This is part one of however many entries I opt to make it. And yes, this is the beginning of the "Gargoyles in the world of Raze!" silliness I've been blathering about for days now. Didn't edit this at ALL before posting, so if you see glaring typos or all around poor writing, sorry. I'll come back and tweak it later.
I arrived at the gates of Haven not long after night had fallen, the sky still more navy than black. The building was unremarkable from outside, a squat one story brick structure with a sprawling footprint, steel gray metal roof, and none of the artistic flare typical of modern architecture. It was too sizeable to pass for a house, but lacked the large showcase windows and idenifying signage of a business. It seemed like the type of place that might serve as a headquarters for something very menial; offices of the Department of Waste Management for a podunk town, or something equally humdrum.
Only the fence gave the building any air of importance. Heavy-duty chain link stood ten feet tall, a wicked curl of razor wire coiled at its top like a serpent lying in wait. I would later ask Lia what purpose the fence served when the greatest threats to Haven could fly. She told me that humans were the second greatest threat.
"Besides," she'd added with a playful wink, hoisting the double barreled shotgun clutched in one massive, clawed hand, "bullets can fly too."
One thing that struck me out of place upon viewing Haven's cold, institutional exterior was something I noticed before I even exited my car: peacocks. My arrival was announced by a shrill chorus of alarm cries, the birds noticing me well before I could spot their night-time perches in the two maple trees framing the entrance. Their long tails hung from the boughs as dense as spanish moss, a great flock assembled on the property. When I questioned the presence of the exotic birds, I was told that guard dogs frightened the pigeons. Very little of that reply made sense before a full tour of the facilities.
With such a noisy reception, ringing the buzzer was unnecessary. I heard the beat of vast, leathery wings only moments before Lia swooped down before me. Though she stood only five feet tall, she was a formidable sight, head lowered to display wicked horns, frill fully extended, mouth agape and crowded with sharp fangs. The claws would have been threat enough, but the shotgun clenched in her leathery grip was leveled with my chest just in case. Wings spread to give the impression of greater size, the gargoyle glared from beneath a heavy brow with eyes that appeared blood red from a lack of pigmentation.
"State your business," she growled, her voice a rich baritone despite her small stature.
I fumbled in my pocket for my MIPS identification badge, finally catching it between two fingertips.
"Trent Wiktor, Missoula Institute for Preternatural Studies," I displayed the badge, trying to sound official. "I spoke with Catalina about documenting the work being done here at Haven?"
The gargoyle contemplated me for a moment before giving her best approximation of a human smile, something made crooked and hideous by her curved tusks. She lowered her gun and unlocked the gate.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Mr. Wiktor. I was expecting a h..." Across the street, a man was walking his dog, and she changed the course of her sentence. "Well, your complexion is not very Polish."
Preternatural confidentiality; I liked her already.
Lia pulled the gate open, gesturing me inside with a sweep of her four fingered hand.
"Welcome to Haven."
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
An Obvious Metaphor
Ever wonder what Sreya was probably like in high school? Apparently I did.
"She paces the corridor nervously with wide, rolling eyes, hobbling on swollen, calloused feet. Her toenails are overgrown, toes twisted with arthritis. Flies swarm the feces smeared down the backs of her legs, her knees are bruised and begrimed. Her hair hangs in a wild, tangled mat over protruding shoulder blades. Swollen breasts, inflamed and irregular with infection, hang loosely over her too-visible rib cage. Her belly sags in a paunch, once cradle to seemingly countless infants, now barren with age and abuse. This is why she is here; there is no use for a woman who can no longer bear young.
Lice and ticks worry her skin, and she attempts to scratch them free, but without nails it is a futile effort. Her fingertips had been cut off at the last joint when she was a baby; when crowded, children tend to bicker and scratch at one another, after all. This and the confinement that has softened her constitution keep her from being much of a threat to the workers who stick canes through the bars, jabbing at her ribs and buttocks to prod her towards the chute.
She lets out a pathetic, braying cry of fear and confusion, attempting to turn away from the din of the auction ahead. A rod strikes her across the bridge of her nose, seperating flesh and fascia as a bruise instantly swells beneath her skin. The woman falls to her knees with a shriek, the -"
"Ok, that's enough."
Sreya raised her eyes to meet her instructor's disapproving gaze.
"Excuse me?"
The man looked over the rim of his glasses, bushy eyebrows shadowing the steel gray glare below them.
"I realize that I requested you create a piece of writing around a metaphor, but don't you think the analogy of humans to animals is a bit obvious?"
Sreya contemplated her teacher's question for a moment, and a fierce smiled appeared on her young face.
"It ought to be, shouldn't it?"
"She paces the corridor nervously with wide, rolling eyes, hobbling on swollen, calloused feet. Her toenails are overgrown, toes twisted with arthritis. Flies swarm the feces smeared down the backs of her legs, her knees are bruised and begrimed. Her hair hangs in a wild, tangled mat over protruding shoulder blades. Swollen breasts, inflamed and irregular with infection, hang loosely over her too-visible rib cage. Her belly sags in a paunch, once cradle to seemingly countless infants, now barren with age and abuse. This is why she is here; there is no use for a woman who can no longer bear young.
Lice and ticks worry her skin, and she attempts to scratch them free, but without nails it is a futile effort. Her fingertips had been cut off at the last joint when she was a baby; when crowded, children tend to bicker and scratch at one another, after all. This and the confinement that has softened her constitution keep her from being much of a threat to the workers who stick canes through the bars, jabbing at her ribs and buttocks to prod her towards the chute.
She lets out a pathetic, braying cry of fear and confusion, attempting to turn away from the din of the auction ahead. A rod strikes her across the bridge of her nose, seperating flesh and fascia as a bruise instantly swells beneath her skin. The woman falls to her knees with a shriek, the -"
"Ok, that's enough."
Sreya raised her eyes to meet her instructor's disapproving gaze.
"Excuse me?"
The man looked over the rim of his glasses, bushy eyebrows shadowing the steel gray glare below them.
"I realize that I requested you create a piece of writing around a metaphor, but don't you think the analogy of humans to animals is a bit obvious?"
Sreya contemplated her teacher's question for a moment, and a fierce smiled appeared on her young face.
"It ought to be, shouldn't it?"
Monday, January 3, 2011
Keep Off The Grass
Some more Lucas and Claire. I really like this pairing, if you can't tell yet.
"Come on, we'll be late for Trent's presentation if we don't hurry," Lucas extended one hand and stepped out on to the lawn.
Claire started after him, then paused, one foot floating over the soft, verdent grass as though testing hot water. Her eyes flitted to a "Keep Off The Grass" sign glaring up at her with silent reproach from the ground a few feet to the left. Her bottom lip curled beneath clean white teeth, and she wrung her hands tensely. Lucas regarded her with a soft smile, trying to meet her lowered gaze.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Claire pushed her short blonde hair behind her ears as she always did when she was nervous. It had become a familiar gesture to Lucas.
"I don't feel right, walking on the grass, I mean."
Lucas considered her for a moment, then errupted into a burst of laughter that startled the woman.
"Well isn't that just civilization in a nutshell?"
Claire met his comment with a perplexed frown. He reached out and gently tilted her chin with one hand so that their eyes met.
"How can you possibly feel guilty about something as simple and natural as walking on grass? I feel guilty about walking on pavement - it doesn't belong there."
Claire laughed too then, her brilliant smile flashing before her hands hid it as always. Lucas offered the crook of his elbow.
"Shall we, then?"
She nodded quickly, looping her arm through his, and they set off across the lawn together. Even with her graceful strides contrasted to his hobbling lean against the cane, it was obvious who was actually supporting who.
"Come on, we'll be late for Trent's presentation if we don't hurry," Lucas extended one hand and stepped out on to the lawn.
Claire started after him, then paused, one foot floating over the soft, verdent grass as though testing hot water. Her eyes flitted to a "Keep Off The Grass" sign glaring up at her with silent reproach from the ground a few feet to the left. Her bottom lip curled beneath clean white teeth, and she wrung her hands tensely. Lucas regarded her with a soft smile, trying to meet her lowered gaze.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Claire pushed her short blonde hair behind her ears as she always did when she was nervous. It had become a familiar gesture to Lucas.
"I don't feel right, walking on the grass, I mean."
Lucas considered her for a moment, then errupted into a burst of laughter that startled the woman.
"Well isn't that just civilization in a nutshell?"
Claire met his comment with a perplexed frown. He reached out and gently tilted her chin with one hand so that their eyes met.
"How can you possibly feel guilty about something as simple and natural as walking on grass? I feel guilty about walking on pavement - it doesn't belong there."
Claire laughed too then, her brilliant smile flashing before her hands hid it as always. Lucas offered the crook of his elbow.
"Shall we, then?"
She nodded quickly, looping her arm through his, and they set off across the lawn together. Even with her graceful strides contrasted to his hobbling lean against the cane, it was obvious who was actually supporting who.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Immortal Goldfish
You know what I'm in the mood for? Some totally unproductive writing, first person, from a character that doesn't even show up in the series until Vol 3. In fact, let's write about her before she was even a wereanimal. Yeah, that's a good allocation of my time. I give you Claire.
Despite every regard in which man holds himself above other species, there is really only way that he is truly unique: While other animals have the instinct of survival alone, man has a keen understanding of his own mortality. Oh, we fear death with the same primitive cringing terror of a fieldmouse at an owl's mercy, but with the added torture of contemplating what is known - and unknown - about dying.
For the entirety of human history, we have sought a loophole, creating Gods and later, sciences in our tireless effort to attain eternal life. We looked to the immortals with envy for answers, first worshipping them, then vivisecting them. Perhaps we should have looked at our own species instead: in the eyes of a human child, the world is full of life.
When I was sixteen, I got a job at a local pet store. It gave me a sense of utility; I was now a contributing member of my family. By and large, the job itself was satisfying as well. I spent most of my time teaching children how to hold a hamster gently, or helping little old ladies carry heavy bags of kitty litter to their cars. We allowed local rescues to set up donation buckets by the register and gave discounts to an elderly man who fed the local strays. We didn't carry many live pets - it was a small mom-and-pop shop - but we took pride in the care of the few animals we sold.
Most of them. The one exception was a large holding tank towards the back of the store, which was filled with "feeder" goldfish. These tiny little fish would come in shipments by the hundreds, and they sold for only ten cents each. Their inevitable fate was to be devoured by predatory pets while the owners eagerly watched, howling with amusement. Those not sold rarely survived a week, their rail-thin bodies eroded by disease. They would stick to the filter, gasping pathetically, unable to move as the other fish picked at their scales and eyes.
I hated this aquarium full of goldfish. Twice daily, every day, I had to remove all of the dead and dying fish. The water was cold and foul-smelling, and to reach the ones on the very bottom, I had to plunge armpit-deep. The goldfish would panic and splash as my net swept through, leaving my clothing damp and stinking. I wound up despising the fish, and if I ever took a moment to comtemplate that hatred, I would be wracked with guilt. How, after all, could I justify hating them for their wretched existence?
One day, while I was scooping out the morning's dead, a young child - barely four years old, toddled over. Children adored these goldfish, blithely oblivious to their suffering. She stared wide-eyed at the sea of shimmering gold scales, smiling until she saw me scooping great net-fulls of fish carcasses from the intake and into a plastic baggie. Her tiny forehead wrinkled as she tried to make sense of the scene. Finally, she tugged at my pants leg and said,
"Why are those fish so sleepy?"
I opened my mouth, began to reply that they were dead, and simply... couldn't. This little girl was staring up at me with naive eyes, ignorant eyes, eyes that couldn't see death. Something in me simply couldn't shatter her illusion that the fish were merely tired. I didn't want to be the one to awaken her from childhood dreams of immortality.
"They... they've been swimming all day," I finally stammered, looking away and continuing my work hoping in vain that she would lose interest and walk away.
"Is that their sleeping bag?" She asked, pointing to the reeking ziplock in my hand packed tightly with finned fatality.
"Yes," I replied succinctly, whisking an eyeless, open-mouthed body from the bottom of the tank.
"But... it's see-through," she frowned. "Don't they need the lights out to sleep?"
I stopped, taking a deep breath.
"Well, when I'm done getting all of the sleepy fish, I'm going to bring them in the back to a nice, dark, quiet place so they can get some rest."
Sated, the child smiled.
"Oh! Ok." She leaned forward, eyeing the bag, and for a moment I thought my ruse would crumble. Instead, however, she enthusiastically waved at the heaped, lifeless goldfish. "Goodnight, fishies! Have a good nap," and took off down the next isle calling for her dad.
I looked down at the bag, the mass of slimy blood-spotted scales and shredded fins glistening within. Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn't breathe, and rushed away from the aquarium, clutching the sack in a white knuckled grip. I cowered behind the employees-only door, chest heaving as I placed the bag in the trash.
The immortal goldfish vanished among the discarded paper towels, soda bottles, and bird seed husks. A nap. Yeah. Six months from now, when my prognosis becomes my reality, me and the goldfish are going to have a good rest.
Despite every regard in which man holds himself above other species, there is really only way that he is truly unique: While other animals have the instinct of survival alone, man has a keen understanding of his own mortality. Oh, we fear death with the same primitive cringing terror of a fieldmouse at an owl's mercy, but with the added torture of contemplating what is known - and unknown - about dying.
For the entirety of human history, we have sought a loophole, creating Gods and later, sciences in our tireless effort to attain eternal life. We looked to the immortals with envy for answers, first worshipping them, then vivisecting them. Perhaps we should have looked at our own species instead: in the eyes of a human child, the world is full of life.
When I was sixteen, I got a job at a local pet store. It gave me a sense of utility; I was now a contributing member of my family. By and large, the job itself was satisfying as well. I spent most of my time teaching children how to hold a hamster gently, or helping little old ladies carry heavy bags of kitty litter to their cars. We allowed local rescues to set up donation buckets by the register and gave discounts to an elderly man who fed the local strays. We didn't carry many live pets - it was a small mom-and-pop shop - but we took pride in the care of the few animals we sold.
Most of them. The one exception was a large holding tank towards the back of the store, which was filled with "feeder" goldfish. These tiny little fish would come in shipments by the hundreds, and they sold for only ten cents each. Their inevitable fate was to be devoured by predatory pets while the owners eagerly watched, howling with amusement. Those not sold rarely survived a week, their rail-thin bodies eroded by disease. They would stick to the filter, gasping pathetically, unable to move as the other fish picked at their scales and eyes.
I hated this aquarium full of goldfish. Twice daily, every day, I had to remove all of the dead and dying fish. The water was cold and foul-smelling, and to reach the ones on the very bottom, I had to plunge armpit-deep. The goldfish would panic and splash as my net swept through, leaving my clothing damp and stinking. I wound up despising the fish, and if I ever took a moment to comtemplate that hatred, I would be wracked with guilt. How, after all, could I justify hating them for their wretched existence?
One day, while I was scooping out the morning's dead, a young child - barely four years old, toddled over. Children adored these goldfish, blithely oblivious to their suffering. She stared wide-eyed at the sea of shimmering gold scales, smiling until she saw me scooping great net-fulls of fish carcasses from the intake and into a plastic baggie. Her tiny forehead wrinkled as she tried to make sense of the scene. Finally, she tugged at my pants leg and said,
"Why are those fish so sleepy?"
I opened my mouth, began to reply that they were dead, and simply... couldn't. This little girl was staring up at me with naive eyes, ignorant eyes, eyes that couldn't see death. Something in me simply couldn't shatter her illusion that the fish were merely tired. I didn't want to be the one to awaken her from childhood dreams of immortality.
"They... they've been swimming all day," I finally stammered, looking away and continuing my work hoping in vain that she would lose interest and walk away.
"Is that their sleeping bag?" She asked, pointing to the reeking ziplock in my hand packed tightly with finned fatality.
"Yes," I replied succinctly, whisking an eyeless, open-mouthed body from the bottom of the tank.
"But... it's see-through," she frowned. "Don't they need the lights out to sleep?"
I stopped, taking a deep breath.
"Well, when I'm done getting all of the sleepy fish, I'm going to bring them in the back to a nice, dark, quiet place so they can get some rest."
Sated, the child smiled.
"Oh! Ok." She leaned forward, eyeing the bag, and for a moment I thought my ruse would crumble. Instead, however, she enthusiastically waved at the heaped, lifeless goldfish. "Goodnight, fishies! Have a good nap," and took off down the next isle calling for her dad.
I looked down at the bag, the mass of slimy blood-spotted scales and shredded fins glistening within. Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn't breathe, and rushed away from the aquarium, clutching the sack in a white knuckled grip. I cowered behind the employees-only door, chest heaving as I placed the bag in the trash.
The immortal goldfish vanished among the discarded paper towels, soda bottles, and bird seed husks. A nap. Yeah. Six months from now, when my prognosis becomes my reality, me and the goldfish are going to have a good rest.
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