Month: August 2008 (Page 1 of 4)

The pistol felt heavy in his hand, not in an alien way as he was familiar with weapons. No the gun felt reassuringly heavy. Old fashioned projectile weapons like this Browning were antiques, considered so outmoded and rare that security scanners no longer paid them any mind; these days it was the energy signature of a plasma or laser weapon that was the target of the state security teams and their technological help mates. It had taken considerable time and money to find and repair it, and even longer to gather together the requisite equipment to manufacture reliable ammunition, but it had all been worth it.

He was no longer in any doubt that his target deserved death. His only concern had been the potential to inadvertently marytr a man that was so utterly unworthy of such respect or dignity. Luckily the tide was turning there as well, and the documents that he had sent to various news directors that would arrive after he was dead were likely to leave his actions mitigated at worst and vindicated at best.

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The night was far too warm. Normally the darkness had brought some respite from the heat of the days, but the fall of night had brought no such relief today.

Damian sat by the window, looking out across the town and the flickering lights of candles in windows. The town at large did not have electricity, but he was glad that the compound had a generator, if only for the fan that was working overtime trying to cool down his study.

He took a sip of the ice water that was a undreamed of luxury for most of the people readying themselves for sleep below and then picked a cigarette out of the packet in his breast pocket. He turned the lighter over and over in his hand, trying to recall the look in Danielle’s eyes when she had given it to him; the expectation of him being pleased by the gift, the anticipation of his happiness. He flicked the lid open and it made the characteristic and satisfying clunk that it always made; a predictable sound that bore the promise of the satisfaction of the first lungful of smoke.

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Andrew turned to the window and pushed it slightly more open, hoping that there might be some breeze in the still summer night. The candle did not even flicker in the darkness.

He laid down the quill and stared into the lonely flame, allowing his eyes to drift out of focus as he relaxed back into the chair. The soft yellow glow filled his vision and he started to drift into a familiar reverie.

He allowed his mind to wander in the background and found himself remembering the Great Hall when he had first arrived. It had been in the very depths of Winter that he had made the journey across the county to pledge himself to the order, and he had been so keen to finally arrive after ten days in the snow and wind that he had not camped in sight of the abbey to approach in the morning. The brother that had welcomed him as an honoured guest had left him seated in the Great Hall surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of votive candles flickering in the icy drafts that cut across the space while he fetched the Abbot.

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This Ficlet was inspired by the following image:

Photo by Michael Esplana (on Flickr) you can see the photo’s page here.

She was winding her forelock in her fingers, absently staring out of the window; content as far as I could tell.

She was not aware that I was watching, her reverie deep enough that my feet on the stairs and the gentle clanking of cutlery on crockery had not roused her consciousness.

I stopped for long enough to really look at her; her deep blue eyes, the sweet gold of her blonde hair, the soft ivory of her skin. She was perfect in my mind, even if for another her neck might be too long, her breasts too small or too big, her hips too wide or too narrow; one can never tell the taste of others. I was captivated by the places where her body disappeared under the sheet that was laid across her in a rather careless manner, not to cover her it seemed, but just because it was there and the cotton felt good against her skin. I considered putting the tray down and going hunting under the sheet for the delights that its borders seemed to promise.

She stirred.

“Breakfast in bed? Oh baby, thank you.”

Oh that smile.

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“Another shot?”

James motioned to the open bottle of Jack Daniels on the bar between them.

David tried very hard to tear his eyes away from where Michelle was practicing her moves; even fully clothed there was something undeniably sexy about pole-dancing when she did it.

“Nah. Thanks, but I’ve got to get back to work.”

James snorted;

“That’s never stopped you before. What’s up?”

How could he explain that this story was personal without revealing that he had been screwing a stripper, and worse still a stripper from his friend’s biggest rival. James was a good friend, but he would not have been impressed to discover that David had been nailing Olga, if only because in order to have met her there was a good chance that he had been spending his time and money at a different establishment. As far as James was concerned if David was in Soho, he should be in his place. Of course in James’s place David could not pick up on the talent. This meant that he often went elsewhere; he just did not want to admit to it.

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This Ficlet was inspired by Demondaz’s suggestions of a bottle of Jack Daniels, Soho and Pole Dancing as item, place and activity from the Wednesday poll on my Livejournal.

“There is no honour in this, my master.”

Randolph spoke from his knees, but the defiance in his voice was evident as though he were stood to his full six feet. Eyes cast down, he did not see the smirk on his master’s face, reveling in the inevitable rebellion of the student. Randolph waited, trusting to his recent successes and services rendered, hoping that he might speak his mind when it mattered and influence the old man, even a little.

The old man reached up slowly and cast his hood from his head, allowing the shock of white hair to catch the flickering candlelight, clearly making ready to speak, but delaying for as long as he might, testing the resolve of his protegé. Putting a crooked finger to the side of his face he drew in a long, lingering breath and then finally answered;

“Honour is not why we are here, Randolph. Have you forgotten? We are here to bring about the defeat of the Church of Rome and nothing more, or less come to that.”

Randolph shook his head and rose to stand before his master…

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I was just headin’ into work, like I do every day. I make ammunition at the factory, most of the town does. I had waved at Bill, he’s the guy who does the security desk at the main gate, and I was stopped to chat to Helen and Marjorie when it happened.

There is talk that some folks saw the bombers’ faces, that they were just ordinary looking guys, without any hate or madness in their eyes. Me I never saw them, all I remember was lighting Marjorie’s cigarette and then being knocked off my feet by the blast. The noise was incredible, you know there was a ringin’ in my ears for well past a week after?

I was out – I hit my head on the ground when I fell – and, well I’m glad about that. I didn’t see the broken bodies and the blood, I kinda slept through it all. I’ve heard folks talkin’ since the factory re-opened and I wish I hadn’t heard. Friends of mine were ripped open by those two fellahs, for what? They say that they were protestin’ the war, but how can you protest a war by killin’ folks? I don’t see how.

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This Ficlet was inspired by the front page of Wikipedia for the 25th of August 2008, in English. Amongst other articles was the report of a two-person suicide bombing of an Ordnance Factory in Pakistan, so I constructed a story that was designed to be a similar happening in the US instead.

The confidence was gone from his eyes. Fear was flooding in to fill the void, and along with that blood was pumping from his nose and trickling into his mouth. He tried to cry out, but the pain from between his legs was somehow rendering him silent.

She took a step back, careful to make sure that she still had a good grip with her left hand, and flicked her hair out of her eyes with her right. She then closed it around his chin and made him look into her eyes.

“Where is it, Adam?”

He tried to blink through the tears that were welling up from the broken nose and focus on her face; who was this woman?

“I haven’t got all night!”

She twisted her left hand and his crotch exploded in another ball of agony. What did she want?

“Come on Adam, the drive. Where is it?”

It all made sense now. She must have been one of the ones that they identified and she did not like being on that kind of list. He could feel her hand flexing, she was going to twist harder, he was sure.

“On my desk, in the porcelain dog. Really.”

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