Talking About Committed

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Committed Chapter 1

Part I: Altera Vitae

“All myths that are something more than fancies gain rather than lose in value with time, by reason of the accretions of human experience.”

– Richard Le Gallienne 

Chapter 1

“Are you still with us, Ariadne?”

            Ariadne blinked and sadly found herself plummeting back to reality.  Reality involved sitting at a desk intended for someone a foot shorter than her, gazing at a whiteboard covered in names and dates she hadn’t been paying attention to, and realizing that her twelfth grade history teacher still had fifteen minutes before the bell to berate her for her lack of attention.
            “Is there something about Dido and Aeneas that you don’t find interesting enough to warrant your attention?”  Mrs. Nowak asked, crossing her arms over her voluptuous breasts.
            Ariadne wanted to say: It’s not that I’m not interested in Dido and Aeneas, Mrs. Nowak.  It’s just that you aren’t getting the same stares of rapt attention from me that you’re getting from all the boys in this class because I’m not starring at the watermelons you tried to squeeze into that blouse today and wondering how much pressure it can sustain before buttons start popping off.  Also, I’m not interested in Dido and Aeneas.
            What she actually said was “I’m sorry Mrs. Nowak.  I must have drifted off somewhere along the line.”
            Mrs. Nowak gave a sniff of disapproval and adjusted the bun on coal black hair on her head before marching between the rows of desks towards Ariadne.
            Ariadne watched the entire front row turn and watch her pass.  All of them were boys, and when they realized that the view from the back was only partially as good as the view from the front their dumb grins subsided a little bit.
            Mrs. Nowak stopped at the side of Ariadne’s desk and leaned down.  For a brief moment, Ariadne was certain there was no way that blouse could keep back the twin mountains of flesh stuffed beneath.  But, as if by a miracle of God, they managed to stay put.
            “Where along the line do you think you drifted off?”
            “Um…” Ariadne said, knowing that glancing at the board for assistance was not the way out of this scenario.  Keeping her eyes locked on the history teacher’s, she willed her mind to conjure up the dates and names she’d seen on the board.
            The truth was, she’d drifted off into a world of daydreams almost immediately upon sitting down.  History was the class by which all states of boredom could be measured and as such she tuned out as early into the class as possible.
            The trick at this point was to choose a name, time, or event that showed she hadn’t been daydreaming for the entire class.  If she could name something that Mrs. Nowak had said in the last fifteen minutes she would be off the hook.
            Realizing she was quickly running out of time, Ariadne took a shot in the dark.  "Well, I got all that stuff about King Iarbas.”
            “What part specifically?”
            Cornered now, Ariadne forced herself to remember what she had seen on the board in her brief glimpse.  She ignored the looks of glee on the faces of her classmates just behind Mrs. Nowak.
            Something about one of the Gods, Ariadne thought.  He’s named after a planet.  Venus?  No.  Mars maybe?  It definitely started with an M…Mars or Mercury?
            “The part where he asked Mercury for help,” Ariadne replied.
            “You mean when he asked his father for help and in response Jupiter sent Mercury to send Aeneas on his way,” Mrs. Nowak corrected, straightening and returning to the front of the class.
            Ariadne breathed a sigh of relief.  She had won that round.  She glanced at the clock and saw that there were still another ten minutes left in class.
            “Try not to dose for the remainder of class, Miss Helen, despite your quick thinking you haven’t taken any notes for today’s class and you will sorely regret that come mid-terms.”
            Ariadne winced.  So much for a victory there.  Resigning herself to ten minutes of boredom, Ariadne picked up a pencil and tried to remain attentive as Mrs. Nowak continued her droning speech.
            As if in response to her distress, there was a quick knock at the door.  Frowning disapprovingly, Mrs. Nowak crossed the room to the door in three quick strides and opened the door.
            From Ariadne’s seat she couldn’t see who was standing outside the door but someone handed Mrs. Nowak a piece of paper which the history teacher scanned quickly before nodding.
            “Class is nearly finished, Mister…”
            “It’s pronounced Menelaus,” was the reply as a boy stepped into the classroom.
            Ariadne’s first impression was that this was one of the handsomest boys she’d ever seen.  His hair was jet black and swept back along either sides of his head.  His skin had a light tan, just enough to avoid being pale, and natural looking.  He wore a sports jacket, obviously tailored to his lithe frame, as well as a white button up shirt and expensive True Religion jeans.  There was a glint off of his left hand were a gold ring reflected the light.  His face was soft and symmetrical with deep brown eyes glimmering as they scanned the room.  For a brief moment, they settled on Ariadne and seemed to drink her in.  She felt a rush of blood to her face, but fought it.
            “Mr. Menelaus,” Mrs. Nowak nodded, closing the door and marching back to her position at the front of the glass.  “Well, find yourself a seat if you can.”
            “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
            Mrs. Nowak started and turned to the boy with some surprise on her face.  “Well, I suppose so.  Class, this is Janus Menelaus.  He’s a new student just transferred from…Troy, Ontario.”
            This last part Mrs. Nowak had read off of the card and she glanced at the new kid with some interest.  “Interesting.  Today’s topic involves a hero from the city for which your old home was named.”
            “Oh, yes,” Janus chuckled.  “I’m familiar with Troy.”
            “You are, are you?” Mrs. Nowak asked.  “What can you say about it?”
            “Well, that depends upon which event surrounding Troy we are dealing with.  Are we talking about the Trojan War?”
            There was something about his voice, its soft cadence, which made him sound charming and almost chivalric.  Ariadne found her frown deepening as she thought this.  Where did that thought come from?
            “No, I’m afraid I consider there to be insufficient evidence surrounding that conflict to teach it as fact in class.”
            “Oh, it happened,” Janus chuckled.  “May I take my seat now?”
            “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Nowak said, frowning slightly.
            Janus nodded and proceeded to the only unoccupied desk in the classroom, the one directly beside Ariadne’s.
            Janus sat down and leaned himself back in his chair, twisting the ring on his left hand with the adjacent fingers.  Ariadne found her eyes wandering to it.  It looked like a wedding band, golden and perfectly smooth.  She watched Janus rotate it twice, a symbol visible on the surface of it like a crest.  She glanced up and noticed him watching her, a simple smile on his face.
            Ariadne quickly darted her eyes back to the blackboard.  Mrs. Nowak had already started talking and Ariadne forced herself to focus on what was being said.
            She felt Janus’ eyes continue to bore into the side of her face, but she ignored them.
            “Good luck bud,” she heard one of her male classmates, Marcus, whisper to Janus from his other side.  “That’s Ariadne Helen.  The Stone-Wall.  It’s her nickname from volleyball but it applies pretty much all the time where boys are concerned.”
            Ariadne pretended not to hear.  The fact of the matter was, she might not have breasts the size of small planetoids like Mrs. Nowak, but Ariadne knew she was attractive.  She had straight, shoulder length, café mocha coloured hair held up in a ponytail with thin wisps cascading down around her ears.  Thanks to a small adrenaline addiction, she had a tight, athletic frame that she knew had earned her dagger eyes from at least half her female classmates.  Her eyes were a deep emerald, just like her father’s, and her skin was smooth and blemish free.  She never wore make-up and would never claim that she didn’t have the occasional ‘bad hair day’, but in general she didn’t feel the need to smother her facial features in product.
            “The Stone-Wall you say?” Janus whispered back.  “You’re telling me no one has managed to crack the wall.”
            Ariadne could just tell from the way he was talking that the new kid knew she could hear him.
            “Hey, it’s not for lack of trying man,” Marcus assured him.  “I mean, you’ve obviously noticed her unique charms.  Except for being taller than most of the guys who go here, what’s not to like.  She just doesn’t go for it.”
            “So, you all think she’s hot.  What about her spirit?”
            “Her spirit?”
            “Of course,” Janus said, as though he was passing on an important life lesson to an ignorant child.  “What is a woman’s beauty without a spirit to match?”
            “Well, I guess as far as her spirits like…well, she…she plays sports a lot.”
            “I think this is where our travels together come to an end, my friend,” Janus sighed.
            As if on cue, the bell rang.  Ariadne resolutely refused to look in Janus direction as she packed her untouched notebook into her backpack and swung it onto her back.
            However, when she turned to leave she found him standing in her way, hands in his pockets, smiling that same simple smile.
            “Excuse me,” Ariadne said, moving as if to squeeze past him, but he made no move to get out of her way.
            “Aren’t you going to welcome me to your school?” Janus asked.
            Ariadne noticed for the first time, now that she was standing in front of him, that Janus was barely an inch taller than her.  It wasn’t completely unusual to discover a guy who was taller than her.  Having gained both her eyes and her five foot eleven and a half inch height from her father, meeting guys who had managed to make it to that six foot mark were not a regular occurrence.
            Janus was still waiting expectantly for her to reply so Ariadne took a slow breath and put a smile on her face.  “Welcome to New Carthage High School.  You should listen to what Marcus said,” she leaned in a little closer to him, ignoring the faint smell of his expensive cologne, “I’m kind of what they call a prude.”
            In response, Janus leaned in a little closer and whispered back, “I was just asking you to say hello.”
            The simple smile on his face had grown a hairs breadth bigger as he leaned back.  Ariadne felt like somehow the exchange of words had been some sort of opening move and she had lost.  Janus stepped to the side, extending his arm as a motion or her to pass. 
            Frowning, Ariadne stepped passed and headed out into the hallway.  Immediately outside the door, three of Ariadne’s female classmates were attempting to be inconspicuous as they leaned against the green lockers flanking the door.  Ariadne felt it made their motives rather obvious when they all glared at her as she walked past.  A moment later she heard Janus step out of the classroom into the hailstorm of their fake and flattering voices.  Ariadne felt a small smile creep across her face and couldn’t help turning around to see the result.
            To her surprise, Janus was already leaning back against the green lockers surrounded by the three girls.  He was casually telling one of the three girls something that instantly broke out a chorus of twittering laughter from all three of them.
            As if sensing her watching, Janus turned his brown eyes on her and winked.  Ariadne only smirked, waiting for the second stage of the trio’s assault.  When one of the girls planted her hand against Janus’ chest, the smile on his face drooped slightly in surprise as he turned back to face the hand’s owner.  Ariadne’s smile grew bigger as she turned and walked away.
            While part of Ariadne understood her classmates resentment towards her looks she couldn’t help marvelling at the amount of time they spent doing it.  In her entire three years at New Carthage High School she had not once had a boyfriend or gone on a date.  She’d been asked out by almost every straight boy in their year and not once had she said yes to any of their advances.  So, it wasn’t like she was stealing all the men from the other girls in her grade.  Not to mention, the boys always gave up for the more eager prospects once they realized she had no interest in them, as she suspected Janus was at that moment.
            Twice her fellow classmates had tried to spread rumours that she was a lesbian around the school.  Somehow, the rumour hadn’t stuck.  Ariadne didn’t care one way or the other what her classmates thought about her sexuality.  She was straight, and when she saw a boy like Janus she could appreciate how handsome he looked, but it never went beyond appreciation for her.
            She was in high school.  The cesspool of hormones was no place to look for a real emotional connection.  Between boys who had watched one to many porn videos on their family computers late at night and girls more than willing to explore the full effects of their bodies on those boys, Ariadne was more than willing to stay out of the game.
            It also wasn’t wise to navigate the minefield of high school relationships when you were the daughter of Arthur Helen, the CEO of Hellenistic Inc. and a member of the Fortune 500 Club.
            “Are all the girls at this school as shameless as those three?  Is virtue a dead concept?”
            Ariadne started with surprise when Janus’ voice broke into her thoughts.  He was walking casually beside her, hands in his pocket, smiling.
            “How did you…” Ariadne glanced over her shoulder in time to see three sets of raging eyes watching the two of them recede.
            “How did I get away?” Janus asked, turning to walk backwards without breaking stride.  “The trick is to pick a target and not allow yourself to be distracted from the hunt.”
            “So, what you’re saying is that I’m a deer,” Ariadne replied.  “You’re a real flatterer Janus.  But I think this is where our travels together come to an end, my friend.”
            And, without stopping to see what his expression was, Ariadne pushed through the door into the girl’s change room without a backward glance.

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Ronin (An Interactive Story) Part 3

The winner is option B: A section of land to call his own.  Not what I expected, but that’s why we’re writing this together.  I don’t always want to know where the story is going to go.  Let’s see what happens next.

                 The Ronin was silent for a moment, eyes still closed.  Yet the Daimyo could sense that the Ronin’s eyes were open in another way, aimed towards the future.  What little future was available for a man such as himself.

                Finally, the Ronin opened his eyes and looked directly into the Daimyo’s.  “Land,” he said.
                “Land?”
                “An estate.  A patch of land in some far corner of your realm.  Somewhere where I can live out the remainder of my days in peace.  I cannot be expected to raise a family and risk passing my dishonour on to my children.  But I cannot die either.”
                “Cannot or will not?” the Daimyo asked, his curiosity getting the better of him once again.
                The Ronin turned his gaze away, his fingers dancing to the hilt of the extravagant golden katana at his side.  “Cannot.”
                “Very well,” the Daimyo nodded.  “I shall grant you this boon upon your return.  You have my word.  Now, I must ask you to leave immediately.  My son…was part of the last envoy that I sent to the village.  One of my servants will give you a map to your destination.”
                The Daimyo’s voice grew grave as he slid open the door and beckoned for the Ronin to precede him.  The Ronin nodded and passed through the doorway without any hesitation.  “I will discover what has happened.  But I make no promise to return with your son.”
                “I can still have hope.”
                “Hope,” the Ronin said, a touch of disgust in his voice.  “I care not for your superstitions, my daimyo.”
                The Daimyo frowned grimly as the Ronin walked away.  His eyes fell to the katana at his sword for a moment, then the Ronin rounded the corner and was out of sight.
                The Ronin quickly reacquired his horse and saddled up, proceeding out through the gates he had entered through less than half an hour earlier.  The samurai of the castle lined up on either side of the pathway to the gate, azure armour reflecting early morning sun like a great blue ocean.  His vermillion armour cut a path through their ranks unattested.  The Ronin kept his gaze high and forward.  He did nothing when a samurai spat on the ground before him as he rode past.
                One of the Daimyo’s servants had given him a map indicating where the village he was to travel to was located.  The ride would take almost seven hours at a trot without stopping, by the Ronin’s estimate.  Not wishing to push his horse too hard, the Ronin passed the time breathing in the rich air and searching for glimpses of wildlife in the thick woods to either side of him.
                The village was close but not yet in sight when he spotted a small boy playing in the road before him.  The boy wore nothing but ragged pants that appeared to be made from a burlap sack.  The Ronin slowed his horse as he approached.
                “Boy, are you from the village just down the road?” the Ronin called.
                At first the Ronin did not believe that the boy had heard him.  After a moment, the boy slowly rose to his feet, his back still to the Ronin.
                “There’s a monster in the village.”
                “Where did it come from?” the Ronin asked, urging his horse slightly closer and preparing to dismount.
                “From you.”
                The Ronin was taken aback by this statement.  However, before he could say anything more, the boy took off into the woods and disappeared between the trunks of the trees.
                Confused, the Ronin deliberated for a moment.  He felt a great unease growing in his chest and considered turning back.  But his thoughts turned to the possibility of a home to call his own, a place to live out his days shielded from a society that no longer acknowledged him, and he urged his mount forward once more.

Now, time to build some mystery.  What do you think the Ronin should find when he arrives in the village?

A)     The village is mysteriously empty

B)      The village is full of people but none of them are behaving quite right

C)      The village is full of children but no adults
D)     The village is full of people but they are all asleep

Tired But Talkative!

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Conquest - Prologue

James – Los Angeles

OF all the locations for his resurrection, the Serpent chose the one that best spoke to his forgotten heritage.

            The auditorium of the West Angeles Church of God In Christ, which on any given day could hold an excess of 22 000 people, was bathed in a preternatural darkness.  The usually vibrant colours of the mosaic at the back of the main stage were dulled by the deep gloom.  Under normal lighting, the stage would have appeared to be the colour of red clay with six steps raising the center of the stage above the level of the audience.  Just below the mosaic, bleachers wrapped around the center platform.  From them, the choir’s voice was amplified by the fervour of the audience and the acoustic design of the cathedral.

            However, tonight, the church held an audience which far exceeded the capacity envisioned by even the most ambitious of patrons.  Tonight, the cathedral would hold a service of an entirely different kind.  Certainly not what its most faithful parishioners would normally have attended within its hallowed halls.  And tonight, the only music would be swallowed up by the far reaching shadows looming over the main stage like the physical presence of He whom the musicians sought to please.

             The silence was shattered as the mighty doors to the great chamber were thrust open.  In marched four figures.  The lead figure was followed by two, dragging a fourth.  They navigated the near total darkness and ascended to the main stage.  Once there, the captive was propped up on his knees.  His shirt was stained with sweat, his face bruised, and a single cut had formed above his right eyebrow.  The man was named James.

            James didn’t know where he was.  Last he remembered, he had been in his apartment in Chicago when the three figures he was now with had burst in.  He had not even been able to shout out before the three had pounced on him.  With animal ferocity they had beat him until he had finally lost consciousness.

Now, finally able to take a good look at his captors, he found he was unable to distinguish anything about them.  They lacked any memorable or defining features, as though one’s eyes could find nothing of consequence about their appearance.  In fact, this effect was so powerful as to render James unable to determine the genders of any of them.  The only thing James was certain of was that each figure gave off a heady smell of sulphur, as though it were being secreted from their skin like sweat.

            “What do you want from me?” James demanded, looking between them.  When he turned to the third figure he saw that it was moving in a circle around him and the two restraining him.  Only when the figure had returned to its starting position in front of James did he notice that it was holding a knife to its wrist and bleeding onto the floor.

            “Who the hell are you people?”

            Suddenly, James felt his stomach clench.  He felt his muscles tighten and a shiver race up and down his spine.  The effect was the same as nails on a chalk board.  He didn’t hear anything – the three figures were unnaturally silent – but he felt as though someone had laughed at him.  He glanced around as best he could in his restrained position but he could see no one else in the massive auditorium.

            When James turned back – feeling it would be unwise to take his eyes off of his captors even for a moment – he barely caught a glint of metal before he felt a knife slash across his chest.

            James cried out, feeling the knife dig deep.  He attempted to break out of his captors’ grasp but he felt as though steel beams had been wrapped around his arms.  Grunting against the stinging pain, he felt the blood run down his chest.  The figure that had slashed him grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged.  The fabric tore easily, exposing the wound on James’ chest.

            James glanced down but his eyes shifted from his own wound to the blood the figure had spilled on the floor around him.  As though it possessed a life of its own, the blood was moving to form a circle with James at the center.

            Before he could demand another explanation, the knife-wielder slashed him again, slicing into the exact same groove formed by the blade the first time.

            He cried out again, feeling blood begin to flow freely.  Slumping forward, hissing against the searing pain, James watched the knife-wielder kneel before him and produce from a pocket a strange amulet.

            The stone at the center of the amulet was a deep black.  So deep that staring into it gave James an intense surge of vertigo, as though he could fall forward at any moment into its abyssal darkness. Beneath the surface was a constantly shifting tapestry of red smoke, light, and fire that mesmerized and terrified James all at once.  The stone was surrounded by a simple golden circle. He knew, before the figure even moved towards him, that the last thing he wanted was for his blood to touch that amulet.

            “Don’t touch me with that!” James hissed, glaring at the non-descript face of the figure before him.

            James felt he saw something shift in that indefinable face, a curving of forgettable lips, and a black twinkle in unremarkable eyes.  The figure then moved its hand towards James’ chest, pressing the amulet stone into the center of the slash.  Blood pumped out, surging over and around the stone as though it was drawing the blood into itself.

            “No!” James roared.  His skin was crawling as though he was being violated to his very core.  His fists clenched to the point that he felt his nails dig into his palm and draw more blood from his body.  He felt as though the amulet was draining him.

            “NO!”

            Suddenly, James felt the grip on his arms vanish.  His arms fell to his side, gravity now free to do its work.  He heard crashes to either side of him, but he didn’t glance in either direction.  With his new found freedom he lashed out at the figure holding the amulet to his chest.  He grabbed the front of the figure’s shirt and shoved it away from him.

            The instant the amulet broke contact with his skin the feeling of revulsion dissipated.  James was about to turn and flee when he saw that he had done more than shove the knife-wielder away from him.  The figure had been flung across the stage, impacting the mosaic at the back with such force as to crack the wall.  The figure then plummeted to the bleachers and rolled down to the ground with an audible snap.

            But, as though the entire ordeal had no effect on it, the figure rose to its feet and launched itself towards James, uttering an unnatural roar as it closed the distance in a single leap.

            James reacted instantly, striking out at the figure.  His fist connected with the figure’s chin and James watched with shock as the figure was launched into the stands of the auditorium.

            James spun around, searching for the other two attackers, and saw them scrambling out of the seats further back in the auditorium.

            How had they gotten there?

            James searched for an exit, hoping to spot the warm red glow of an EXIT sign.  Instead, as his body moved, he noticed his center of gravity was off.  Stumbling, he glanced over his shoulder.  He cried out in shock at what he beheld.

            Wings.  Black wings, coming out of his back, faintly reflecting light off of each feather as though they were made of metal.  But there was no light in the auditorium, the shimmer had no source.

            Before his brain had time to process what he saw, he felt that same feeling of revulsion magnified a thousand fold.  He was practically paralyzed with the pure, soundless, rage that washed over him.  He glanced around for the source but he could find nothing.

James’ distraction had given his kidnappers time to cross the auditorium and leap on him.  They shoved him to the ground, the effect of the untraceable roar weakening him.  With animal savagery, they pinned his arms to the stage.  James struggled, not understanding, but knowing, that he was stronger than his attackers. He knew that the roar was diminishing that strength but that his life hung in the balance.

            He had thrown one of the attackers off of him and was reaching for the other when the third figure, the knife-wielder, leapt back into his peripheral vision.  Before James could do anything in his own defense – his arms caught up in fighting off the second attacker – the third figure thrust the amulet against his chest.

            James could feel the urgency of the draining now.  He could feel the exodus of the blood from his body.  With each second he felt weaker until the grip of the second attacker on his arms was a steel grip once again.

            A minute later, James felt something else begin to be drawn from his body.  Something essential, eternal, something that was quintessentially James, was being drained from him now.  He was powerless to stop it.

            An eternity passed, thought it was probably no longer than a few seconds, and then James felt himself die.

            The first figure returned to the stage, snapping its dislocated shoulder back into place without so much as a grunt.  The figure with the amulet rose, holding it before him expectantly.  Nothing happened.

            “It did not work,” the second figure said, its voice as non-descript as its features.

            “Not just anyone’s blood will do,” the knife-wielder stated.

            “What now?” the first asked.

            The first wasn’t addressing either of the other two figures.  He spoke to the amulet.

            The red arras of the amulet surged up, as though something within it fought to get out.  The swell of light, smoke, and fire pressed itself against the interior walls of the amulet.  The fluid-like substance bucked, as though it were a thing alive, and the three figures understood.

            “Only he can open it,” the knife-wielder stated.

            “We must find him,” the second confirmed.

            “Micah,” nodded the first.

Unlatched and Slightly Open

Written/Directed by Carmen Warner

Starring
Sarah Deller as Maude
Mallory Comeau as Audrey
Ross Chiasson as Jard

The Hunger Games Midnight Premiere

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"Dust" & "The Psionic Storm"

Hey Readers, here are two short stories I wrote as part of a couple of fifteen minute writing exercises.  Which one do you think is better suited to become a longer novella?  Post a comment below with your answer!

"Dust"

Sud drifted lazily through the air, content to rid the fleeting fragments of distortionary waves sent through the air by the passing behemoths that frequented the room at seemingly random patterns throughout each brightness cycle.  Unlike some of his fellow Dustmen, whom he knew to be currently embarking on a luxurious attempt to cultivate habitable and stable space on the book shelf far to the east, Sud felt no need to make his existence any more lively than it already was.  On occasion, he would get very close to the Earth and wondered if he would at last be swept up and sent into the dark oblivion of yonder garbage can.  He did not know what awaited him there, but nobody ever returned.

                And yet, this did not upset Sud, for he was not upset by many things.  Unlike his sister, Isabel, who frequently went into panic attacks at the slightest provocation.  Just the other day one of the Behemoths had adjusted the source of the brightness and she had practically turned to jelly at the fear of them being swept out into the great unknown of the Outside without first passing through, what she believed to be, the proper decontamination process which occurred inside yonder garbage can.
                Sud didn’t give it much thought though.  He rarely gave anything much thought.
                Well, except maybe for Preet.
                Preet was the hottest tuft of Dustwoman that Sud had ever laid eyes upon.  Ever since fate, and the hurried movement of one of the behemoths’ larger appendages through the air, had allowed him to drift within visual range of her he had been in love.  He prayed that one day another such occurrence would draw them together once more.  He had failed to confess his true feelings to her the first time and would not fail again, he promised himself.  When he had first met her he had been so preoccupied with the rush of movement that always accompanied a behemoth induced shift in his drift patterns that he had barely noticed she was there with him until the currents caused them to part once more.  But a brief glimpse had been all he needed.
                He knew she was out there, somewhere upon the rivers of air fluctuation.  He would find her one day, of that he was certain.
                It was on that day that he hoped he would get his chance.  He noticed the behemoth currently moving about the room alter its course, causing it to focus on a trajectory that would cause it to come near him.  He could only hope that this new disturbance would be sufficient to bring him and his beloved Preet together once again.
                “Well, so long sis,” Sud called to Isabel, a few micrometers away.  “Hope to see you again soon.”
                “No!  Sud!  Don’t you leave me!  Grab onto me!”
                “No can do sis.  Can’t bring your sister to a date.  It’s not good etiquette.”
                “Ahhhh!!!”
                To Sud’s immense pleasure, the behemoth used its audio-generation orifice to create a more direct and concentrated disturbance in the air fluctuations around him.  Sud took hold of the shift in his movement and rode it through the air, twisting and turning in a fantastical inversion and rotation of his world.  He shouted out with delight, laughing hysterically as he soared about.
                “News from the bookshelf!” a passing tuft messenger called out to him.  “The mighty behemoth has deemed our attempts to settle their unacceptable and has caused unprecedented destruction to a few micrometers there!  The Council has convened to consider an armed response against this wanton aggression!”
                “Shoulda just chilled with the rest of us tuft!  They got what was coming to them!” Sud replied, coasting past until the Dustman was out of sight.
                Finally, he could feel the reverberations of the behemoth’s influence begin to settle and he looked about him at his new Dustmen and Dustwomen companions settled into view.
                And he spotted her.  Preet.  Adrift on a light, fluffy current just a couple of micrometers above him.  Using his lazy mastery to manipulate the flowing airstreams, Sud found himself quickly drifting side by side with his beloved.
                “Well, hello again Preet.  Funny how fate has brought us together for a second time.”
                “Who are you?” Preet demanded.
                “Oh, uh, it’s me, Sud.  We met about fifteen brightnesses ago?  We passed very quickly but, um, I would have thought….sorry, I expected you to remember me.”
                “Oh, wait, yeah, sorry.  I have a faint recollection of you.  Sorry, you said your name was Sud?”
                “Yes, Sud.”
                “Cool…well…how have you been.”
                “Very good…wait, are you all right?”
                Sud had noticed a slight change in Preet’s demeanour, as if she had sunk back into a haze of emotional distress.  She drifted with something less than laziness, something more like depression moved her about.
                “What’s wrong?” Sud asked, concern matting his sooty voice.
                “It’s…it’s my husband.  He was amongst those who had gone on the journey to the bookshelf.  The place that the behemoth just recently destroyed.  I hadn’t seen him in twenty-nine brightnesses.  He had sent back word that everything was going smoothly and now…and now this.”
                Sud felt his microscopic heart beat with sympathy.  He didn’t know what to say or what to do.
                “I’m…I’m so sorry.”
                “It’s all right,” Preet whispered.  “I’d just…I’d just really like to be alone right now if you don’t mind.”
                “Oh…of course.  But…oh, but you don’t understand.  What if…”
                “What if what?”
                “What if I’m never brought back to you again?  I just feel like…”
                But Sud saw the sadness in her face and in her eyes and knew that this was not the time.  If they were truly fated to be together, as he so furiously desired, then they would see each other again.  Now was not the time.  Now was not the time.
                “I will leave you be,” Sud promised.
                He coasted into a neighbouring stream of wispiness and saw Preet further and further away until he had lost sight of her entirely.
                “We’ll see each other again, my love,” he whispered to himself.  Until then, he would ride the waves of oxygen molecules caught in the turmoil of the movement of bigger things, and wait.

"The Psionic Storm"

                The psionic storm washed through the encampment without warning.  Moth was flung from beneath her fur blanket as the first lash of energy blasted through the flap of her hut.  She was jolted awake instantly, her body in mid-air, before she hit the side of the hut, tearing the tough fabric, and dumping her into the middle of camp.

                Moth staggered to her feet, attempting to get her bearings, when the second lash of energy flung her straight upwards.  Moth’s brain was still half asleep and she couldn’t seem to focus herself.  In some distant corner of her mind she knew this was making her more vulnerable to the effects of the psionic storm.  She couldn’t throw up the barriers around her mind that she needed to protect herself.  And the unpredictable strikes of the storm would give her no mercy.
                Moth hit the sandy ground.  She did not know how high up the lash had thrown her.  However high it had been, she felt her ribs ache and coughed brittle yellow sand from beneath her tongue.  Without bothering to get up, Moth forced herself into a state of awareness and threw up her mental defenses.  She felt adrenaline surge through her system as she prepared for the third lash.
                It came from her side and flung her through the spit set up over one of the camp fires.  The closest one had been a dozen meters from her tent, but for all she knew the psionic storm had thrown her to the opposite side of her tribe’s encampment.  She was just glad she hadn’t been thrown clear out into the desert.  She’d have had a hell of a time getting back.
                Her back ached from where the metal had bit into her and she felt a momentary swelling of gratitude directed at whoever had put out the fire after the previous day’s celebrations.  She risked untangling herself from the spit before the fourth lash came.
                This one was the fiercest of all and it took all of Moth’s energy not to be sent flying.  She was lifted off the ground though, despite her efforts, and felt herself collide into something new.  But, unlike the spit or her hut, whatever she hit felt fleshy and alive.
                She hit the ground again and rolled over to find herself face to face with Kya.  The other girl grinned with a mouth full of broken teeth.
                “Enjoying the ride, Moth?”
                Kya was the only person that Moth knew who actually enjoyed the psionic storms.  All the other members of her tribe treated the storms with respect and even a touch of fear, knowing that if not properly protected against them the storms could result in serious injury or, even worse, separation from the tribe.