Aug. 17th, 2010

[identity profile]
Neurosis, psychosis, fraud and...

Julius tapped his pen on his notepad and shook his head. Another case of X, that irritating, indefineable elusive additional factor. After seven years of study, he still hadn't found out what it was.

He checked his watch. He'd agreed to meet Jayne at the cinema, but his work was stalled and he'd hardly be missing much in Lesbian Vampire Killers. Besides, it would probably be best not to spend too much time with Jayne. She was much younger than him and he didn't want to encourage anything inappropriate.

With a sigh, he set down his pen. He was too stressed to concentrate and, if nothing else, the film should provide a release of that tension. The film and Jayne.

He banished that thought and headed out for the cinema.
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Always a soothing return.

“Lord God, thou hast begun to shew unto thy servant thy greatness, and most mighty hand, for there is no other God either in heaven or earth, that is able to do thy works, or to be compared to thy strength.”

Always nice to have a moment of purity, clear from the fluff & filth smeared across ten million web-pages. The Bible at his right hand, Catechism at his left.

No “Are you Rapture ready?”, no “Kings James Or The HELLFIRE!”. No taint of the e-religion, of the shabby e-Protestants unleashed crafting endless e-pamphlets proclaiming in desperate howls the message of their wrathful e-God.

“The seventh is the day of the sabbath, that is, the rest of the Lord thy God. Thou shalt not do any work therein…”

He had rested. He had been to a pub. He had taken an unexpected trip to Cambridge. He had returned to London. He had met his sister. There had been worse Sundays.
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(3 words each by [ profile] mazrj and [ profile] skinny_cartman)
She was, Rose realised with some astonishment, jealous.

Tor was better than her. At everything she did. He could cook better, he was more caring, and was far more clever with ways to heal. And he did clever and effective things with hedge fruit. And he was sensitive and perceptive. And everyone liked him. And he was more virtuous, or noble, or...maybe just a better person.

She sniffled a little, and then shook her head at herself. This was just vanity. There was nothing wrong with him being better at things than she was, in spite of how she felt. And she had psychology and dream therapy too, and not many people did those things. She wasn't useless.

And just because people didn't need her anymore - London proved that - didn't mean that they didn't want her. Maybe that was better. Maybe it was better that there was someone else there to do all the things she could. Just in case.

She did hate that the idea didn't bring any relief. Just a strange prickling in her heart.

She didn't like feeling jealous.
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Two short vertical lines to close off the final stave and the manuscript is complete.

It is the first thing he has managed to finish in... years. As he reads it back, he finds tears in his eyes. It's far from his best work and all too likely that no-one else will ever get it. It isn't a pretty piece, but for him it is a placeholder; a way to remember.

It is, in a way, his confession; an account of his history, warts and all. It is a musical expression of the fear and the anger that have dominated his life for so long; of the blood that was spilled and the lives that were lost.

At the top of the first page he writes in clear, bold letters: Symphony No. 3.

After a moment's thought, he adds a subtitle: The Ruthenian.

He gets up from the desk, and leaves his past between the lines.
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The bike purred like a contented panther, the vibration of its well tuned engine coming to a stop as Tom turned off the ignition. He stretched to relieve the cramps in his shoulders and back and looked out at the valley below him. The road he was taking would carry him through the wooded valley below him, he ran his hands through his hair and willed his nostrils to take on the wolf's acuity. Satisfied that there was no scent of Uratha either Pure or Forsaken in the air he got back on his bike.

"England, never thought I'd be back here. Guess I'll have to earn my reputation all over again."

He had been happy in Russia, beta in his pack, married with 2 strong boys who looked like they might have the making of fine warriors, and happy with the territory that Vanya and the rest of the pack had carved out of the Urals, but nothing lasted forever the Pure had seen to that hadn't they? Shown him how everything was transitory so long as Chaos was allowed to reign.

He had buried his wife and children in the garden that they had so loved, packed up what few possessions he had left and dug up his British Passport from where he had buried it with the stash of hard currency and headed back to the West.

He had picked up the bike when he had reached England and spent a couple of weeks fixing it up to his liking. He liked working with his hands, it took his mind off the past.

"Gotta find a place of my own, a new pack, others who understand."

The pack was the most important thing to find, when he'd regained conciousness he realised that the Pure had slaughtered both of his families and he needed a new family if he was to regain his strength.

Deep in the back of his mind, a thought was forming what if the Pure had let him survive for a reason? What if they followed him to finish the job? This time he would be ready, this time he would be stronger.
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The caern was, they said, a marker; it showed where the Seer had done... something. They didn't know quite what he - or she - had come here to achieve, but they were pretty sure he - or she - had done it. They were also pretty certain that it was important that it had been done here.

So they gathered around it and poured their fire - the hot fire and the cold, black liquid flame - out over it and... nothing happened. It was only when they let the fire well up inside that they felt... something. It was a kind of exhaustion, mixed with exhilaration; like winning a race and being ready to run on.

Haywalk didn't know much about pilgrimage or caerns or the hot and cold flames, but he knew that feeling well enough. This caern might mean something, and studying it long enough might resolve something for those with the mind to understand it, but for Haywalk, the feeling was enough.

He strode swiftly down from the mountain with a spring in his step.
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We must be silent until spoken to, never voicing dissent or speaking out of turn, for fear of death.

We must suffer their rage in silence, our blood condemning each of us to the life of a victim.

And they...

They must endure the loneliness of their power; their fury.

I won't be silent, but I'll gladly take the cuts over that.
[identity profile]
The deluge hammered at the castle, turning the stones slick. With an effort, the creator hauled the creation into place and lashed it down with chains. The cables were fixed to the electrodes and above it the storm raged; everything was ready.

The creator hung the tag around the creation's neck; a sort of joke, if not a terribly good one. It would carry a piece of the creator's spark, the old mind overwritten like a palimpsest. Simple, stupid even, but it would smell like the creator, drawing the pursuers off the trail.

As the storm gathered closer, the creator walked away from the creation. That was when the Pandoran attacked; a bestial quadruped, drooling venom, it breasted the castle wall at a run and sprang, carrying the creator over the precipice, a scream of furious defiance echoing into the night.

Lightning struck; a cold white serpent, writhing down the conductors and into the creation's liver. The body arched and twisted, bursting free of its chains in its birth spasms.


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