. But was there ever really a line that separated ‘winner’ from ‘arrogant, snobby jerk’? He pondered over that. Those “winners” would most likely come chasing after him today. Like they did yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that… His otherwise fair features were marred by the days of soldier life and the frequent beatings he received from the “winners”. They claimed that they were to strengthen character. All it did strengthen was an ever-lasting hatred for the group known as ‘winners’. He didn’t have his sword with him. They weren’t allowed out of drilling grounds or when otherwise unneeded. The bullies just used big, meaty fists and temporary clubs instead. He was a wiry figure. He didn’t have much muscle in him. It was a horrid idea to join the army. He was weak, unfit, and socially challenged. He had gone because his only friend had gone to the army. His only friend was killed in a battle. There was no real reason to continue. But why did he do it? “Loser!” It was augmented by a punch to the face. It stung, just like the others he had gotten. He still had purplish-blue spots on his face from the last encounter. And he didn’t want more. Someone else threw a punch at his jaw, calling “Loser” again. He would think they tired of the word. There’s only so many times you can use it before it got old. But apparently, in their “winners’” style of ‘whatever I do is cool’, it was perfectly acceptable. The insults didn’t hurt him. The punches did. So he ran. It was amazing that the officers hadn’t caught them yet. They were always subtle but still packed a punch. Literally. Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice another boy about his age turn the corner and run straight into him. The other boy looked around. Seeing the bullies chasing after both of them, the other boy grabbed him and shoved both of them inside a closet. He heard the slight tick of a lock. So he knew where the locked rooms were. That was a start. He waited, silent, until the noise had passed. He heard the sound of thumping feet and disappointed groans as the others wandered away. That was when he gathered the guts to talk to the other boy. “Who are you?” he demanded angrily. A myriad of other questions flooded his mind. But that was the most prominent. “I’m… Teir. Nice to meet you.” And in the darkness of that closet, they shook hands. Being simple-minded children, that was the very moment of their friendship. In the harsh realities of the military school, there was nothing better than a good friend. * * * A good friend. The old man sighed, still lost in his memories. Oh, those were good times indeed… He and Teir, fighting side-by side. They were tormented together, they fought together, and they prowled the halls endlessly, together. He recalled all the fun they both had as a child, despite the cruelty of the military camp they were forced to attend. He was a true friend. * * * “Forward march!” They started forward. He felt sorry for his enemies. A wave of armored, armed men were sweeping across the countryside. They had their honor; no pillaging or looting was allowed. They were to involve the countrymen as little as possible. It was the enemy army they were concerned about. He almost choked on the smell of sweat and grime. Underneath all that armor, it was amazing that any of them survived. The temperature was unbearable. He didn’t know which one was worse: The stench or the heat. And then there it was. The enemy army was an imposing figure. He had a hard time seeing it; they had put him in back. As they marched down a slope, however, he had a very clear view of what was going on. The archers, further behind him, readied their bows. He heard the thwang of bowstrings as they let loose. A wall of arrows whistled over their heads. Then the battle started. A few of the enemy fell over, arrows piercing some vital area. Almost all of the arrows found a target. But not all found good ones. The armies met head-on. Instead of the complete chaos he was expecting, everything was actually quite orderly, save for the arrows flying overhead and the seemingly random targets they pierced. But now, the archers were aiming at each other; very few actual soldiers were hurt. Then the two armies actually clashed. Up front, there was a lot of noise: swords bouncing off armor, and above that, the whistling of arrows overhead. There was no real swordplay involved; it was just ordinary drilling again. Only the armor and shield stopped enemy attacks. Stab, step back. Stab, step back. Stab, step back… As usual, Teir was right next to him. He gave him a reassuring look that seemed to tell him, “I’m right next to you. Everything will be alright.” Or so he hoped. The front lines were thinning. The wounded were falling back and the slain lay on the ground. The battle would soon reach him. He would stab and step back, just as he had been drilled. So those seemingly pointless maneuvers had a point after all. There was only one line in front of him. Then, just like others before him, he stabbed and fell back. Stabbed and fell back. It became a rhythm of battle in the song of war. Stab and fall back. Stab and fall back. He landed no real blows. Everything he managed to get a nick at was turned away by metal plating. But the very thrill of it coursed through his veins. Adrenaline pumped through his body as he stabbed and attacked like there was no tomorrow. To his dismay, it was over too soon. The enemy army retreated. Some archers shot arrows in pursuit, but many threw their arms into the air and cheered. The battle was over. They had won. * * * There was another person the old man knew. There was Torran, a bright lad in his prime. He had fought like a devil in a tight corner but had the humor of a comedian. The old man smiled at the memory of him. He recalled where he had met the man. It was after the battle, in the barracks. Oh, what a fun time they had there… * * * “Chug! Chug! Chug!” they all chanted. The man in the center stood on top of a table. He held a full tankard in one hand and an empty one in another. He was already on his way of chugging the full one. However, he fell off the table after he made around halfway there. He laughed with the rest of them. It was a fun time. Their first battle was over. They were all winners that day. Every single one of them. “C’mon, Teir! Why don’t you take the stand?” There were several enthusiastic cheers as the crowd pushed Teir forward. It seemed that the fallen man wasn’t the only drunkie in the room. Teir reluctantly went forward and got up on the table. He drank a bit from the jug, shrugged, and started on it full. Only after a couple seconds, he had fallen. He caught him and dragged him outside. Teir spit the liquor out and got up. “It worked. I simply cannot believe it worked.” They stood there, staring at each other for a moment. “Now we can finally get away from those alcoholic losers.” Teir spat the last word. “I hear they’re holding a party down at the—” He was cut short by the approach of another man. He seemed loud and boisterous, although he spoke quietly when he did. He seemed energetic enough, but he saw not a trace of alcoholism in his steady gait or his clear, penetrating eyes. “Hey, mind if I join your little troupe there?” His voice was clear and seemed to cut through the air like a sharpened sword through cloth. But it was still inaudible by the rowdy, drunken brutes that populated the nearby barracks. “Not at all,” replied Teir. “Name’s Torran.” They all shook hands. “Nice meeting you.” So Torran joined their group. He was solidly built, had tanned skin, and corded muscles. He held his sword with an expert’s air about him. He was loose and calm, quick to laugh at a joke. Overall, they had a great time together. Such a wonderful time they had. Such a wonderful time, even dragging logs up for the festival bonfire. Everything went up in blazes. There was no log that was not consumed. It was a blaze of glory. Glory they had achieved in winning, in not turning around. Glory in fighting, glory in winning. The logs went up in a blaze of glory, and like in the battle, they basked in its warm glow. * * * The old man smiled as he passed Torran’s grave. It became a frown, a sigh of depression. Everybody toasted friends and family a long life. He no longer had any friends or family. A long life: Was it a blessing, or a curse? He passed more and more graves during his walk. Each and every one of them led their own life. Each and every one of them had friends and family. Each and every one of them had an impact on the world. Each and every one of them could bring joy to a downtrodden face, could relieve pain and ease the burden of a long life. But each and every one of them lay cold, motionless beneath the grass. Could they have brought harm? Could they have brought the harm that Teir had? Oh, the memories… They had fought many more battles together. Side-by-side, they rejoiced victories, mourned losses, passed the time between battles. So many battles. How could he remember all of them? So many battles. So many festivities. How many had there been? How long had it been? A bird sang as if in false hope. They could look to the light, continue forward without even a thought at the wasteland at their backs. The desert can spread. It can catch up. And you’ll be lost among the dunes, just another memory as a lost man. The old man shook his head. How long had it been? How long since that fateful night? * * * “Hey, you.” Teir looked up and glanced around. “Yes, you. Come over here.” Wearing a confused expression, he walked unsteadily to the alleyway. The bright shouts and cheerful songs were left behind as he walked into the shadows. He sat alone, but not until his friend got back. His friend was just at the bathroom. What harm was there? “What do you want?” he said warily, his eyes darting back and forth. He did not make any motion for his sword, but he was ready for any sudden movements out of the darkness. “Come over here.” He noticed a faint disturbance in the shade. He walked closer to it. By then, he was out of sight of the general festivities. There was nobody to save him if he was attacked. Save for one man. It was than that he walked back to where he once was. Odd, it seemed as if Teir had left his meal… It was then he heard the clink of gold. From the sound, there was a lot of it. “Can you do it?” an unfamiliar voice asked. There was the rustle of people moving around, then once again the clink of coins. Then Teir walked back out to his meal. He had never asked him about that. He regretted not asking him about it. He would learn, anyways, and all too soon… * * * The old man wiped away a tear. Oh, he would learn about it all too soon. He should have asked Teir, forced it out of him, stopped him. He should have stopped the treason. Stopped the play. But was there anything he could have done? Oh, he would learn about it all too soon. Was it a good thing that he had done it? Betrayed his commanders? Betrayed his cause? Was Teir the traitor he was now known as? Was he really a liar? The old man wiped away another tear and stopped. He stood, stooped against his cane, eyes closed in remembrance. The wind blew, blew right through him, chilling his bones. The wind did not blow around him anymore. It blew through him. Was he really that insubstantial? Would the wind blow around him if he had stopped his friend? Where was his honor? Was gold worth more than glory? Or had that glory gone up in a blaze, like the celebration bonfire? Was it really a blaze of glory then? Or was it a cremation, a destructive force used to forget? Did he really want to forget Teir? Was it really that bad? Only time would tell. And it had… * * * The clash of steel on steel rang out as they met blades once again. He stepped back and lunged forward, but Teir sidestepped and knocked his blade away. Returning with a downward slash, he failed to hit him as he used the momentum from his parried blade to get his blade between the sword and himself. “Traitor!” he gasped as he threw Teir’s sword off and returned with a horizontal sweep. “That gold fed my family back home! They would’ve died for that!” “They’ll die anyways because of what you did!” Teir parried his attack and resumed his own. He said nothing, not having anything to say. They exchanged blows, each advance met with skill and a returning blow. Finally, Teir landed one. The brunt of the hit was turned away by chainmail but it still drew blood. “First blood! Victory is imminent!” “Not if I can help it!” And so the battle continued. The number of blows landed increased slowly but steadily as the fight progressed. Teir lunged forward, but he was knocked aside. Finally, they stood, swords poised at each others’ necks. It would take only a single movement for each to end the other’s life. “Traitor. I should kill you as you stand.” “What keeps me from doing the same?” And with an almost feral roar, he swung his sword and danced away from Teir’s. The hit was a glancing one, but the damage was done. Teir lay on the grass, his lifeblood flowing from him. And upon seeing his face, contorted with pain, a myriad of memories flooded his mind. Kneeling over in his own personal defeat, he stared at his lifelong friend in the face. “What have I done?” He picked up his own sword, and pointed it at his own chest. “Dear lord, what have I done?” But Teir was not quite dead. Mustering all of his strength, he turned his head to face his killer. “No. Don’t…” And he coughed. He coughed blood. “Only one life needs to be wasted. Don’t…” And he collapsed on the ground again, barely breathing. Tears flooding his vision, he put the sword down and bowed his head. “What have I done?” “It’s not what you… Did. It’s what you can do…” And Teir looked at Achasund in the eye, the pain from his slow death clouding his eyes. Eyes that were once bright and exuberant now gazed out with the weary expression of an old man. “Do you forgive me?” And then he slumped over in final defeat. He breathed no more. A heavy, dreaded silence filled the air. The maddening silence of the divine ceasing to be. The maddening silence of death. * * * As per custom, Teir, because he was once part of their army, was given his own grave. Only one mourner sat as the body was tossed in without a proper burial. On the tombstone, his name, birth date, and death date were labeled. Beneath that lied the words, “Liar. Traitor. Murderer.” * * * The leaves rustled as a wind pushed through them, and above that sang a bird. It was a false hope, a hope that was not meant to be. Nothing here was meant to be. Was it? And finally, he approached the grave he had walked all this way for. By no means was it elaborate, by no means was it meant to stand out. It lay in the poorest side of the graveyard, the very back where nobody wandered to. No graves were tended to and they all lay like withering shells of the life they marked. This was a true symbol of death. Here, the grass was always greener on the other side of the fence. The old man knelt down next to the grave and cried. It was a silent weep, tears hitting the ground almost audibly. Finally, seized by desperation, he picked up two stones, and began chiseling away at the base of the grave. Footsteps sounded over the old man’s muffled sobs and the steady chink of stone on stone. There was a hiss of metal as a sword was drawn. “You defile the graves! Begone, wretch!” The soldier kicked the old man. “What do you have here?” He looked down at the two rocks the old man held and the shallow depressions carved into the tombstone. His eyes widened. “Traitor. Die like the other traitors here.” And he promptly took his sword and stabbed downwards into the old man’s chest. The old man was powerless to protest. But shock transformed into an expression of finality. His long, dreary life was finally at its end. He smiled despite the pain. Now the healing could truly start. A songbird sang over the old man’s strangled gasps. It was an outright defiance; its sweet life over the old man’s death. The songbird, as if giving up, flew overhead one last time before zipping back into the woods around the graveyard. It flew into the sunset. The sunset, in all of its fiery reds and golds, set the entire place ablaze. The old man had died in that blaze. He had died in a blaze of glory.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/26/2008 15:23:34)
The Wrath of Truth Dec. 5, 2006 And thus began my forays into madness. This one has a happier ending than my more recent forays. >_> I honestly don't remember what inspired this one. What I do remember is that I started it early autumn 2006 (or was it late summer?) and abandoned it. I got my muse back around November and started writing short stories instead of RPing. I finished A Blaze of Glory, so why not this one? The instant he woke up, he knew something was wrong. He didn’t know what; it just didn’t feel right. As his eyelids reluctantly parted, he took inventory of his room. Computer… Check. His Dell notebook lay closed on his desk, awaiting his command. Maybe if he could get himself up enough he could calm himself down on games. He pulled himself up, still puzzled. Strange, he thought. I never sleep on my stomach… He caught sight of a scaled, clawed talon by his pillow. He froze. So did the talon. Moving only his eyes, he traced the talon up its scaled arm, up to its— Refusing to acknowledge his thoughts, he simply stared at the arm and examined it. It was blood-red; not the dull color it gets when it dries, but the bright yet deep red it is when it’s still wet; the vibrant red that spoke of life and… He was getting hungry. If he moved, he would know the truth. There’s a monster on my bed, he thought to himself. His mind simply blocked out any thoughts he believed weren’t his. Like the fact that the scaled arm moved when he prepared to swing out of bed… The loud thud that resounded through his seemingly empty home finally broke through his mental defenses. He listened to it echo through the halls as the floorboards creaked under his weight. I either gained a whole lot of weight or I… He fell over in a dead faint. * * * She screamed for a solid minute and a half. That awoke the rest of the household, which simply consisted of the dad. He ran to his son’s room, his feet thudding on the hardwood flooring. He stopped to gaze outside the window as he ran. It was a beautiful day outside; sunny but not too bright, without a single cloud in the sky. It was the idealistic summer morning. What in all of Hell could have gone wrong? When he entered his son’s room, he soon found out. His wife gave one last shriek and retreated to the door, leaving him the closer one to the thing. It was as long as he was tall, and that was if you didn’t count the tail. It seemed to be fast asleep, despite the ear-piercing shriek that still echoed through the house. He saw scales, bright red scales that ran down its entire body. But what he saw most were the talons. Talons and claws that looked as if it could rip through a man to shreds as easily as a hot knife cuts through butter. Not to mention the teeth. They were like miniature daggers; at least the ones protruding from its mouth. He had no doubt that the fangs and teeth inside the oral cavity proper were even more of a sight to behold. Then, its eyes opened. The slitted orbs seemed to hold a raw power, as if they were windows to the burning pits of Hell itself. However, they seemed subdued; dazed, like the frosted windows of a winter morning. The scaly face, even if the muzzle distorted any clear perception of emotion, seemed to portray confusion. It looked at the two of them, and its eyes lit up, almost eagerly. He hoped like hell it wasn’t hungry. His wife screamed again. It looked around, scanning its surroundings. Then it looked directly at them again. Its face seemed to contort, as if it was making a Herculean effort to smile. It opened its mouth as if to speak. His wife sent him down to get the fire extinguisher while she kept it corralled in the center carpet. * * * Goddamn, what a bad dream… He groggily slumped out of bed and landed on the floor with a thump. He once again caught glimpse of his hand. It was still scaled. Okay, this has to be a bad dream. Just a bad dream. If I count to ten and pinch myself, it’ll all be—Goddamn, that hurt! He attempted to block the small but steady flow of blood from the scratch he had given himself. He attempted to speak again, but all that came out was a rush of air with the slightest hint of a growl. It was impossible for him. How in all of Hell was he to communicate with everyone? The answer struck him as he stared at last night's homework. * * * “He is a WHAT?” The father tried to calm himself as the mother went over the details. “He’s in the basement. I’m going to try and—” “I’m calling the cops!” “No!” The father stopped, startled by the sudden authority. “If we tell the cops about Jake, then God only knows what’ll happen! I don’t want to see our son in a zoo!” The father stopped. He seemed about to burst, but then quickly subsided. He sighed and looked at his wife. “Go get us some groceries and anything else we might need. I’ll go try and talk to Jake.” The mother nodded and hastily walked off. The father strolled down the hallway, trying to calm himself. The basement door came all too soon. He sighed again and walked down. The dank, dark air seemed to weigh him down as he continued down the steps, but this time, it carried with it a peculiar musky odor. He heard something scratch against cement. “Jake…?” * * * “Discovery of fantastic creatures sparks the interest of scientists worldwide,” a news reporter says into her mike. “We are here with the Petersons, who, if rumor has it, has captured a dragon. We are live on the scene at—” There was a shouted obscenity from within the house. Eventually, the father walked outside, not looking very pleased. “Break it up! There is no dragon here. There are no fantastic creatures. Whoever the hell started such a stupid rumor deserves to be shot. Get out of here! Git!” When the news reporters failed to budge, he grabbed a shovel and threatened them. He threatened to sue the news reporters and promised he would chase them out, by himself, with that shovel and anything else he could get his hands on. Not wishing to see more, Jake shut the TV off. * * * The trouble started when the cops broke in. They accused Jake of being the one responsible for several missing pets. His parents assured the police that Jake only ate meat they bought from the local grocery store. They persisted anyways. The lunatic was captured and secured about a week later. But that didn’t stop the trial. “Does Jacob Peterson really have any rights at all?” the persecution said smoothly, as if he talked about dragons every day. “The Declaration states that all men are created equal. Jacob is a dragon. He…” Jake droned him out as he faced his current predicament. What had he done to deserve this? “…And so I sentence Jacob Peterson two months in prison.” * * * “Miss Smith? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your boyfriend is in prison—” “What???” “You heard what I said, he’s in—” “I heard what you said! I just… Ugh!” She threw down the phone in disgust. What had he done to get in prison? The sweet, quiet, get-your-homework-done-on-time Jake? It wasn’t like him to do anything to wind up in prison. Just what had he done? She walked to her bedroom door and stood there, lost in thought. Then, the sound of her window opening brought her back to her senses. She turned around to see a man with a ski mask. A man holding a gun. She started to scream, but the man darted forward and muffled it. He cocked the gun and held it at her temple. Oh, what had he done? “Don’ move. If ya struggle, yer as good as dead.” * * * “Yo! You there! Git over here! We’ll break ya out!” Jake ignored the voice until he heard a click. Then he looked up to see people that looked like they’d be shady in the darkest parts of the neighborhood. One was busy removing a lockpick from the cell lock. “We’re gettin’ ya out. But ya owe us big time, ya hear?” The speaker smiled, revealing several gold teeth. Jake had no other choice but to oblige. “Any chance of knowing why you want to bust me out?” It came out as a rumbling growl, not a hint of humanity in it. But the leader just smiled again. “Yo’ special, Jake. We don’ like t’ see special people caged up like that.” Jake simply stared at them. How did they understand what he said? He asked them his question, eying them dubiously. The speaker laughed. “Don’ act crazy. We know you’re not. So drop the bull and git over here.” The rest of them laughed. Jake walked forward and through the door. “Oh yeah, we’ll treat ya very well. Yo’ special, after all.” * * * “Mom, call the cops! Tell them that a gang broke into the jail!” She stared at him for a bit, a puzzled expression in her eyes. She seemed completely unphased by the fact that it all came out as a huge roar. She obviously did not look like the mother whose son had just broken out of jail. “Mom! I just got out of jail ‘cause some gang started busting people out. Why are you just standing there?” His mother walked straight up to him, looking extremely unnerved. “Jake, wake up! You never were in jail! Oh Lord, please tell me this is a dream…” “Look at me! I’m a dragon. I was accused of eating neighborhood pets. And you’re wondering why I’m telling you this? I’m wondering more!” It all came out as a huge roar. Apparently he didn’t have vocal chords. But maybe it was telepathic? Just exactly what about these past events struck him has funny? Should he really be this surprised that another such event has occurred? But his mother began sobbing. “Jake! Wake up! Wake up! It’s just a dream. It just has to be a dream…” She wiped tears from her eyes and looked at Jake right in the eyes, a look of desperation on her face. “Please, Jake, don’t tell me I’ve lost you…” A gunshot rang through the house. And his mother fainted. When he heard the kitchen door bust open violently, he was vaguely aware of the ground spiraling up to meet him. * * * He awoke in what appeared to be an unfinished basement. The walls were made of cement, and the only lights came from bare bulbs on the ceiling. He noticed that he was caged. He grabbed the bars and shook them, but they stood firm. He heard a gasp as someone next to him awoke. That person was tied to a metal pole running from the ground to the ceiling, unable to move or struggle. “Jake! Is that really you?” She stared at him, in awe and in fright. He wasn’t what you saw every day. But the fright came from another source. “Quiet, wench!” The shady-looking man from earlier hit her. She cried out in pain, tears framing her eyes. The others around them laughed. They stood around them in a semicircle. The leader stepped back from her. “What are you going to do to us? What will you do to him?” “Oh, we’ll do a lot t’ ‘im. Goddamn animal busted us. We’ gon’ make it pay.” They gathered closer and closer to his cage. They had him encircled. They weren’t going to let him escape. He frantically glanced back and forth. There had to be a way to get out. But his cage locked him in. Cold steel bars stood between him and his freedom. Then the leader cocked his gun. Then the girl bound to the pillar next to him began sobbing uncontrollably. “NO!” * * * The night was quiet. The pale luminosity of a full moon shone through the window like a long-forgotten hope, forlorn and in anguish. It gave the sheets a pearly glow, almost as if they were once the sheets of some divine being. Once. The silence hung in the air like a heavy mist. Tubes hung from the walls and ceiling like drapes, surrounding the lone boy in the bed. It was quiet. It was very, very quiet. The single noise that permeated the room was the steady drone of life support. * * * “We gather here to mourn the loss of Jacob Peterson, lost to us on the night of August fifth…” Jacob’s mother stared at the coffin with tears in her eyes, struggling to keep from sobbing. All of his friends and family stood stoically, watching the coffin as it was lowered into the earth. It was only a bit longer than he was tall, the deep brown of mahogany seeming to add to the sadness. The sun was still high in the sky, but it stood as a consistent reminder the bright and cheerful times that had once been. Jacob’s mother broke into sobs. And far above them all, a sleek form of reds and golds flew upwards, enjoying freedom at last.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/26/2008 15:33:11)
Against the Tide Dec. 9, 2006 I thought "Against the Tide" would look cool in story form. So this vignette is what came out of it. There was not a sound, save for the waves breaking against the sand. The moon cast its baleful eye over the scenery. A gull harked its approach over the ever-changing flow and ebb of the waves. There was a line of rubble pushed ashore by the waves; a boundary that high tide dare not pass. The dunes beyond that were dry, untouched. It was low tide. There was not a sound, save for the steady pat-pat of my bare feet against the sand. It felt cool and moist under my feet and between my toes. It was not firm enough to support my weight, signaling that the tide had long since passed that point. But it was still moist, signaling that it would once again return. There was not a sound. But in the distance, a loon cried mournfully, as if lamenting the loss of the sun’s bright rays. An answering call sounded over the steady crash of waves, twin calls, both announcing its presence to all those around it. The moon shone bright over the waves, its eye prying the shadows for secrets. Its pearly, luminous radiance banished the wraiths of night. Yet it created more shadows, shadows of leaves dancing about in the wind. Shadows in the dunes, in the trees that grew sparsely about the area. In those shadows lay unspeakable horrors waiting to waylay the unwary passerby. In the moon lay the power to both banish and create the demons that taunt us from the shadows. Its power was both demonic and divine. Demonic and divine… But its light was overcome by a fell cloud, determined to make the worst of a bad situation. Without light, without the power of vision, I felt lost. I felt abandoned. I was alone in the dark, either to await doom or vainly try to escape it. A loon cried out, this time almost a mocking laugh to satirize those without flight. It warned of a danger… The air thickened as the tide drew closer. The cloud refused to part, holding steadfast against the moon. With the moon gone, those demons of the mind wandered about all throughout the mist, mocking me from beyond sight. The waves lapped at my heels like a hungry dog, begging for food but threatening to attack me should I not give it any. The wet sand sucked at my feet as I trudged forward, determined to reach my destination. It slowed me down as I felt the numbing cold of the ocean waves brush against my heels. Was I to be left alone, a forgotten memory? It was dark. The darkness that haunts your nightmares, the all-consuming void from which there is no return. Demons and wraiths of nightmares danced from beyond my sight. The water rose, slowly, escalating higher and higher up the sandy shores. It was halfway up to my knees, its coldness sapping the strength from my weary legs. I fought a losing battle, a battle doomed to failure. I felt the spray on my face as the waves crashed into my legs. I staggered for a moment before continuing. My feet dragged in the muck that was once dry sand. They sank and the sand seemed to pull at it. Step after step, I tore my feet from its cold embrace as I struggled to move forward. But in the distance lay yet another fell cloud. A thick blanket of fog rolled in slowly, a symbol of inevitable doom. There were no rocks to crash on, but being beached was a similar fate. Dragged into the waters, forever fated to wander aimlessly, lost in your own mind. All hope was lost as the fog rolled in, holding me in its cold, deadly embrace. * * * There was not a sound, save for the steady crash of the surf against the sand. The clouds finally retreat, allowing moonlight to once again illuminate the beach. The fog removes itself from the scenery. All is normal. The sand remains undisturbed, the beach untouched. All is normal. There was not a sound, not a sound out of place in such a serene environment. All is normal. All is clean. And in the distance is the cry of a loon.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/26/2008 15:37:42)
Demons of the Mind Jan. 24, 2007 copypasta from dA Anything 'horror' I write is, has, and will be largely influenced by Stephen King. Given that his writing is the only real horror writing I've read that actually spooked me... Once again, I have my own philosophies regarding how horror should be written, so don't bother me if this doesn't scare you. It's my first actual, honest-to-God horror, anyhow. Expect mistakes and blunders. "Hah. You remember that? That's where I first met you. Y'know, how I almost kicked you in the face on the monkey bars?" "Ehh. Fun times." The motley group walked further. The almost-full moon shone overhead, giving a divine luster to dull, earthly objects. Everything seemed almost black and white, the darkness of nighttime dulling vision while the moon enhanced it, giving a monochrome aura to the grass. Overhead, a crow cawed. A black form flew two circles over the playground and then flew off into the distance. "C'mon, nobody's going to notice. For old times' sake?" "Fine." The teenager lagging behind the main body jogged to catch up. "Us five at an elementary school: this is going to spread quickly at school," he muttered almost inaudibly. "Stop being such a pessimist, Jake. It's why we're going at nighttime. People are asleep. Nobody's here but us." "We're all alone to do whatever the hell we want. We can sit here and do whatever 'till the cows come home and nobody will care." "So who's got the spray paint?" They all laughed and walked forward. "So, Ryan, what did you have in mind when you organized this whole thing?" "Dunno. Y'know, just sit and chat? For old times' sake, Chris. For old times' sake." "Oh, you remember that, Rob? Last day of fifth grade." "I remember that! Who would've thought she'd be so eager to get back to school?" "Jumping off the swings was fun, but she didn't pick the best landing spot." They all laughed again and stepped onto the asphalt. The silhouettes of two basketball hoops lay still and forlorn on the pavement. The fifth member of the group, Brendan, smiled with the memories. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to give this place a visit. The five of them sat down on the swings. They were quite a bit low, but none of them minded. Lost in memories, they chatted away about long-gone days when homework wasn't the least of their worries. Nor was the silent black figure that seemed to dart at the corners of Brendan's eyes. "Hey, I see something over there. You mind if I go check it out?" "What'd you see?" "Don't know. But I saw something." Brendan got up and walked forward. Ryan got up after him. After a slight hesitation, Chris and Rob got up as well. They stepped forward. "Jake, you coming?" "Nah, I'd rather stay here. You guys can go looking for whatever Brendan saw." "Over there!" Brendan walked forward again, at a different direction. The other three ran to follow him. They approached the slides. There was an elevated platform, off of which were three slides. The moonlight struck the figure, leaving horrific shadows on the ground. Brendan walked up tentatively. "Gotcha." Two hands grasped his shoulders. Their claws dug in, leaving a strange sensation on his shoulders. Brendan jumped. "God damn it, Rob, I told you not to do that!" "Aww. When?" "A very long time ago." "Well, how am I supposed to remember?" "Just do it. Clip your fingernails while you're at it." Chris laughed. "He scared you, didn't he?" "Shut up." They all laughed about it. Brendan looked around. There seemed to be nothing, no obscure shadows teasing him from the corners of his vision. He dismissed the thought as his overreactive imagination and motioned to turn back. The four of them made their way back to the swings. Jake was missing. "Jake? Jake? You can come out now. We'll all have a good laugh about this." There was no answer. "Jake! It's not funny. We came to talk, not pull pranks." "You know him. He'll come out eventually." Rob leaned against a pole. "He's too much of a chicken to do otherwise," he said deliberately loudly. But there was still no answer. It was then that Brendan saw the figure again. It seemed to dart around by the slides in his peripheral vision. However, when he looked directly at it, it was gone. It was a fleeting shadow; was it Jake, or was it his mind? "Guys, I'm going to check the slides again." "We'll stay here this time just in case he comes back." Brendan nodded and ran off towards the slides. The moon shone off of his hair like a beacon; no way he'd disappear from their sight. But the shadow appeared to the left, away from Brendan's target. Ryan's head whipped over to face the basketball nets. "What's that?" "Don't see anything." "Coulda sworn I saw something there." "Guys, do any of you see Brendan?" Ryan and Rob both looked to their right. They saw nothing. Only the moon shining on the paint, the woodchips creating irregular, shadowy patterns on the ground. They saw the figure of the slides, a three-tentacled monster of a shadow laying flat on the ground. But the quiet, reluctant Brendan with lethargic Jake… Were they really the ones to pull this sort of a prank? "The hell?" Rob rolled his eyes. "Oh, and by the way, you're on Candid Camera. The camera's over in the bushes." "There are no bushes." "Where the hell are they?" "Okay. Really funny, guys" Rob said sarcastically, still leaning against the pole. "Really funny. Now tell me where they are." "Do you think we planned this?" "For all I know, yes, you did." "Come on. I just wanted to have fun." "So you did do it!" "No, I just wanted to come here so we can talk! I'm not any happier about this than you are!" "Look at it. Brendan? Jake? Do they look like the kind to pull pranks?" "No, but…" "Then somebody put them up to it." Ryan sighed and looked at Rob with a weary expression. He was normally the prankster of the group; was he enough of an actor? "Look here. I'm not saying anyone did this. I'm saying we should go search for Brendan and Jake." "Then let's go look for them." Ryan looked at Chris. Chris looked right back. It was the first time he had contributed to the conversation. "I'm saying we should look for them. Or we can just wait until they give themselves up." "I'm with the former. You?" Ryan turned to his right. There was nobody there. Rob, standing there only a minute ago, was gone. "There's no way in all of hell he could've walked that quietly." Ryan looked up and around, expecting to see the three of them shout out to scare them at any moment. He backed away from Chris. "Interesting word choice," Chris commented. "No way he could've walked away like that…" "Now isn't the time to get religious on me. We need to find the others. This is just creeping me out." Ryan walked stepped forward. "Come on." He walked forwards a little bit. "Hey, I think I see something…" The two of them ran forward, Chris lagging behind almost on purpose. But Ryan stopped dead in his tracks and cupped his hand over his mouth in an almost girlish fashion. "Holy…" he said, his voice cracking. Chris caught up and stifled a genuine, honest-to-God scream. They had found the others, all right. One of them. Brendan lay on the ground, his eyes wide open in terror. Despite the darkness, his pupils seemed almost small, irises retracted as if to block out the sight he beheld. His mouth was wide open, jaws locked in a silent, everlasting scream. He was lying spread-eagled on the ground, as if he had fallen over and never gotten back up. He lay, silent and cold, directly beneath the slides. "What the hell…" Ryan muttered again, his voice cracking. Instantaneously, both backed away from each other. "Get the hell away from me! Go get your devils and whatever and just get the hell out!" "'Now isn't the time to get religious on me,'" Chris quoted, his eyes still wide open in horror. Never again would he see the world the same way again. Would he live to see the world? Ryan lifted a finger of accusation, pointing at his former friend. It quivered with a combination of fear and anger. "You set this up, didn't you. Y-you got Jake and Rob to just run off and hide and got Brendan to do it. Brendan, get up! It's not funny!" He kicked Brendan, who simply shifted slightly in accordance to his kick. Ryan kicked harder. Brendan did nothing. He was dead. He heard the pat-pat of shoes running through the playground. He looked up to see Chris, gone, and running to the opposite corner of the playground. "Yeah, run like the coward you are! Run! RUN!" Ryan sneered, but mostly to cover up his own insecurity. What the hell was going on? Chris kept running, not stopping until he was in the grass. The cool, dew-laden grass. The moonlight hit the dew, giving the grass an almost crystalline appearance. Small moonbeams refracted off the droplets and shone in the night, miniature beacons for miniature ships lost at sea. Lost at sea. What a concept. Was it the ocean, or a sea of despair? His frantic, half-mad thoughts were interrupted as he saw movement. There was a wraith, teasing him from the shadows. His head shot up and stared into the darkness of the playground equipment. The shadow was gone. He saw Ryan make a rude gesture and then run back to the swings. There was a scream. And then there was silence. Chris got up slowly and walked to the swings. "Odd," he muttered to himself. "Since when did we have seven—" His sentence was cut off by a scream. His own. The seventh swing had only one chain. Only one rope, tied to the top. At the end of the rope was another still figure. It rotated slowly, the moonlight giving it a surreal look. Chris watched in horror as it turned. Slowly. It rotated, to reveal the pale face of Jake's corpse. His face held a look of surprise. His dead eyes almost sparkled with curiosity, now clouded over by Death's hand. His body hung from the noose around his neck. He backed, slowly, coming to rest against a solid metal pole. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw smoke waft slowly out from behind him. It almost seemed to rotate and two glowing red eyes turned to face him. "What did you do?" he cried. He used his hands to try to wave the smoke away. But his efforts were futile. The demon gave a low, hollow laugh and disappeared. Then he saw it. There was another pale figure, pale despite the tan he had developed over the summer. They had spent the summer together. Where was that Ryan that he knew? The answer lied ahead of him. On the ground, bronzed skin illuminated by moonlight, lay his former best friend. He lay still on the ground, sideways with his back facing Chris. Chris got down on his knees and rolled him over. After seeing the last two, he didn't know what to expect Certainly a bloody gash wasn't one of them. The body appeared intact. The hands, from the looks of it, were once balled into fists, ready to fight. But as his gaze wandered up, he saw his demise. Blood oozed out of an enormous cut on his forehead. It ran down his face in small red rivers, as if they were tributaries feeding Moses' Nile. He could not tear his eyes from it; they were transfixed on the flesh hacked away to reveal what looked like a hint of white… But finally, he looked away from it and looked onto Ryan's face. Rather than an expression of horror, his was a grim acceptance. He had died trying to fight, a cornered animal's last struggles for freedom. He felt a tear run down his face. He felt a hand tap him on the shoulder. He turned around to see a figure in black armor, once again with red eyes staring out from the darkness of its helm. It stepped forward and swung its battleaxe, aiming for his neck. Nothing happened. He got up. The thing was nowhere in sight. What was going on? Ghosts and shades swarmed in the shadows, all reaching forward. For him. He saw small black worms rise up from the shadows in the woodchips. They all gathered towards him, all seeking a common goal. He shot up and ran, the worms following him. He saw a shadow of a wraith spring out at him with bloodstained claws and enormous gnashing teeth. He saw a hand pop out of the ground and drag the rest of the deformed body up from whatever pit it had spawned in. He glanced frantically around, looking for a means of escape. Hellish monsters surrounded him and all inched closer, all savoring a warm meal and another soul to drag down with them. He was surrounded. Surrounded, with no means of escape. The moon's baleful eye watched a lone man struggling demons of the mind. Five High-School Kids Disappear Five high-schoolers disappeared on the night of March fifth, 2006. They had left their homes during the night and stayed up past curfew. However, they did not return in the morning. Witnesses reported spotting the five headed towards the local elementary school. Their parents supported the evidence. "Jake told me he'd be heading to the playground to meet his friends," says one grief-stricken mother. "I told him to be careful out there." All evidence pointing to the elementary school playground, investigators searched the area along with the surrounding woods. So far, no signs of violence have been spotted. If there was a struggle, it did not happen in the immediate area. Investigators are baffled by this case. The bodies are nowhere to be found.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/26/2008 15:45:47)
A Light in the Dark Late Feb. 2007 Written for a contest held here in L&L last year. I didn't score so high; people liked the first two paragraphs but not much of the rest of it. XP This is a prime example of what happens if you describe too much. Read it an weep tears of pain. A form zipped through the bushes. It was a sleek form, graceful in its leaps and bounds through the forest. All shades of browns blended together into a single blur as the figure arced back and forth between the trees. It danced a delicate, fleeting ballet as it weaved through the woodland. A form crashed through the underbrush. It was ungainly, obviously not meant for running through the woodland territory. The greens and browns of its scaled skin effectively camouflaged it among the trees and bushes, but this was not a time for stealth. The time for stealth was long past. This was the time for dodging trees. This was the time for chasing. This was act two of the play. The stag pranced over the foliage, almost frolicking in its desperate attempt at escape. Its ivory antlers were visible for just a moment as it peaked in a leap over a bush, and then joined in the rest of the creamy blur as it dashed away from its assailant. The Drakel following behind it gasped for air. His side ached from running. An unseen internal fire burned away within his lungs. But that same eternal fire burned within his eyes. He would get this one. It would not get away. A bird chirped overhead as if in insolent mockery the Drakel's futile endeavors. It then spread its angelic wings and then soared up into the heavens. The Drakel pulled out his bow. It was already strung and slung over his shoulder. He ran with the weapon in hand. He ran, waiting, waiting for the opportune moment… It revealed itself. The opportune moment revealed itself as the stag ran into a clearing. This was perfect. There were no trees to interfere with his aim. It was just him and the deer in a wide, open clearing. The stag continued running across the glade. The Drakel grinned a smile of victory. He grinned a smile of sweet, sweet victory. He readied his bow. Still running, he raised the bow and held it in position. Still panting, he reached behind him to pull an arrow out of his quiver. Still grinning, he steadied it. He would eat well that night. He would eat very, very well. He fit the arrow in the notch. He pulled back. He felt the strain in his shoulder and in his arm as he pulled the bow backwards. He aimed, and readied… The deer abruptly turned around. Startled, the Drakel released the bowstring. His aim was thrown askew and the arrow flew in a different direction. The deer turned around and stared him directly in the eye. It was still charging. And this time, not away from the predator. It ran directly at him, a cornered beast with nothing to lose. Hastily, the Drakel whipped another arrow from his quiver and threw it into position. He pulled back on the bow, hopefully to catch the deer before it came too close. He pulled back too late. The stag butted him square in the stomach. He flew backwards, the wind knocked out of him. He labored to his feet, his already abused lungs burning with the lack of air. He pulled another arrow out of his quiver, shaking with anticipation. The bow was damaged. There was a splinter of a crack running down its length. The Drakel cursed but readied the bow anyways. The stag was coming back, ready to finish the job it had started. He was lucky he wasn't gored by one of the antlers; very lucky indeed. That would not be a very pleasant fate. The stag, in its magnificence, readied to charge. It was no longer a caged animal, but an angel fighting back for the territory that it owned. This stag labored to protect its own Garden of Eden. The hunter was now the hunted. This little kitty had claws. He pulled back on the bow, muscles straining, the wood of the bow groaning in protest. Then it splintered in his hands. It shattered, pieces flying every which way. He still held the string. The momentum, the potential stored energy in the bowstring, flew backwards. It was meant to go forward, pour all of its strength into the arrow that would slaughter the stag. But the Forces worked against him as his hand pulled the bow the opposite direction and into his body. An endpiece of the weapon bounced off the grass, literally bouncing from the sheer force it hit the ground with. Another endpiece ricocheted off of his head. He was dead. He was dead meat for the scavengers to find and devour. The demons would drag his body down to their fiery pits. He could see their fiendish visages at the edges of his vision. He opened his left hand, the remains of his bow falling out of it. He watched them fall, slowly. Time seemed to grind to a halt. There was grit in the great cogs of the clock tower. The stag ran to him. He watched, dumbfounded, as the stag reared up. It kicked at him with its front hooves, missing him once but then catching him in the shoulder. The force of the blow knocked his shoulder backwards. He felt a sickening crunch as bone gave way. He was knocked upwards, twisting to the side in midair as he flew. He left contact with the ground for what seemed like an eternity. For an eternity, he soared in the air. It took him forever to fly up and fly back down. Time slowed down. The arc reached its zenith and he fell, plunging back down like a fallen angel once more failing to reach its former homeland. He hit the ground with a solid thud. He felt whiplash as his head was knocked backwards, neck bending in an almost graceful U shape before slamming back down on the ground. His body bounced just slightly and landed again. He lay on his stomach, sprawled on the grass. He felt the deer's footsteps through the ground. It galloped away, its job done. He felt no pain. The pain was distant, trying to reach him from across an enormous chasm. It stretched across an endless fissure in the ground, trying desperately, in vain, to reach him. The world spiraled out of focus. He felt like he was flying again. He did not feel the ground beneath him. He did not feel the pain in his left shoulder. Nor did he feel the grass against his soft belly. His shirt was torn by the chase and by the impact and lay in tatters on his torso. It hardly mattered, anyways. He wasn't even aware of it. He lay on the ground, lamenting his precarious disposition. His own thoughts, too, took a while to reach him. The train of thought had left the station but the rails were damaged. What had he done to deserve this? he asked himself. Why? First kicked out of society, then lost by his own hunting party, then left to bleed to death in the middle of a forest. No one would see him and he would die another nobody. He was all alone in a deserted landscape. He was bleeding. He felt like he wasn't him; that he was just another bystander watching himself bleed. He watched as his own lifeblood flowed out of him to stain the grass a deep crimson. With every passing moment, more of his life spilled out in scarlet waterfalls… He looked up, struggling against the forces of gravity. He bent his long neck in a fruitless search for water. A river. A pond. A lake. But there was nothing in sight. He desperately wanted to hear the trickle of a woodland creek, so desperately wished to hear the roar of flowing water. Water. Purifying water. The holy panacea, purging evil from the body… "Somebody help me!" he cried out with the last of his strength. He called out for help. Perhaps a healer. The hunting party that seemingly abandoned him. Anybody. His uplifted head then collapsed and fell back onto the earth. He stared off into space, the bushes nary two yards away from the tip of his nose. He saw white in the fringes of his vision. That white darkened, slowly, becoming black. That black spread inwards, first hesitantly, then with increasing velocity. The last thing he saw before blacking out entirely was another cream-colored blur. Was it the stag again? No, it was far too small to be the stag… He mused in the chilling dark. He lay, alone, in the dark and in the cold. Were his eyes closed? Or… Was this what death felt like? He couldn't see a thing. It was so dark. And so cold. He couldn't feel a thing. He was frozen in this infinite darkness. But suddenly, he felt a warmth flood his body. He felt warmth radiating from an unseen source. He stared off into the darkness, trying to unveil his savior from the shadows. He saw a faint ray, a faint glimmer off in the darkness. He saw a light. A light, brightening in intensity. And in that light stood his guardian angel. He couldn't see his guardian angel against the now blinding whiteness. But he saw a faint shadow framed by the light. A faint shadow that was but two feet tall… The Drakel smiled and submitted to the darkness. He gave in and allowed himself to be swallowed by it. He was engulfed by the dark. But this time, he felt warm.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/27/2008 0:06:04)
The Taste of Cinnamon March 21, 2007 Inspired when I was sick and with a high fever. I commented that my (I think it was Tylenol) pill tasted like cinnamon, for some reason. Don't ask. I was sick. Wasn't quite the story I was looking for; had a major writer's block about halfway through. I hate it when that happens. >_> "It's a boy!" Those same three words were repeated to a child of about ten back home. The boy shouted in delight and jumped into his father's arms. His father stood up and lifted him into the air, smiling like he had just won the lottery. And in a sense, he had. The father put the child down and turned around, hugging the still-weak mother. They both smiled kissed, happy that their family now included one more healthy member. There was rejoicing and merrymaking all throughout the household. Even after the initial impact of the news died down, there was still celebration to be found throughout the household. The father walked with a renewed bounce in his step, full of vigor and happiness for the world around him. The mother slept often but regained her strength quickly, wearing a weary but a happy expression. The child walked upstairs, on his way to clean his room. He, too, wore a bright and exuberant smile. * * * "B-but… I'm scared…" A young boy stood with his younger brother at the top of the slide. The older brother stood motionless, thinking, while the younger one stared wistfully up at him. Then, at once, both turned to face the yellow plastic obstacle that lay ahead of them. "It's okay. Do you want me to go with you?" The older brother smiled and looked down at his sibling. "But…" "See? It's fine!" He stepped forward and sat down. He scooted forward until his bottom lost footing and he plummeted down the slide's length, shouting with enjoyment. When he finally slid to a stop, he got up and jumped off. He turned around to look back at his younger brother. "See? I told you." But his brother was still questioning his wisdom. "But… What if I fall?" "Then I'll catch you! Come on, it's okay!" The younger brother stood there for a little bit and then reluctantly stepped forward and onto the slide. He sat down and moved forward, inch by inch, trying in vain to ignore the sense of doom lying ahead of him. His eyes clamped shut as he moved blindly, not knowing when he would fall and plummet to his death. He finally slipped and slid down the length of the slide, coming to a stop right in front of his older brother. He opened his eyes. His brother stared right down at him, beaming. "See? That wasn't so hard!" His younger brother smiled. "That was… fun. Let's go down together next time." "Yeah! Let's do that!" And so they headed back up the stairs hand-in-hand. * * * "BROTHER!" A young boy ran through the living room to his brother. He was sobbing uncontrollably. "John, what's wrong?" John's brother looked down at him with a look of genuine concern in his eyes. John looked up, tears choking his vision. "They were making fun of me at school!" He sobbed again, letting the tears run down his face. His brother took a tissue and wiped the tears from his face. "Now, now. It's okay. They're just mean." "B-but…" his brother stammered, looking for the right words. "If they're mean, nobody likes them. Do you like them?" "No!" He looked up with a look of menace and defiance on his face. His brother smiled. "See? It's all better. And if they make fun of you again, I'll make fun of them." "Brother?" John looked up, the tears starting to dry. "Yes?" "I'll always love you." And they both smiled. * * * BOOM. There was an enormous thunderclap. Things rattled. And not even a short while afterwards, lightning arced through the sky, preparing for another. "Brother!" John wailed as he ran down the hallway. He opened the door and ran into his brother's room. "John! Are you okay?" His brother looked down at him from atop his bed. "The thunder is scary…" "The thunder… It's just giants with drums!" He hit his pillow, making a loud thump. "It won't hurt you." "But what if they take us away?" He looked at his brother with a look of genuine fear on his face. "They'll cut us both up and they'll eat us!" His brother smiled despite the grotesque image. "Then I'll hit them so hard, they'll run home crying." "Will you?" John looked up with a look of innocent purity, his glistening eyes glinting in the sparse light. There was yet another loud thunderclap. He jumped into his brother's arms. There was a flash of lightning. "Okay. When you see lightning, count until the thunder." "Why?" But his brother was already counting. He jumped as there was another monstrous boom. "I counted to ten. Now you try." There was a flash of lightning. Then thunder. "Twelve! I counted to twelve!" He beamed up at his brother in pride and accomplishment. "That means the storm is going away." There was a flash of lightning. They counted together. "Sixteen!" "See? They're already scared of me." His brother flexed his arms while he laughed. And they both sat on his bed and waited the storm, together. * * * "Come on, just swallow it. It doesn't taste like anything! It's better than that nasty cough syrup, isn't it?" "But I don't like swallowing things like that." "You'll get used to it. Come on! Down you go…" John looked up from his sitting position on his bed. The covers were ruffled, showing signs of a restless night and a restless morning. He had been bedridden since morning of the day before. "Would you like to be sick or would you like to swallow this?" With that comment, John hesitantly took the pill and swallowed it with a gulp of water. It felt so very uncomfortable to him, the object sliding down his throat. He looked up at his brother, who was smiling. "See? It wasn't that bad." He examined his brother's face. There was something behind that friendly smile. What was it…? "It tastes like cinnamon." There was a pause as his brother set the cup back on the table. "How can it taste like cinnamon? It's a pill." "It still tastes like cinnamon." He smiled weakly. His brother smiled wearily as he walked away. "Goodnight?" His brother nodded and turned off the lights. "Goodnight." * * * "Brother, can you play?" John looked up to his role model with a look of hope in his eyes. His face was stretched in an eager smile, knowing his brother's answer. But his brother's answer was unexpected. "I'm sorry, I've got things to do." His brother gave an earnest but weary smile. John's face drooped in disappointment. "Can you play after that, then?" "No. I'm sorry. I don't know how long it'll take…" There was a silence as John pondered more possibilities. There had to be something. At least something that they could do together. "Can I help you, then?" He looked up with a smile. An eager smile, but a desperate one. His brother shook his head. "Can you do algebra?" "What is algebra?" he asked. "It's math." "I can do math! I know my multiplication tables—" His brother smiled again. It was a smile, worn with a genuine look of fraternal love but still worn thin by impatience. "This is bigger math. I'm sorry. I'll try to play with you later, okay?" "Okay. Promise?" His brother nodded. "Promise." He never did keep that promise. * * * "BROTHER!" John ran through the living room to his brother. He was sobbing uncontrollably. His brother was obviously busy with homework. "Yeah? What's wrong?" John's brother glanced down upon him with a look of concern, but also a look of annoyance. John was disturbing him from what he needed to do. "They made fun of me! At school!" He looked up at his older brother. The looming figure that was always there to give him guidance. "Yeah?" "Th-they made fun of me…" "People will do that all the time!" His brother frowned in annoyance. "They made fun of me. Because of you. Live with it." "B-but…" "Just go away." And John walked away, slowly, his heart broken. Where was his brother? Was this person really the figure he looked up to? He trudged to his room, collapsed on his bed, and cried. And not because of the bullies. * * * "John, your brother wants you," Mother said softly. John stiffened slightly but submitted. He sighed and headed slowly upstairs. Every step took him closer and closer to the answer he knew he would receive. How long had it been since he had last been in there? But eventually, his brother heard the slow, steady creak of his door opening. John walked in hesitantly. He could see the uncertainty in his walk and the confusion on his face. Why had his brother bothered calling the likes of him up to his room? He hadn't been in there for a very long while. John approached the bedside, where his brother lay under the covers. There was a wet cloth on his forehead and a half-empty water cup on the dresser. His face was deathly pale, the sickness ravishing his body. He coughed, causing John to instinctively step back and cover his own mouth and nose. But his brother didn't notice. "John," he croaked softly. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Get me my medicine." It had lost its volume, but it had its authority. John sighed and walked to the desk where a bottle of pills lay waiting. He took one of them from the bottle and walked it back to his brother. His brother took it with a shaking hand. However, he didn't take it. He held it in his hand. "John," he said. John looked at him in the eye. "Come closer…" John obeyed, stepping right up to the bedside. A slight confusion was evident in his facial expression. Once more, the question popped up. Why was he here? "John. I wanted to ask you this." John said nothing, politely allowing his older brother to speak in his soft tones. "Do you remember the storm?" John was taken aback. How long ago was that? It seemed like an eternity, another life. His older brother and him… "Do you?" he asked. But he didn't wait for an answer. He didn't expect one. "I remember," he stated slowly, hesitancy revealing itself in his quavering voice. "You asked me what makes the thunder." He tried to laugh but only succeeded in starting himself in another coughing fit. "I told you it was giants pounding on their drums. Remember?" He did remember. His older brother continued. "You got scared. 'What if they come to take us away?' you asked me." He wheezed, the closest he could get to a chuckle. "'What if they'll eat us?' And I told you, 'Then I'll hit them so hard they'll run back home crying.' And you felt better." He looked up at John's eyes, his eyes sparkling in the sparse light. "Do you remember?" John smiled and looked at him. "I didn't think you remembered—" he began, hesitating. "I did. I remember it and I always will remember it." He looked at John in the eye. "You be strong. Go out there and live life to its fullest. Don't make the same mistakes I made." He smiled weakly. "And keep your promises. I didn't forget about that, either." And then he downed the pill with a swig of water. He looked at John in the eye once more. He smiled weakly. "Tastes like cinnamon." And John smiled. For a long, drawn-out moment, they just looked at each other, smiling. And then his older brother relaxed. His shoulders moved slightly backwards and his head turned to face the ceiling once more. His eyes closed. They never would open again. There was a single tear drop visible on his cheek.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/27/2008 0:12:56)
The Sound of Silence March 3, 2008 ...And literally a year later... Right after The Taste of Cinnamon, I started on Prince of Thieves. That took up several months. I also wrote A Perfect Circle, which I finally deemed too bloody and too controversial to post here. Seriously. Not very happy stuff in that story. And, so, a year later, I wrote this. It started off as a spontaneous monologue in the L&L IRC channel about why nobody was talking. So I grabbed the log, brushed it up, and rewrote it. My first stab at a serious monologue. Dramatic, if you wanted to ask. It gets rather lonely when there's nobody talking, y'know? Nobody there to listen. Nobody there to hear. Nobody there to rejoice with your happiness. Nobody there to share your burdens. It gets rather lonely at times, when all I can hear is the sad, empty echo of my own voice. In fact, I can hear it now... Y'know what I'm talking about? It's quiet. It's eerily quiet. All that I can hear is silence. That quiet, oppressive sound of silence. Such an odd sound, that. It's the Void, the Emptiness, the nothingness from whence we came. And where we will go. The world started from nothing, and will end with nothing. It's calm. Just a little too calm. It's like a serene glade just before a hurricane. There is not but a single sound. And that sound is silence. That oppressive, awkward silence where nary a voice speaks. Where nary a voice says something. Anything. That cold, empty silence, a void lusting to be filled. That emptiness... It pulls at the ears, makes them strain desperately to hear something. Anything. Only to let them down. Only to let us down. Only to let down the People. And in the end, nothing matters. Just the mad, raving delusions of a single unheard voice, speaking, whispering, to nobody that can hear it speak.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (7/3/2008 23:09:23)
Why You Shouldn't Trust a Talking Coyote July 3, 2008 This little bit of silliness brought to you by Versy's need to get back on top of writing. Wrote this to get back in the groove (not much of a groove, but oh well) and I'm not really pleased with how it turned out. But I wasn't expecting to be pleased; this ain't one of the masterpieces, and it wasn't supposed to be. Enjoy. =D Two men sat by a blazing fire, enjoying the last bits of their late dinner. Crickets chirped in the wooded area around them; the sun had long since set its sights on new horizons, leaving behind a deep purple that slowly faded to blues and blacks around them. The trees rustled occasionally in the wind; one of the men brushed a fallen leaf from his hair. The other man set his bowl down and glanced at his partner. Neither of them looked remotely like experienced hikers—in fact, both were quite young. Neither of them bore the wrinkles or the roughened skin from long days out in the wilderness; in fact, one of them wore thin glasses and sported a little extra weight that suggested hours in the study more than hours outside. That man leaned back, propping his upper back against the log and putting both hands over his stomach. He grunted as he sat back up. "Great day for a hike, wasn't it, Jared?" Jared shifted slightly to get a better look at his hiking partner. He was the skinnier of the two, but his bony and gaunt complexion belied his strength; it was he that carried the food bag down the hiking trail. "Yeah, it was," he replied at last. "Don't think we're going to get a day like this anytime later in the year." "Agreed." Jared scooped up the rest of his chili with his spoon and set his bowl on the ground. "Don't think I can eat another bite. You think we might've over-packed?" "Better over-packed than under-packed. 'Sides, the exercise isn't going to do you harm." "Yes, it will, Mike. You're carrying the stuff tomorrow. That mini-grill-thing, too." Mike frowned slightly. "You can't expect me to carry the food, too?" "The exercise isn't going to do you harm," Jared replied with a smirk. "Shut up," Mike groaned, halfheartedly tossing his bowl at Jared. The two of them sat in silence for a moment, listening to the steady drone of insects calling out into the night. Suddenly, Jared grabbed his gun and fumbled with the safety. Mike raised an eyebrow. "The hell?" "I saw something moving. Whatever it is, it's probably trying to take our food." The bushes to Jared's left rustled again. Jared cocked his hunting rifle and fired a shot into the bushes. There was a startled yelp. "Did you get him?" "No. I think I just startled him." "See if you can get him, or at least scare him away. I don't want him to come grabbing out food while we're sleeping." "Even if you packed a little too much of it?" "Shut up and shoo the thing away, already." Jared cocked the gun again and pointed it at the bushes. But before he could fire again, a light brown blur tore its way out of the bramble. The gaunt, lean, dog-like animal glanced about in confusion before locking eyes with Jared. The two stared for a moment before the coyote did something neither of the two expected it to do. It spoke. "Please! Don't shoot!" it said, stepping backwards, its ears folded back in fear. "I'm not going to hurt you, or anything! Don't shoot!" The two of them raised an eyebrow. Jared lowered the gun slightly. "You're not going to steal our food, either?" Mike asked dumbly. "I swear I won't. Coyote's honor." Jared snorted. "Yeah, the honor of a thief and a rascal. I don't trust you." "Put the gun down," said Mike, putting a hand on the barrel. "It's obvious he has something to say. You don't see talking coyotes every day." The coyote sighed in relief as Jared pointed the gun down. But his finger still rested on the trigger. "You've got a story to tell. So tell it. What are you, and why should I trust you?" "Well… Umm…" The coyote pawed at the ground. "One of my nicknames was Felix, and I guess it's the one that got me into this mess. And I'm a coyote." Jared shifted the gun slightly. "But I wasn't one before," Felix added quickly. "You gotta believe me." "I'm talking to an animal," replied Jared. "What else am I supposed to believe?" "Shut up and let him talk," said Mike from behind him. "Y'see, I wasn't a coyote. I was a person. I went online a lot, and y'know how a bunch of people have online personas? For fits and giggles, mine was a coyote." "Why?" Mike inquired. "Shut up and let him talk," replied Jared, rolling his eyes. "Shut up." "And one day, I just woke up as a coyote." "Just woke up like that?" "Yeah. You wouldn't believe the expression on my mother's face, though." "But I can imagine." By this point, Mike had resigned himself to keeping the fire going. "Well, what happened was that first, my family had to get over the whole 'holy crap he's a coyote' shock. And my parents didn't really care for me much. So it was an easy excuse to drive me off on a 'road trip' and stick me in the middle of the woods. "I wasn't too happy about that, I gotta tell you. Going from having a roof over your head and food at mealtimes to nothing and nothing in less than a day is a pretty harsh change to deal with. I've been wandering these woods for a few days, now. I haven't had any decent food for a while, now, and the last time I tried to drink from a stream, my tongue was attacked by a fish. No joke." "Can't you hunt, or forage, or something?" asked Jared. "Can't really hunt. I lived a pretty sheltered suburban life and I don't know what to do. 'Sides, I don't think I'd know what'll kill me or what'll run too fast for me to catch. Or what I can and can't eat out here, for that matter." "Why not foraging?" "If you call rotting meat decent foraging, then yeah, I guess I can." Mike made a face. "I can't blame you with that one." "Look here," Jared said. "Mike packed far too much for both of us to eat—" "You never know! Always safe than sorry!" "—so you can have some of it. You can follow us for a couple days and we'll try to get you a home, alright?" Felix nodded. "Alright." "Mike, get us some more chili," Jared said. "I'll get the pot ready. He looks hungry." Felix sat by the fire and watched as the two of them made another meal, then set the pot on the ground for Felix to eat out of. While Felix ate, the other two readied sleeping bags and the mosquito net and settled down to sleep. Neither of them paid attention to the coyote, both staring absently at the fire as they waited for sleep to overtake them. The once blazing fire dwindled down to flickering flames, then red embers. Neither of them paid any attention at all to the world around them as both the fire and the world around them faded to black. * * * "Hey!" "Hey what?" Mike said, confused, as he scrambled out of his blankets. "That blasted son of a coyote **** took our food!" "What!? All of it!?" Mike struggled to get his boots on and stumbled over to where Jared was standing. Sure enough, their bags where there, minus the one with their food supplies. "We could follow the trail he left behind," Mike suggested, pointing at the pawprints and the small trail left by the bag, dragged through the dirt. "Already tried. You can go ahead if you want to." Jared motioned to the dirt trail. Mike followed it out of their campsite, around a few trees, and over a few patches of grass… …all the way to a paved asphalt road. He looked around on both sides of it, but the trail was lost. The coyote had either followed the path quite a ways or had found a different method to carry his booty. Mike returned to the campsite, swearing. Jared was already packing up their things. "So, we head back, restock, and start again?" Mike asked. "No. The trail would take three days, minimum. There's a storm in another four. If there was any time we should've started our hike, it was yesterday. Which we did." Mike sat on the log, shoulders slumped in defeat. "So, a day's hike back, and nothing to do out here 'till the springtime." Jared nodded and handed Mike his belongings. Mike got up, took them, and took a few steps back up the trail. "Aren't you coming?" he asked Jared. Jared sighed and mumbled something. "What did you say?" Jared looked back at him, a mixture of annoyance and defeat on his face. "I told you the damn thing would take our food." "Yeah. I know." Mike broke eye contact and started walking. Jared followed him. They walked a few steps together back up the trail they hiked down the day before. "But look on the bright side." "What bright side?" "At least we don't have to carry all that stuff back with us."

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (7/31/2008 2:12:42)
Shattered Memories April 22, 2008 / Revamped July 31, 2008 This one was largely influenced and inspired by The Sound and The Fury by William Faulkner. After reading the madness that was the first two chapters, I vowed to write a story entirely in the second person. It was originally going to be three chapters, this as the first one, the second chapter written like Benjy's chapter in Faulkner's novel, and the third like Quentin's, but I ditched them and decided to work what would've been told by Alex and Zephyr into this chapter. It decreases Zephyr's role in the story, but I seriously can't be bothered to write more about a story that I've already worked to the death. Have fun reading. You're gonna have to /work/ to figure out what's going on. =D "Hey! My name's Alex. Alex Young. Nice to meet you! So, we'll be rooming together? Great! I'm sure we'll have an awesome time together. "What are you majoring in? Hah, I always hated English class. I could never understand why everything connected back to some theme or central message or something. Sucked at writing essays, too. Well, lucky you, then. I'm here for chemistry. Science was pretty much the only thing I was good at, so that's what I'm here for. Math, too, I guess. "So, Benji, you want to do something tonight? Got some board games, if you feel like inviting a bunch of people over. Risk, if you've ever heard of it. Really fun game, especially when you've got a lot of people playing. You should've heard some of the crazier things that happened because of that game. One night, one of my friends tried to choke another guy. Had a really bad day, I guess. In the end, it was all laughs, so it was okay. All's well that ends well, right?" "So, do you want to go to the ice cream place today? I heard that they've got a great deal on chocolate on Tuesdays. Well, then, why not? Got any other plans? "Ahh! I think I see where you're going, there! Don't bother trying to deny it; I know that you've got yourself a girl. Lucky you! Got yourself a girl already. Oh. Makes sense, then. Though, I'm surprised that a guy like you got a girl in the first place. "Ow! C'mon, you know I was just joking. Of course I was. And what do you mean by that? "Do you mind bringing me along, then? I'm always in the mood for some ice cream. Aww, c'mon. A favor for a friend? Great! It's just an ice cream parlor, anyways; my intrusion shouldn't ruin anything for you. You can always just get a fancy dinner, later. "I'll shut up. I'll shut up. You've got to learn to take a joke. "Hey, Benji, could you get my sweatshirt for me? Thanks. So, where are we going? That sounds good. So, your lady friend: what's she like? Really? That's nice to hear. And you'd think all the pretty ones wouldn't go for the geeks and the nerds. "God! I was joking! Lighten up! "I guess, it's a good thing that the ice cream place's so close by. Not too long of a walk, and it's readily available ice cream. Yeah. I agree. Looks like the perfect place for that." "The ice cream here's great! Where'd you hear that? Well, it's all lies. You'd better check your sources, 'cause that is the greatest ice cream I've ever had. Of course I'm lying. How else am I going to get you to buy something, here? "Benji. You know what I'm talking about. Isn't the ice cream here great? Listen to the man. You trust him, don't you? Told ya. Maybe you'll trust me a little bit more, next time. Aww, come on, that was just a joke! And how long ago was that? "Benji, how are you coming with that essay? Wow. Already? I've still got a way to go. Of course, you probably haven't started, yet. Whoah. Someone call the cops. We might have an impersonator on our hands. Aww, fine, I'll shut up. But really, you aren't pulling my leg, are you? "Oh! Here comes someone else. Maybe we can convince them that the ice cream here isn't bad, after all." "Hello, Zephyr! Benji's said a lot about you. Really? Is that true? Well, that says a lot for him, then. Wow, Congrats, Benji, you just took a joke. I'm proud of you. That was a joke, too! Of course I'm not expecting you to catch all of them. At least, most of them. A grand majority of them. "Ow! Okay, I'll give you that one. How long have you guys known each other? That long? Wow. You guys must really like each other that much, if you can stand each other since the third grade. "That's good to hear. I didn't really have many friends back then. I come from a small place; I did see a girl back in middle school, but it didn't end quite as well. You guys are lucky, did you know that? So, Zephyr, mind ditching him and teaming up with me?" "Dammit, Benji! I've know you for what, a month and a half, now? You're a cool guy. I respect that. You've just got to get a hold of yourself! You take life far too seriously, you know that? I know that! That's why you've got to accept that well over half the jabs I make at you are jokes. I swear, you've got no sense of humor! "I'm sorry for saying that. No, I shouldn't have joked about that. No, no, I understand that it's a touchy subject. Look here, it's my fault on that one. And I'm not joking. "Yes, it was. If it makes you feel any better, we'll just call it even. Deal? I'm good to hear that we're on the same page again. I can't even bear the thought of living with a roomie that hates me. Aww, c'mon, I know you don't hate me. Who can hate a loveable guy like me? "Okay, okay, shutting up now. But seriously, I'm happy to know that we're on even terms, now. I'll just accept the fact that she's yours and we'll go on our merry ways. Yeah, I know that." "Dude, that's harsh. I'll admit that you do get angry, but a psychiatrist? Your parents must've hated you. And yeah, that was another joke." "You've started getting real quiet, lately. Y'know that? No, everyone's got to have at least something to say. That isn't healthy, man. So what are you going to do about it, then? Just let it destroy your life? I bet it will. One of these days, you're just going to snap. Go crazy like that guy in a bunch of Stephen King's stories. "I was kidding. Of course, you did. I seriously think you've got to talk more. Let other people know what you're thinking, y'know? Zephyr's told me a lot that you tend to be a bit reclusive. Not heal— "Dude. Calm down. Nothing says I can't talk to her in the hallways, right? On campus, between buildings? I see her a lot, actually. No, and it's not what you think. Besides, if I were, why would I tell you? You'd probably punch my face in and feed me my own arm. I wouldn't want that, would I?" "Dude! You really have to calm down. I understand the yelling, but that's a bit harsh, y'know? Look, I know what I said, and I'm sorry— "Ow! Dude! Cut that out! I don't want to hurt you! I hoped that feeling was mutual. I know! I've seen enough of it already. Look, I'll stop if you stop. Hurting people. You've got to learn to control yourself. It means, you're a cool guy, but you get violent sometimes. No, and I didn't expect you would. "Look, if I stop, you won't have to do anything to either of us, right? So we both win. Me, maybe, but I hate seeing things done to innocent people. I don't know, but just don't do anything to her. Please. "Good. Can we make this up? I know; I'll take you for some ice cream as an apology. So? How's that going to stop us? We can get some ice cream whenever we damn well please. "C'mon, let's go get us some ice cream. "Nah, I didn’t. Of course! The real question is…" "…Do you love her? If you really loved her, you wouldn't really do that. Really? I've seen how mad you get sometimes, and, well, I don't know. Uh-huh. Dude! Benji! Careful out there! No, you weren't. Wait for the damn light, next time! I swear; you're going to die like that, someday! "Crazy. Just crazy. Nothing! That's what I said. What? I will tell you that this isn't a— So what? I'm not seeing what you're trying to get at, here. Get back here! I don't need this. Whatever happened to getting some ice cream? You dragged me all the way out here for nothing? I hardly see that as a reward. Now let's get us something to eat. You liar! You're terrible at it, anyhow. That's because I don't lie. Not often, anyways." "Well, except for that one time. Oh, we got a lot of good laughs out of that. She told me, 'You'll flunk out of that class in two weeks.' She still owes me ten bucks. "So who's up for more ice cream? It's the first warm day in a while and I'm feeling nice. Okay, now I'm not feeling nice anymore. Jeff. Just because Benji was a straight-A student in elementary… "Yeah. I had to study real hard to get in here. Didn't have time for much, y'know? Nah, I had my own, once. But she wasn't too great of a person. We broke up and I haven't seen her since. Good thing, too." "What are you talking about? Of course that didn't happen. What 'last time'? Oh, that. But do you think I'd really want you to hurt her? So why would I? "It wouldn't be so grievous if you'd also— What? No, repeat that again. So you mean to tell me— So… Never? What— "Ow! God damn! Cut that out! I told you that I would stop! Yes, I did! I swear— God damn! So what if you never actually did anything with her. It's not my fault— No, I'm not calling her a prostitute! God damn! You're so freaking violent at times, and it's really starting to bug me. So what about the last time you didn't like what I told you? Yes, you did! Ice cream, ice cream, and more god damned ice cream. I'm being serious. Well, then, it's your fault. You're the one getting sent to psychiatrists about this. It's not my fault that you're…" "Insane. That was just insane. How do you do stuff like that? So, master magician, will you reveal your secrets? Aww, c'mon, what about to help a friend? You know why! I'm losing so badly, it's not even funny! I can even tell you that…" "Salsa is on the counter. Not my fault if they're too spicy for you. Aww, c'mon, Zephyr, you know I was joking. Just like the last…" "Three in a row? Those dice have got to be…" "Loaded? Is that really— No, it can't be. You're just kidding me, right? It's just a joke. You've finally learned how to take jokes, huh? Didn't you? Is it…" "…real, solid evidence. Zephyr, tell him! You told me that he's lost it! You told me that you did it with me…" "Just to spite him? Knew that taking over Europe was a bad idea. But really, go ahead and conquer the board, not our faces! Don't tell me—" "The damn thing is really loaded! What the hell is wrong with you?! Half of what I tell is you a joke! Don't make me—" "Run! He's right there! He'll—" "Shoot! Door's locked. Benji…" "The sound of my voice! It's…" "…going to be the last thing you hear…" "Benji! If you hurt her…" "…I'm going to make sure…" "…the last thing you remember…" "…my words…" "…kill…" "…your sanity…" "Benji! God damn, he's here! We've got to…" "…get across the street, and then…" "…a car! Benji, watch out…" "…going to die like that…" "…someday, I…" "…Benji! Are you…" "…dead…" "…dead."

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (10/20/2008 19:53:10)
A Flash of Orange October 20, 2008 Rewritten from A Flash of Orange, a part of my Poem A Day project. I liked the idea; I felt like expanding on it a bit. So I did. It's one of my shorter works, and I'm messing with peoples' minds again. XP The air was deathly still. Not a bird dared to chirp, not a fox dared to venture forth from its den. No squirrels scampered among the trees; even the rustle of leaves remained absent in the windless atmosphere. Mosquitoes buzzed and crickets provided a steady drone—steady, present, but unchanging. Leaves rustled. A pair of white-furred ears perked up, swiveling around to sense the cause of the disturbance. But the air became deathly still again. A pink nosed sniffed the air tentatively. It twitched, cautiously testing the atmosphere. But the air was deathly still again. The crickets ceased chirping. It glanced around fearfully, its eyes scouting frantically for a sign of danger. The air remained calm—too calm, like the eye of a hurricane. The air remained oppressive. It pressed down on those that stood on the forest floor. It weighed down on what stood on the forest floor. It was like a graveyard. It waited for another occupant. Its eyes widened. The moment of realization struck. A flash of orange, a flash of black stripes struck with a frenzy of movement, disturbing the air pressed down heavily on it all screamed in pain clouded its mind and a voice cried out to quell its pain roared like what ate it alive but dead and living in the oppressive atmosphere with deathly still air no longer it ended. The air was still again.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (8/6/2009 2:34:55)
Dreaming of Clouds August 5, 2009 Geez. It's been almost a year since the last one. >.> Well, it's a new one, for a writing contest, actually. Prizes make me write. XP I apologize to anyone who is offended by the use of "queer" later in the story. I have nothing against gay people -- it's just what I believed such a character would say in that given moment. Nobody knew why young Johnathan smiled. He was, for all intents and purposes, an average child. He ate, slept, breathed, talked, just like everybody else. He attended school, did his homework, played with his own circle of friends. He received above-average grades in class, but remained second, third, to other, brighter students — he wasn't extraordinary by any means. But he did everything with at the very least a faint whisper of a grin, walked through life with a wisp of a smile that could almost be blown away by the autumn breeze. Yet, it never did. The winds blew strong, and the smile remained day after day. It was with this smile that he walked to school, and it was with this smile that he walked out. He smiled in the mornings, mornings where other children groaned and refused to attend with voices that spoke of torment and boredom. He smiled in the evenings, evenings where other children rebelled against their bedtimes. None of his peers understood what he found so pleasant in the adults' authoritarian rule. He just smiled, smiled to his teachers who smiled back, smiled to his classmates who sneered. When asked why he smiled, he'd respond with a simple "I like to." And then he'd smile, a knowing smile that said much more than he did, speaking volumes by saying nothing. It unsettled his classmates. His friends would even cast odd glances before catching themselves and letting themselves be distracted by other, childish things. But it never did get him in trouble, for most of his young childhood. The problems started, perhaps, on a day in the first grade. The other, normal children wished to become firefighters, policemen, businessmen, scientists. They dreamed of glorious days saving children, stopping crime, curing cancer. They looked forward to incomes, comfortable lives, families. Come his turn, however, Johnathan replied, "A bird." "A bird?" the teacher asked. The other children murmured at his unorthodox response. "Yeah, a bird." "Maybe a falcon!" suggested another student. "Falcons are cool!" "Or a nightingale! They sing pretty!" "Maybe a bird-trainer?" "No, just a bird." "Why?" the teacher managed. Certainly, her classroom contained no posters on becoming birds. "So I can fly," he stated simply. "That's nice," the teacher replied with a forced smile. Other students, however, had a different idea in mind. "Birdbrain," one of them snickered. The classroom exploded in laughter. The perpetual smile disappeared for a moment, but returned as Johnathan chuckled nervously along with his classmates. "That's enough," stated the teacher, and class continued as normal as it could. All throughout the day, people shot glances at Johnathan, whispered behind his back. Johnathan wasn't the only one smiling — the troublesome child sat smug in his seat. But few children smiled with them. The classroom air was disturbed. There was something not ordinary — not quite extraordinary — but something different about this small child with brown hair and freckles. And as we all know, the first-grade classroom is not a nurturing place for nonconformity. The rumors persisted into the month. Johnathan paid them no heed, but his classmates did. There wasn't a single first-grade student in the school who didn't know of the career choice incident. People stopped him in the hallways, asked him why. And he would always respond, smiling that smile of his, "So I can fly." His teacher tried to dissuade him, but to no avail. "If you want to fly, you could become a pilot," she said to him. "Pilots can earn a lot of money, and it'd be fun to fly an airplane!" But he would always smile and respond, "No. I want to be a bird." She was puzzled. Never in all her years of teaching had she come across a specimen like him. She didn't understand. None of them really understood — in that way, she was no better than the older children who teased him and called him "birdbrain". Exasperated, she gave up — Let children fantasize. Let him keep his head in the clouds. But he wasn't. Quite the opposite, in fact — his feet were anchored firmly on the ground. He continued doing his homework, continued doing well in class. The year came and went, and Johnathan refused to let a fanciful dream distract him from his goals. But he remained obstinate in his desire to be a bird. "Hey, birdbrain!" voices called, and other voices snickered when he looked about to see who called for him. He just smiled at them, a knowing smile, and continued as if nobody had said a word. They just didn't know. He couldn't hate them for not knowing. More and more people stopped him in the hallways. "Birdbrain," they would jeer. "Flap your wings for us, birdie." But Johnathan would just smile at them, keep walking. That smile — it was always there, mocking them as much as they mocked him. How dare he ignore them, let alone smile at them? The teachers found the smile pleasant. They would smile back — puzzled smiles, but smiles nonetheless. They, too, had heard through the grapevine; they were no more impervious to rumors than their students were. His teacher didn't bother commenting when she returned her students' reports. Where others had drawn jackets and ties or blue uniforms, he drew a bird, flying free. He had a few points marked off for "an unusual career choice", but the report was sound. His smile widened. He couldn't wait to go home and show his mother. The school day passed. He gathered his things and walked out the door smiling, smiling to the sky above him, to the earth he was tethered to. He smiled to the people walking by, to the group of three who stood there waiting for him. The oldest of the three spat when he saw him smiling. "Hey, birdbrain!" he called to Johnathan. "One of your buddies crapped on my dad's car yesterday. Tell them to lay off!" They laughed, they sneered. But Johnathan smiled back to them, eyes catching the sun. "Okay." They stopped. "You think you're funny, birdbrain?" the older boy asked. "Well how funny is this?" He punched Johnathan in the shoulder. Johnathan fell backwards, landed on the ground with a yelp and a grimace. He blinked back tears, felt his palms burn as they hit the sidewalk. But his smile came back — a pained smile, but one that refused to die. He raised a hand. "Can you help me up?" In response, the bully slapped his hand away and kicked him in the shin. Johnathan cried and grasped his leg, both legs, as the trio surrounded him. "Stop! Please, stop!" he screamed. "You queer!" the bully shouted. "You're just... a dumb... queer!" He accented each and every word, drawing cries of pain. "Queer!" another jeered. "Burn in hell, birdbrain!" And they danced their infernal dance around him. Pain filled his eyes, his world. All he knew was pain, whips stinging his sides, hammers slamming into his brain. His tears did nothing to douse the hellfire surrounding him. Each agonizing moment lasted an eternity, and he burned... "Go! All of you! GET OUT OF MY YARD!" An angel, brandishing a — no, a housewife wielding a frying pan exploded from the house by them. "All of you, get out, get out!" She swung her weapon to emphasize. The bully and his friends quickly abandoned their scarred victim on the sidewalk. The woman dropped her frying pan. "Dear Lord... Are you okay? I'm so sorry!" She ran to Johnathan, tears forming in her eyes. "Are you okay? There, now, nobody's going to hurt you anymore. I'll call the police and tell them..." Johnathan stood up. His legs shook, but he stared down the street, the hellfire that once burned him now raging in his eyes. No hint of a smile graced his countenance. "I hate you!" he screamed down the street. "I hate you!" And he ran the opposite direction, sobbing, crying rivers. "Wait! You're hurt! We have to—" the woman called after him. But Johnathan ran further, out of sight. He ran the entire length home, threw open the doors, and sobbed into his mother's arms. He cried, cried for every day of injustice the world cast upon him, for all the unfeeling people who didn't understand him, for the world that wouldn't accept him for who he was. Two years of anger, of guilt, of pain flowed from his eyes. "There, there," his mother told him, quieting her wailing child. "I'll call the police and the school and tell them what happened. Those bad boys aren't going to get you anymore. I'll make sure they don't touch my angel." The wails slowed to sobs, then to sniffles. Then, Johnathan walked upstairs to his room like he always did, but his bookbag remained unopened. And that night, while his mother argued on the phone, he got in bed and turned off the lights. He could hear his mother's voice, arguing for action that should have been taken months ago. Before it erupted, before it gave him bruises and cuts. And then Johnathan did what no other boy would do. He smiled. His faint, wispy, hopeful smile returned as he curled up beneath the covers. He sniffed, but the smile returned in all its glory. Nobody else knew why he smiled, but he did. For when young Johnathan slept, he soared.

Coyote -> RE: The DracoWolf Times: Writer's Column (6/27/2010 1:15:09)
Untitled November 28, 2009 This was one of my three essays for the University of Chicago, when I was applying for colleges. The prompt was, "How did you get caught? (Or not caught, as the case may be.)" This was my response. It is probably the only story I will ever write where I actively used a thesaurus. It all began on an innocuous Tuesday morning, as I leaned back in my chair, feet on my desk, hat pulled down over my eyes. The shades, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze, bathed my room in shadow alien to the daytime's cheery ambiance. Minute slivers of light danced on the carpeting, obstinately defying the blinds set to repress them. My paperwork, pens, and notebooks sat on my desk in pristine order, each penholder polished to an immaculate gleam. And the door remained open, open to any malchick requiring my assistance. It was the summer, y'see, and work comes slow in the summertime. I wasn't always without a job; I was just, in fact, hot on a case when the trail turned cold. Colder than these barren wastes in the winter. With little to do, no one to question, nothing to investigate, I sat at my desk and waited for opportunity to come knocking. And she didn't just come knocking. Without warning, without even a cautionary call, she burst through the door and waltzed in, but using her wiles, manipulating my every thought. She made my eyes boggle like a puppy dog's, made my mouth water, made me hunger for more. I refrained from whistling, however — it wouldn't be professional of me. She was a client, after all, promising payment and a new case to crack. But then, she promised so much more. I felt giddy as a schoolchild with the anticipation! She was, of course, the delicious scent of baking cookies wafting through the doorway. Right then and there, I made that crucial decision. How the day would've ended differently should I have declined that invitation, I will never know. I will even say it was the turning point of my day, the apex of the hill where Sisyphus' boulder could rest at last. But I stated to myself, with no loss of resolve, that I would obtain for myself a cookie. Or, specifically, one of those very morsels I smelled browning in the oven. I hopped off my chair and grabbed the periscope I had received on my seventh birthday. It had taken me little time to determine its method of operation — a simple set of mirrors allowed me to peer around corners with minimal risk of exposure. Which was exactly what I needed for reconnaissance — the ability to see without being seen. The bright red plastic casing presented a complication, however; its conspicuous exterior made it less than optimal for remaining hidden. But beggars can't be choosers, and how much better are we than beggars in adults' totalitarian regime? My gaze fell upon my trusty pair of binoculars. They were a nice shade of black, much less noticeable in any environment that wasn't an erupting volcano. I pondered for a moment, but not a moment more. In an indoor setting, binoculars would be more a burden than a boon, so it was with the periscope in hand I snuck out of my room and down the stairs. No matter how perceptible the periscope may be, the objective was to not be seen in the first place. I positioned myself against the wall that divided the family room from the kitchen. Using the periscope, I peered through the door to see the sight of my mother retrieving the freshly-baked cookies from the oven. The very instant she opened the oven door, the sweet fragrance of chocolate chip cookies permeated the room. It took all my sense of resolve to not succumb to temptation on the spot and beg for just a single bite. Their aroma penetrated my being, teased me, promised me with soft, warm dough and melting chocolate. But I prided myself on my willpower, and so I remained hidden long enough to see my mother carry the pan into the dining room. Without a sound, I tiptoed through the kitchen and once again made use of my periscope (handy device, that) to observe what my mother would do with the cookies in the dining room. Perhaps she planned to eat them all! The very thought sent shivers dancing down my spine. How could my own mother be such a glutinous fiend? To tempt her son with the tantalizing promise of cookies, only to eat each and every one as he watched, helpless? But my fears were for naught, as she skilfully removed each and every cookie and placed them in a cylindrical container, aptly labeled "COOKIES" in cheery lettering. But of course! I told myself, mentally smacking myself in the face. How could I have not foreseen this? The cookie jar! Now one more ceramic barrier stood in my path, between myself and the hoard of treasure I so desperately sought. The villainous hound! Stashing the cookies away for later consumption. Yet the cookie jar gave me one unseen advantage: it gave me more time to filch a single cookie for myself. She could not clearly have foreseen that, for why else would she keep the cookies for later? Just about then, my stomach, the voluptuous traitor to my scheming it was, saw fit to growl its lust. I snatched my periscope from the doorframe and flattened myself against the wall. I stood perfectly still, breath bated. The world froze for a moment. And then I heard the gentle scratch of a spatula prying yet another cookie loose from the pan. I released my breath. She had not heard. I made sure I left the kitchen long before she could finish her infernal task. It would not do to be caught so early in operations. No, it wouldn't. So it was with stealth I made my way up the stairs — making sure to test each and every step to later avoid unwanted noise during my return trip. There was no doubt she was on the alert for any potential thief who would dare steal her treasured cookies. I would have to take every measure and precaution to avoid detection, lest I be unable to secure one for my own enjoyment. Should I enter through the door? I pondered. No, too obvious. It would be tantamount to suicide, entering through the most obvious means the room she guarded. I racked my brain for ideas. Somewhere, there was a weakness, a hairline crack in an impenetrable wall. Clearly, the air vent, should I be able to squeeze through its confined lengths, could not uphold my weight. But then, the answer came to me. It came to me in the form of a faint wisp, more delicate than a kitten's subtle breath. It came to me as a breeze, barely detected but caught by my pristine senses. The breeze came from my open window. My mother had always told me not to draw the blinds with the window open — I had a bothersome tendency of forgetting to close it overnight when I did that. Aha, but see what her advice would've done? She clearly schemed to keep me at bay, away from her cherished jar of cookies. Her advice would have hampered the conception of the plan I formulated that very instant! My mother enjoyed a thoroughly ventilated home, so there existed a large chance that most of the house's windows lay open. I was aware that the dining room window held no screen — we had replaced the screens some summers ago and that one never got seen to. I racked my mind to conjure up the image of memory. Had she left the window open? Perhaps she had. But I could not remember! Yet what was the point of a mission if I did not start it? Where was the excitement if there was no danger? It took me little time to acquire the most vital object of my preparations: a rope ladder used as an emergency escape. (This act of tyrannical madness was emergency enough to merit such drastic measures.) I flung the window open wide and tossed the ladder forwards, making sure to hook my end securely, lest I suffer an unpleasant demise. Then, periscope in hand, I crawled out my window and began down the ladder. My roof's angle of descent provided some measure of difficulty gaining foothold on the ladder's rungs, and the very breeze that kissed the foundation of idea now threatened to squelch it. The ladder swayed, groaned in protest, but I steeled my nerves against the menace of freefall and proceeded unperturbed. Step after step, rung after rung passed through my mind in a monochromatic blur, threatened to blot out sensation, all thought of anything but itself! But at long last, my searching foot met solid earth. I sighed in relief that my harrowing experience had concluded — a sigh that once more saturated my lungs with the fragrance of baking cookies. I allowed my nose to guide me, lead me closer to the succulent, melting chocolate and the gentle crunch of nibbling the very edge. I could taste the exquisite confections dissolving in my mouth... Just about then, I became aware of a soft white blur sprinting in my direction, slobbering and panting and eager to sully my attire with its dirty paws. "No!" I ordered. "Kiya! Sit! Go away!" But my authoritative commands held no sway over this insolent puppy's vacuous mentality. In merely an eyeblink, she was already up on my chest, licking my face. A quick shove momentarily controlled the problem at hand yet did nothing. I couldn't accomplish a thing with her infuriating presence. It was about then that my foot struck a spherical object that planted yet another seed of invention. With another quick shove to get this maddening mongrel off my shirt, I bent over, snatched the tennis ball, and flung it with all the strength I could muster. Kiya flew after it, her shallow mind unable to simultaneously comprehend a man and a flung projectile. So it was with renewed stealth I stole towards the dining room window. The window stood a solid foot above me, but it was nothing I hadn't already accounted for — my mother had the habit of growing creepers along the wall. As much as I needed footholds to aid my ascent, the vines needed footholds to root themselves along the wall. A simple white vine fence dealt with both matters easily enough — and it was an advantage I was not above manipulating. I glanced upwards. True to plan, the window lay ajar, seeping the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies. Oh, how I longed to feast upon such succulent confections! My stomach, filled with so much heartfelt longing, needed stay itself not much longer. The time to feast was almost nigh! I heard the wood groan under my weight as I scaled the wall. But it didn't founder. Nor did it sway in the breeze — a fact for which I was thankful. In no time at all, I already peered in through the window at the mockingly cute label of "COOKIES". Not much further! I pried the window open and crawled in, giving the room one final examination to avoid detection. I climbed down, landing upon the carpeting with nary a sound. At last! The cookies were mine! It took some maneuvering to remove the lid from the rest of the jar. It had been cleverly outfitted with a nub that would only allow release when it was aligned perfectly with a notch in the jar itself. Clever! Oh, that scandalous knave! Thought she could outsmart me, but we'll see who gets the last cookie! I set the cookie jar upon the table and removed from it a single cookie. One perfectly circular cookie, studded with the purest dark chocolate, crunchy on the outside yet soft on the inside. I brought it closer to my mouth, readied myself for a bite... Yet barreling in was that irksome mongrel Kiya! Eager for a greedy bite of her own, she approached with that featherduster wagging and a covetous gleam in her eyes. No! Bad dog! I screamed silently. I shooed her away, pushed her towards the door, yet she obstinately returned. She was clearly aware that she wasn't able to secure even a single cookie for herself. But why did she insist upon agitating me, disrupting my plots at the most crucial points? I was under the impression that she was outside! Who had the gall to allow her back into the household? Of course, it was none other than my mother. She needed her to guard the cookies! There was no other explanation. Kiya was set as a guard dog to impede all of those who dared trespass the room she held her hoard! She almost got that slobbering tongue on my precious cookie. But I couldn't make a sound, lest my mother— And as the foulest luck would have it, she entered at that very moment, a tray of fresh cookies in her oven-mitted hands, a look of subtle confusion crossing her countenance. But upon laying her eyes on the cookie I held up in my left hand, her face twisted into a smile. A fake smile, one to sate the masses expecting the kind housewife, yet I was not fooled! That smile masked the Devil himself! "Oh, you wanted a cookie?" she asked. I braced myself for the rejection. She would most definitely cackle and tell me, "Well, you won't get one!" Then she would send me to my room and hoard the cookies for herself. She would enjoy each and every delectable morsel while I starved with not a bite to eat. But instead, she told me, "Here, have one of these. It's warmer, so it'll taste better, but be careful! It's hot." And with that, she set the pan down, pried a cookie off, and handed it to me. I stood, confounded, as she led Kiya out of the room, leaving me alone with my cookie. It was a trap. I knew it. There was no other reason she would so willingly relinquish a cookie to the likes of me. Yet the cookie hinted of no sinister deeds. The way the edges crumbled, the way the center gave way to my teeth, the way the chocolate oozed onto my tongue — nothing was amiss. By all intents and purposes, it was an ordinary cookie — delicious, yes, but not fantastic by any means. That falsidical quibbler! She obviously plotted the whole thing from the start! She intended to lead me on, entice me, and then steal my moment of glory. Yes, that's what it was! The scallywag! The conniving fox! And Kiya! I would make sure to have her trained later, the nuisance she was. Foiled my schemes! Destroyed my machinations! She, the dimwitted cretin she was, ruined any ounce of fun or glory to be had in this endeavor. I wouldn't've been caught, if it weren't for her! Dratted mutt.

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