writingmoonstone

[writingmoonstone]

Prey

Blake approached the intimidating façade of the towering diplomatic hotel, The Regal Hotel. Armed with nothing but the pistol hidden in the pocket of her light brown trench coat and her burning anger, she stepped forward. “I know how you feel,” Rals, the head of the kingsglaive, had told her. “But please think this through. If Izunia dies while on his diplomatic mission, we will once again draw the ire of Niflheim. We cannot afford a war.” Those words were pushed away from her by the memory of the footage that Ardyn Izunia had made her watch. The execution that he had ordered. The sight of her mother being torn to bloody pieces clouded every ounce of her judgement.

As she stepped toward the front door, one of the Niflheim guards positioned outside grabbed her arm. “Name and purpose,” he said in a stern voice.

Blake paused. What could she possibly say? No lie would get her in. So she sighed and softly answered. “Blake Venthru. I want to speak with Ardyn Izunia.”

The guard looked taken aback and slowly looked to another guard. “I can… call him. Can we call him?” he confirmed with his friend. Blake gulped with nervous anticipation as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. She began to lose focus as the mixture of fear and hatred pounded against her mind so aggressively that she assumed it’d soon burst.

“He’s in Room 408.” The words slammed Blake back to reality. It had worked. Of course it had worked. Ardyn would never pass down a chance to gloat. She nodded and entered the building, taking the stairs up, tightly gripping her gun as she did, her breaths getting more and more shallow, her chest tightening. She passed by several people in the halls, drawing many a curious eye, her simple grey turtleneck, trenchcoat, untouched long light hair, and multiple piercings marking her as a very strange sight in such an elegant location.

Before she knew it, she found herself before her door. A strand of rage lifted a hand otherwise paralyzed with terror and knocked. Almost as soon as she did, the door swung open, revealing the immense frame of a man, wrapped in far too many layers of clothing, a menacing grin and two knowing eyes piercing under a head of long reddish-brown hair. “Blake,” he smiled with his usual condescending tone. “Do come in.”

She could only stare at him. She could recognize that voice anywhere. This was him, without a doubt. Her fingers began to numb under the pressure she was holding the hidden gun with, and yet she could not bring herself to lift it.

He laughed dryly. “Honey, if you’re going to shoot me, shoot me. But I’ll warn you, if you have anything in your life you hold dear, I’d suggest you didn’t. You’ve walked right into the lion’s den. And you have no idea what you’d be in for if you pull that trigger.”

Blake finally forced out the voice that had stuck in her throat, though it only came out a soft pathetic whisper. “Why… why did you kill her?”

“She was a traitor to Niflheim,” he answered matter of factly. “I had to make an example of her.”

“That’s not what I mean. How do you live with yourself?”

He chuckled again. “That’s a good question. It’s quite difficult being me.” He gave a sick smile that shook Blake to her core.

“You don’t have to patronize me.”

“Oh, am I patronizing you?”

Blake gritted her teeth. “Listen to the way you're talking.”

“Oh, don’t get yourself worked up, that’s just how I talk to everyone. It’s hard not to when you’re just so much better than everyone.”

It was almost impossible for Blake to get a read on this guy. Did he really believe the shit that poured from his mouth? She struggled to even formulate a response. “You’re… you’re a monster.”

“Oh, you have no idea, honey. Now, do you have anything else to say or do, or are you just going to gawk at me?” That same smile creeped up his face.

Blake could feel the arm gripping the gun begin to move up, but with a deep breath, she stopped. “You know I can’t. Not within the walls of Insomnia. But one day. One day… I will put a bullet through your skull and splatter your brain on the dirt.”

“And I’d love to see you try. But I will warn you, it might not stick so well.”

Blake was once again taken aback. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Ardyn only laughed for a moment, then faster than Blake could react, he reached through the doorway and pulled Blake’s arm with shocking strength, placing the barrel against his forehead. “This,” he grinned, and pushed Blake’s finger against the trigger. A raucous crack echoed down the hallway as Ardyn’s head split open, causing a spray of blood and brain matter to scatter behind him as his body toppled to the floor.

Blake stood motionless except for her shaking hand, the gun still aimed forward and smoking, a look of pure fear and shock plastered on her face. She couldn’t even bring herself to move as she heard the quickly approaching footsteps. And then there was a twitch. And Ardyn Izunia perked his head up, fully repaired. He wiped the blood away as he stood and poked his head out as the guards entered the hall. “All a misunderstanding. Carry on,” he smiled at them. “Go on,” he shooed them away, and finally turned his head back down to Blake. “Satisfied?”

Blake looked him up and down again. She noticed the blood on the ground beginning to coalesce into a thick black liquid. Her years on the field suddenly rushed back to her as a familiar but overwhelming feeling came over her. A sickening oozing sensation that she had experienced countless times before caused her to nearly vomit. Ardyn Izunia overflowed with the aura of a demon. 

She looked up at his eyes, now completely inhuman. And for the first time, she returned the grin. “Do you know what I did the last 6 years?” she asked. “I took up countless jobs hunting demons. And I’ve gotten very good at it. You may be stronger, or smarter, or more protected than any demon I’ve slayed before, but you’re still the same. Any demon can die. Any demon can be killed. And I’ll get stronger. So not today. But one day, I’ll be back. Because...” Her gaze widened, and she used her trusty favored technique. One that would incite fear in demons. One that let them know that they had been marked prey. And then she turned and walked away.

And Ardyn Izunia, for the first time, had no snarky quip or snide remark. He simply stood. The sound of the door just closing was the sweetest sound that Blake had ever heard.

Author’s note: Sorry I’ve been gone so long, writer’s block, loss of confidence, and other jobs have kept me away from here, but this was the climax of a FFXV campaign my wonderful friend ran, and it was one of the most cathartic moments of my life, so naturally I had to put it on paper. 

#ffxv #original character #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dungeons #fuckardynizunia

[writingmoonstone]

Preview of Chapter 1

The military issued bus bumped continuously as it drove over the dirt road carved through the southern tip of Nevada, near the McCullough Mountain. The passengers had stayed rather quiet throughout the two hour drive from Vegas. On this bus sat Jacob Adkins, an extremely well put together young man of twenty-three. He kept his short brown hair neatly cut, as well as a short well-groomed beard that accentuated his chiseled features. His eyes were a dark brown, contrasting his fair skin of near perfect completion. He was commonly described as charming, sometimes even beautiful, and though he wouldn’t verbally admit it, he was well aware of this, and quite proud. In fact, the only blemish on his face was the small scar under his right eye that he had obtained when he was very young, but it was so small and faded, that people hardly even noticed it.

He looked around the bus at the others riding up with him, trying to gauge if he had overdressed for the simple arrival and orientation, but his case was a little special. Most everyone seemed to be formally dressed, but he was the only one on board in a full suit and tie. Then again, many came dressed more suitable for what he assumed were other jobs The Organization offered. Looking at the man behind him, she saw he wore a white collared shirt and tie with a lab coat over his other clothing. Adkins repositioned himself as he wished to break the agonizing silence.

“Did you get scouted out for the Research Division?” He asked, attempted to start a conversation with the man behind him. “I think the lab coat might be a little overkill.”

The man with slicked black hair and thick glasses turned to him, responding, “This coming from the man in a full suit. That’s not the sort of thing you’ll find yourself wearing here, no matter what Division you’re a part of.” He smiled. Something about the way Adkins spoke was pleasing.

“I just wanna look my best when I meet the General.” he said.

“Please, there’s no way we’re meeting the General on the first day.” he laughed.

“Trust me, I’ll be seeing him soon.” He reached out his hand over the seat, gesturing for a handshake. “Jacob Adkins, top of my graduating class in the army. Loved the work, hated the atmosphere.”

He took the hand and shook it. “Stephen Robinson. Biomedical researcher, top of my field at Cornell University. We’re all the best of the best here, Mr. Adkins. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

“I wasn’t implying you weren’t. I could tell just by looking at you that you’re exactly the type of person the Foundation is looking for. Do you want to know why?” He asked.

“Sure.” At this point, Stephan seemed to just be going along, but he was glad someone had finally slowed the rising tension as the bus continued its bumpy journey closer to the mountain.

“You have the look in your eyes of someone who’s passionate about learning what’s out there. It’s not just that you’re talented, it’s that you have the curiosity to delve into the darkness that the rest of the world would turn in terror from. That’s why they chose you.”

Stephan looked a bit taken aback, before smirking. “You figured all that out just from a look in my eyes?”

“Trust me, people’s eyes say more than their mouths do. You just have to learn how to read them.”

“Well, let’s see.” Stephan looked into Adkins’ eyes. “I’d say… you’re here because... you are confident in your ability to protect people and lead them.”

Adkins smiled. “You did better than I thought you would, actually. But you’ve got a way to go.”

“Well maybe you could teach me later. If I ever see you around base,” he said as the bus turned off road and stopped before a cliffside, completely obscured from the prying eyes of the outside world. Silence once again overtook the bus, and tension rose to new heights as everyone waited for the ride to continue. The cliffside quietly rumbled as a large door disguised into the rocky face began to open, revealing a long unlit room within. The transport slowly moved the recruits into the darkness, and stopped within, allowing the door to close behind them, removing the last connection to the outside world. The bus was left in utter blackness for several moments, and not a single noise was made. Then, without warning, a multitude of blinding lights appeared from all directions. After adjusting to the drastic change in brightness, Adkins saw a well built tunnel covered with ceramic tiles before him, as far as he could see. Lights built to the walls and ceilings illuminated the white tunnel.

There was no turning back now.

They began to travel along the tunnel in perpetual silence and continued for far longer than any had anticipated or found comfortable. After what might have been the longest ten minutes of their lives, they finally reached a large room resembling a hanger, filled with other vehicles, including the newest models of military grade buses, jets, trucks, and the Foundation Branded Motorcycles. The room was several stories tall, and a large screen overlooked the general perspective. The bus stopped, and the driver opened the door, signaling for everyone to remain seated. Walking up the stairs appeared a very tall, well-built man in uniform with short curling chestnut hair and pale, light skin, but everyone’s eyes were fixed upon his, or rather, the bandages covering them.

“Listen up, recruits. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Adam Hughes. I’m here to give you a brief overview before you step outside and receive a message from the general himself. Afterwards, you’ll do some other shit that isn’t my job.” Adkins has genuinely taken aback by how detached and aloof the man sent to be their first impression of the Foundation. “First of all, welcome to The Alius Orbis Foundation, usually referred to as simply ‘The Organization’ or ‘The Foundation. Above us, built into the mountain, are the quarters in which we all live, and the labs for less risky research. You research recruits will all be starting there. Below are the specially crafted holding cells, training rooms, and labs for more dangerous research. Agent recruits will start out on the first sub-level, but as your rank increases, you’ll be allowed to the lower, more dangerous levels. Once the video outside is finished, you’ll find your assigned mentor, and they’ll take over from there. Any questions? No? Good.”

Hughes stepped off the bus to allow the new recruits to disembark. As Adkins fell into line and stepped off the bus, Hughes grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “Not you.” He jumped, wildly confused as to how he was able to pick him out of the crowd. “You need to get back on. The General wants to see you as soon as he can.”       

Adkins turned toward Stephan and smirked at his shock. “Hey,” Hughes interjected. “if you could hold off on flirting with your colleague, I’d like you to tell the driver to take you to Sector 6. There, you’ll meet your partner, and then you can proceed to the General’s quarters.”

“Wait, how did you-” Adkins tried to ask as Hughes began turning away.

“If you think that’s strange, you’ve not going to last very long here. You’ve got way too much other shit to worry about.”

Adkins stood in confusion for a moment. He’d never had such an inconclusive grasp on another person, but he brushed it off, and stepped back on. “Sorry, looks like your job’s not quite done yet.” 

Author’s note: Just a sneak peek of the first chapter I worked so much on in NaNoWriMo. Thought I’d put something here since I hadn’t posted in a hot minute.

[writingmoonstone]

Foster (Pt. 3)

Sonja shuffled through the stack sheets she had been given that morning, sorting them alphabetically to make her trek through the archives a bit easier. Archivist, they called the position, but she knew they only called it that to make her feel better. She was a librarian, at least until she was deemed fit for her old position again. They had done the same to Audrey when she lost both of her legs on the job and gotten prosthetic ones. Audrey currently handled the more commonly used digital archive, while Sonja now handled the physical copies of reports and papers. Some people simply prefered physical copies, others found them easier to use while on the job. Either way, they had to be organized and easy to access, and someone had to do it. 

She looked down at her stomach area, the bump really beginning to show now. She signed and pushed herself up out of her chair, away from the front desk of the archive and into the maze of metal shelves and decades old paper, all dimly lit by a series of faint overhanging light bulbs. She was well into the L section when she heard the door to the archive open and a familiar voice call out to her. She placed her stack of reports on the ground and walked back to the front.

“Good morning, Jacob. Are you here to see me, or do you need another report?” she asked dryly as she returned to her seat.

“I do need a report, but I’d also like to talk to you. Why didn’t you come to Jesse’s funeral?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the archive. Sonja looked up at her superior, trying to get a read on him. He seemed different than usual. “I’ve been busy. Besides, I only really knew him through you. I wouldn’t really have been able to mourn like the other people there.”

“Guess everyone else felt the same way. No one else came either.” Jacob was beginning to scare Sonja. He was always so charismatic, so kind and full of light. But there was a coldness, an edge to every word he spoke now.

“I’m sorry about that. Really, I am.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Right now, I need someone I can trust. I’ve requested that Marcus return to duty.”

“What?” Sonja bolted up from her chair. “The three of us agreed that Marcus would stay and work here to guarantee the baby would have someone to look after them when I finally go back.”

“Things have changed, Sonja. I need help, and he’s the only one who can give it to me now.”

“You can’t just go back on our agreement because “things have changed!” We all agreed to make a sacrifice, and I’m stuck with mine, so you can’t just take yours back, Jacob.”

“I can, because I have to. And while you’re working, it’s General. Now, I need the report on the report on the Quarantine of Batesville.” Sonja stared back at him in silence. “Now, Ms. Foster.”

“Yes, General,” she forced out, and walked back toward the Q section. 

A shaky reflection followed her as she walked past a sea of metal shelves. You can’t trust him anymore.

“I know,” Sonja answered silently. “I never should have trusted him to begin with.”

Author’s Note: Hey, sorry it’s been so long. I haven’t posted anything in while due to a mixture of my depression getting a lot worse, burnout, and not really liking anything I’ve written recently, though I suppose that’s just the depression talking. I’ll try to keep updating a little more frequently in the future.

#original character #bloodletters

[writingmoonstone]

The Bloodletters; Prologue

The first thing the rogue agent registered upon landing was the cold. Lying on their back in the coarse sand of the Mojave desert, they couldn’t remember the last time they had truly felt cold, and the wind was sending chills down their back and sand into their face. They had been inside for almost the entirety of the autumn, and the single time they’d gone out on a mission, it had been during the day and even farther to the south, making it warmer there than it had been inside the Organization walls, and that wasn’t even taking into account the wild fire that had sparked. They stared upward at the clear night sky, raising their hand in front of their face, and reaching out toward the stars so far out of their reach, a realm beyond their own.

Then came the searing pain. Their vision began to lose focus as they reached toward the source of the agony. They attempted to touch the back of their head to find a pool of warm liquid spilling from the gaping wound in their skull. The occipital lobe was shattered, and the brain matter was exposed in a gory mess of flesh, bone, and tissue. The sand blowing into the wound was exponentially increasing the torment as blood continued to seep from the wound. Their hand could also feel the blood leaking in intervals matching their increasing heart rate. Suppressing the urge to vomit, and fighting to stay conscious, they began to wonder how they had even survived, let alone continue to withstand the near fatal blow they had sustained.

The agent’s mind began to spin with a myriad of regrets and fears. Within the course of less than a year, their life had been raised out of the dark crevice of apathy into one of love, excitement, and hope, which turned into one of loss and fear. And now they had lost everything; everyone they had loved and cared about was dead or had betrayed them. Now they lay in the middle of nowhere, dying, alone, and afraid. Tears began to well up as the realization of the inevitability of this situation’s end began to sink in. But they couldn’t allow themselves to die. It was only a few minutes ago that they made a promise to themselves, only a few months ago when they realized they had someone else to live for, and so soon, it was all rendered null.

They attempted to move into a position in which they could begin to crawl. Somewhere, someone would save them; someone had too. The story couldn’t end here. But as they attempted to turn over, they immediately began to slip into unconsciousness. Dropping back to their previous position, they let out a tremendous cry of pain and mental anguish. The cold, the pain, the despair; they all circled the agent, taunting them in their final moments. It truly was over; they had never stood a chance. For their whole life, they believed the world was against them; it was an uphill battle through and through, and after coming so far, it was all coming to an abrupt end.

As their vision progressively blurred, and their head began to throb, and the sound of their heartbeat filled their ears, an intense light suddenly appeared before their eyes. Either they had been found by someone, or they were finally experiencing that light at the end of the tunnel they had so frequently dreamt of. Being found so quickly meant it had to be The Organization, the only ones looking for them, the only ones who knew they still existed. Between those two possibilities, the agent realized death was the far superior outcome. They could just barely make out a voice calling out to them over the sound of their own pain.

And with that the agent finally passed out, with the last year weighing heavily on their mind. That year in which they all found meaning, and the year that meaning was stripped from everyone. The year where all the undeserved second chances were wasted. The year that ended with the agent’s realization that the world had never acted malevolently toward them. Rather, they realized something far more terrifying: the world had never cared for them one way or the other.

Author’s Note: NaNoWriMo is over, and while I may not have gotten everything done that I wanted to, I’m proud of what I did. In celebration, I’ve posted the first draft of the prologue here. Hope you enjoy. Expect more writing soon!

#nanowrimo #original character #prolouge #bloodletters

[writingmoonstone]

Together Alone

Sable sat in the corner of the dusty pantry, light from the setting sun brightly illuminating the room from a thin window and revealing the small particles floating through the air. His legs were curled up against his body as he leaned against an old, splintering crate filled with preserved fruits. Atop that crate lay the bow Sable had carved out himself from the forest alongside a bundle of arrows. His striking blue eyes accentuated by thin eye-liner and thick mascara worked hard to hold in the look of fear as his body shook, causing the lavish garments of splendid purple to shake with him. His long, lavender-dyed hair hung over his pale face, blocking it from the view of the two women watching over him through the window. 

The party had gone downhill fast after the body of the host (Lord Elminster) had been found in his study with no signs of any causes of death, and the guests had found the mansion and estate now surrounded by an impenetrable barrier of magical darkness. The flamboyantly dressed and flirty young man --- who simply referred to himself by the name Sable --- had reacted particularly poorly to the discovery, and locked himself inside the pantry. While a tall man with ashy skin and fluffy white hair (as well as a large appetite) named Lazarus led the other guests in an investigation, a noblewoman and friend of Elminster, Kira Denore, a strict woman with piercing eyes, tight braided hair, pale skin, and pointed ears, kept a close eye on Sable. She tried to coax him back out, calling him out for suspicious behavior, yet he still refused to leave the room. Eventually, the other guests managed to find a way out, and an agreement was made among the group: Everyone would go and get the town guards together, while two people would stay behind to watch Sable and each other, to keep each other safe and make sure no one would try to leave before the guards returned. Kira elected herself, and a young woman who went by Ex, who had short cut hair, olive skin, golden eyes, and who wore a cloth mask covering her mouth and nose.

Those two were left to stand outside the window and watch over Sable. Kira looked over the cowering boy and scowled. Could this really be him? It didn’t matter; it made the job a lot easier. She gave a nod to Ex, and Ex stepped away. Kira then spoke. “Sable, can I talk to you for a minute?”

He took a moment to pull himself up, his lithe body covered in ornate adornments drifting across the floor, stopping several feet before the window and looking at Kira in silence

“I’m going to ask you again, and I want the truth. No bullshit, no dodging my questions this time. Why did you hide in this room? You know how suspicious that makes you look, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I was just scared,” he hesitated, not wanting to say too much. “I’m…  being hunted right now. I thought that whoever killed Lord Elminster might also be trying to get to me.”

“So you hid yourself away? A flawed plan, but not the worst one,” she said, a grin spreading across her face.  After all, we could very easily do to you as we did to Elminster… Lucatiel Catarina!”

Sable’s eyes shot open, and before he could react, a dagger suddenly flew toward him from outside, shattering the glass of the window into pieces and lodging itself in his left shoulder. He staggered back as a hot stabbing pain coursed through his body, his thoughts racing as he stared out at Ex, her empty hand outstretched in a throwing position. Kira knows my real name. And she distracted me while Ex lined up that shot. This must have been their plan all this time, and I played right into their hands. I thought I was safe because there were two of them, but I never even considered this; they were in on it together!

Sable gripped the leather handle of the knife and ripped it out, causing more blood to seep out and tarnish his garments. He quickly slid the dagger into his belt and reached for the box, managing his bow and three arrows as he turned to run. Kira, her own dagger in hand, began to crawl through the window. “Go in and corner him!” she cried, and Ex dashed. As Kira moved in, the boot on her back leg caught on a piece of glass still attached to the frame, causing her to stumble, and giving Sable the opportunity he needed to slip out of the pantry and into the mansion.

Sable grimaced, briefly reaching up to hold his aching shoulder. His footsteps echoed through the hall off of the wood and luxurious carpets he passed over. He could hear scrambling behind him over the sound of his ragged breaths. He turned into the kitchen and pulled open the door at the far end open, but halted when he caught a glimpse of Ex rounding a corner, coming toward him from the other side. He slammed the door shut and braced it by pushing against it. He prepared a risky shot, pulling all three arrows into the bow at once and waited for the perfect moment, looking over the marble countertops and assorted utensils for his target. 

Sable felt the door slam against his back, and he struggled to push back and keep it closed. He saw a flash of movement as Kira flew into the room, immediately throwing another dagger at him. At that same moment, Sable released.

One…

Two…

Three…

Each arrow met their target’s chest with a sickening thunk as the dagger also penetrated Sable between two lower ribs on his right side. He fell back against the door, while Kira continued her mad sprint toward him, arrows and all, as she pulled yet another blade. Sable tossed his bow aside, and pulled out the only weapon he had left, the dagger Ex had thrown at him. He waited for the right moment --- a lapse in the slams from behind once Kira got close --- to step forward. Kira, not expecting this, hesitated for just a moment, which was all Sable needed. Using all the strength he could muster, he thrust the dagger forward, and felt the blade sink squarely through Kira’s throat.

She stopped dead, gagging and struggling to breathe. Blood seeped from the wound as she sputtered and heaved. Ex slammed into the door again, the door bursting open, now with no resistance. Ex sprawled through, tripping over her own feet. A knock at the front door caused Ex and Sable to freeze as Kira collapsed to the ground. Before Sable could react, nimble as a wild cat, Ex dashed back the way she came, into the depths of the mansion, leaving Sable to finally be able to take a breath. A series of footsteps approached as several guards and previous guests found their way into the room. They all came up to Sable, bombarding him with a mountain of questions. He did not answer. He began to feel wosey from the sharp pain from the dagger still lodged in his midsection. He crumpled as questions of his own rattled in his mind: How did they know how I am? How did they find me after all these years? And why didn’t Ex finish me off?

Meanwhile, Ex slipped out a back window, and dashed as fast as she could into the nearby woods, allowing the shadows caused by the last light of the sun to swallow her. Today was a failure, but now they knew for sure. She would not be caught alive. No, she needed to get back and relay the information to Rolmezath. The Cabal would finally tie their last loose end. They would finally kill the last of the Catarina’s.

Author’s note: I wrote this as a project for a class and I was really happy with how it turned out, so I figured I would finally post this here, especially because I’ve been participating in NaNoWriMo and haven’t had the time to write anything for the blog, so here’s something to fill in some space!

#original characters

[writingmoonstone]

Foster (Pt. 2)

Sonja stared in resignation at the results in her hands. Two red lines on a thin strip stared back at her. It had been a month and a half since she had spent that emotional night with Marcus, and about two months since her last period. Sonja prayed to the god she didn’t believe in that this had all been a fluke. As always, those prayers went unanswered. She couldn’t deny it anymore. She reached into the pocket of her lab coat and pulled out the mirror shard that she always kept on her as a reminder. Another Sonja gazed from across the mirror, looking as fearful as she always did. So you really are pregnant. What are you going to do now? Sonja didn’t respond. What could she do? Fine then. Let’s go over our options. First, you can keep the kid.

Sonja closed her eyes tight and grimaced. “That’s another seven months of pregnancy. That’s even more months of recovery and taking care of it. That’s a lifetime of being a mother. I’m not ready for any of that.”

Alright then. Option two: you can get an abortion.

Sonja paused to think. “That would be easier, but I can’t do that without talking to Marcus first.”

Then talk to him.

“But what if he wants to keep it? I couldn’t go against his wishes. And I love him, I truly do, but he’d do that thing he always does, and try to overcompensate for my safety. There’s no way he’d let me go out on missions like this, and I need to keep working.”

Sonja, you know Marcus wouldn’t force you to have the kid. You know he isn’t like that.

“I know, but what if-”

Enough with the ‘what ifs’, Sonja. If you can’t talk to him now, and you can’t get an abortion without talking to him, you can always have the kid, then give it up.

Sonja’s mind rushed back to her own childhood, never knowing her own parents, the abandonment she still felt to this day. “No. No, I can’t do that either.”

The reflection scowled. So, you can’t keep it, you can’t abort it, and you can’t give it away. You’re crippled by your fears. What do you expect will happen now? Are you just going to pretend you’re not pregnant until someone notices?

“I don’t know! I didn’t ask for this, I just want to keep doing my job and prove to myself that I’m strong enough to make it alone!”

Look at yourself! You know you’re not strong enough! You’re curled up in your room breaking down over a pregnancy test. You can’t do anything alone.

“Shut up!” Sonja screamed, her voice hoarse and pained. She threw the shard against the ground with all her might, causing it to shatter into thousands of tiny pieces.

The reflection still managed to stare back though. You can sit here and not make a choice, Sonja. But remember, no decision is a decision nonetheless.

#original character

[writingmoonstone]

Another World?

A world that was born in my bed

A world turned upside down

A world inhabited by hunger and pleasure

A world home to pain and the divine

A god descends from the sky

A god, or a man from below?

A god of grace and gall

A god that left us to rot

A landscape, a flat and desolate brown

A landscape devoid of greens

A landscape that stretches across the world

A landscape that sustains no life

A facility of meat and steel

A facility of labor and fear

A facility of progress and hope

A facility of death, and the source of all life

The children on the run from those above

The children that had jumped

The children that hide

The children that fly in fear

The soldiers on the hunt

The soldiers that remembers

The soldiers that was there

The soldiers that forgot

A family in desperation

A family that learns the truth

A family that will sacrifice

A family torn

A world of life now struggling

A world on the brink of collapse

A world warmed by the heartless and cold

A world inhabited by hunger

Another world, or our own?

Author’s Note: I wanted to try something a little different today. I’m not used to writing poems to pieces like this, so my apologies if this isn’t up to my usual caliber 

#poetry #surreal #growth #decay #dream #reality

[writingmoonstone]

Foster (#1)

Sonja Foster sat in a stiff, uncomfortable, plastic chair, pulled up against her mahogany desk, toiling over her digital paperwork from her job. Her russet, reddish brown skin and wavy black hair pulled back into an incredibly loose and messy ponytail almost seemed to glow in the blue light of her computer in the otherwise dark room. Her uniform, consisting of a lab coat over a white dress shirt and black tie, was wrinkled and well worn, serval buttons undone and her tie loose, yet still dangling from her neck. Now in the comforts of her room, she could allow herself to breathe a bit better by reducing the restrictiveness of her clothes, but she decided to keep all the accessories on. She didn’t really feel like she was working if she wasn’t in uniform. She sighed, finishing up the last of her report and shutting the computer off, tired after a long day of work. She turned the light on, illuminating the room far better than the computer had. The walls were unpainted and undecorated, all but for a singular mirror hanging next to her bed. Her closet was filled with only additional sets of her uniform. The drawers, similarly, contained just enough clothing to get her though a week before washing them. Some underwear, a few pairs of dress pants, a couple of bras, some pairs of socks. She finally took off her stifling clothes and slipped into her single comfortable outfit consisting of a baggy, oversized pair of cotton pajamas.

She sat on her stiff mattress and reached for the book of poetry on the side table she had recently discovered, much to her surprise, that she actually enjoyed quite a bit. As her hand hovered over the book, her mind drifted to the object in the compartment below. She shuddered to think of it, but once the memories started, they would not stop. She slowly stood up and opened the drawer, closed her eyes and reached in, her hand gripping around the cool steel of the handle. She hadn’t even realized, but she had been holding her breath. She released the air in her lungs as she pulled the item out and opened her eyes, gazing upon the small, crude, blade she had crafted with her bare hands when she was younger. The one she had used to escape the miserable life she had known before. The one that had stained her hands with the blood of a friend. The one that had finally given her hope. She looked up at the mirror, seeing her teenage self holding that blade, the fear and determination in her eyes, the blood on her hands and clothes, the tears running down her face. Sonja reached up and wiped them away, hiding the blade again, then swiftly turning off the lights and silently throwing herself back into bed. “They never need to know,” she muttered to herself. But the Sonja in the mirror chuckled sadly back. They’ll learn though. They always do. 

#short piece #original character #memories #past and present

[writingmoonstone]

Passion

Tess stands in the well-lit backroom of her basement, leaning over a cheap table pressed against the wall. She wears thick mismatched socks to protect her feet from the cool concrete floor. She brushes away her messy blond hair with her arm as it begins to fall in front of her forehead. She toils and works over a sewing machine, set next to piles of fabric and supplies. Her hands are small and rough from years of working the machine, of sewing and cutting fabric, of constructing props, and yet are somehow still soft. Against a stand is propped her phone, playing a backlogged episode of Critical Role on 1.75x speed, desperate to catch up. The background noise from this show is appropriate, considering she is putting the final touches on her cosplays of Jester and the Traveler. I watch her work, amazed at the skill of her craft. When she works, the basement becomes a factory of creation and passion, honoring works of fiction by working to take on the appearance of their characters. “How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you make these intricate outfits that so closely resemble those that the characters wear. How do you style the wigs and apply the makeup, and become this new person so flawlessly? How would I even begin.” 

She smiles at me, and turns, bringing the long green cloak she just finished sewing and wrapping it around me, them pulling the hood up. It comes down so far it blocks everything over my upper lip, just as intended. It isn’t nearly as intricate as her own costume for Jester, but that makes sense. After all, we had yet to come to know him as anything other than Jester’s shady, cloaked friend. I watch Tess tighten the clasp on my neckline, allowing the cloak to obscure my entire form. Once done, she finally took a moment to register what I had asked, and gave her response. “You start the same way everyone does, by starting small, and fucking up until you get better.” I finally smile back, taking off the hood so I can continue to watch her work her craft. Tess is blunt, but she’s right, that is the only way to start. But how she does it so well remains a mystery to me.

#short story #cosplay #Jester #The Traveler #c2e22020 #matt mercer #laura bailey

[writingmoonstone]

Support

A rock sits on a shelf in the corner of my room. A rough white rock in the shape of a lopsided misshapen rectangular prism, freckled with spots of black and shallow pores of various sizes. Slightly larger than a closed fist, and weighing around three or four pounds. all sides are covered with small indents and hills, cracks and imperfections, except for one, almost perfectly flat and smooth. This must be the side that was facing up, the one that that lakeshore waves continually pummeled against, eroding away the rougher creases, and creating a side far more physically appealing. On that side, there are flecks of something that reflects light, creating a subtle sparkling effect. It’s cool to the touch, and even now, all these years later, it still faintly smells like the moist air of that small island beach. 

I remember finding it as a child and projecting an aura of comfort onto it. I found it while on a Boy Scout Trip, and was incredibly lonely. I never got along well with boys; I was too emotional, too frail, too weak. To a child, in desperate need of a friend, a place where they could feel safe and accepted, the rock offered support and a cool relief from the heat. It allowed me to believe that the rock could understand and empathize with my position, and that made that rock feel more human than any person on that island. Away from the physical torment of the other kids, away from the dismissal of the adults, away from the unapproving glares and name calling for my lack of masculinity, away from my own inability to understand why I hated being a boy so much. 

Rocks don’t judge. Rocks don’t treat you differently because you’re nervous to start a fire, or too weak and inexperienced to properly chop wood, or too socially inept to get along with the other kids. Rocks don’t care that you aren’t interested in guns, and hunting, and sports like everyone else. Rocks don’t care about assigned gender at birth, or whether that lines up with who you are.  A rock can be there for you no matter who you are and strive to be. A rock can be whatever a child wants it to be.  It can even be a friend.

#short story #support #rocks #masculinity #transgender #mtf

[writingmoonstone]

Change

I step off of the rough wooden porch, and place my right foot atop the soft green foliage, still damp with hints of the morning dew. The air is hot and muggy, thicker with moisture than the average Wisconsin summer day, causing an unpleasant sensation to permeate throughout my body as I immediately begin to sweat. The sun behind me, peeking over the dark grey tiles of my roof and beating the heat down on my back, I stare out at the tree line, separating the back of our yard from the neighbor’s beyond it, the faint sounds of rustling leaves blowing in the lightest of breezes. Our property stretches dozens of yards before that tree line though, and it feels different than I remembered. The small sections of yard lined with moderate sized rods of wood once used to grow berries of striking red and circling vines of beans, but now stand overgrown with weeds and uncut grass, left unattended. The wood of the jungle gym I had played on since I was a child had become old and decrepit, growing a crusty blue moss and lightly splintering, and so it was taken down, leaving only holes in the dirt and patches of cracked soil where the foundations were set. The yard feels different. It has changed. And yet it also feels more lively than before.

The pale red of a female cardinal catches my eye as she lands on the bird feeder, hanging from the curve of a dark, metal pole, stuck upright in the overgrown garden. She calls out a lovely series of chirps and whistles as the starker red of her mate soon follows, both now picking at the seeds. Through the overgrowth beneath peeks the deep shimmering red of the cherries that we had thrown for the squirrels after they had sat in our fridge a day too long. In the nearby pine tree, the single tree growing in our yard, far from the tree line, I hear the chirps and calls of more birds, the coos of a mourning dove, the tweets of a robin, the song of a goldfinch. That tree had been planted alongside me; I remember growing with it, being taller than it. It now stands wide and thick, its peak cresting well over a dozen feet above my head, shedding pinecones and thin needles of green. A friend, and now a haven for the life around it. The yard has changed. 

Smoke begins to rise from the yard to the left. A large stack of branches and leaves begins to crackle and burn in a wide pit of brick. The smell of gasoline and burning wood begins to float softly to my nose, carried by that light breeze. I reminisce of the times when that tree line continued on past our yard, all the way down to the road that ran perpendicular to ours. The heat has gotten stronger, and the sweat has begun to build up in the fabric of my shirt and exercise shorts. I always disliked the heat, especially when paired with such an intense humidity. I turn to head back inside, stepping off of the grass and back onto that hard, unmoving porch. The yard has changed, and I need to cool off.

#short story #change #nature #man vs nature #immersive

[writingmoonstone]

Anxiety

I stand in the cool, moisture-less air of the desert night. The dunes stand stiff and tall, towering over themselves, hanging in points, supporting their own weight in ways that sand should usually crumble. The sky above, a dark inky void, utterly vacant of the small points of light that normally dot the night sky. The light instead comes from ahead, shining from a distant city of towering buildings of clay, constructed of unknown, unfathomable shapes that twist and bend in on themselves. The angle of the light causes it to catch on the mountainous dunes, leaving sweeping areas of shadow throughout the wasteland. Particles of sand are picked up by the wind, and are gently brushed against my skin. I feel a stinging sensation as a few fly into my eyes. 

How did I get here? I do not know, but I had always known that it was only a matter of time before I would be forced to venture into the unknown; I could not remain a child forever. And so I take my first step forward. My foot sinks a couple of centimeters into the coarse, rough sand, and touch down on something cold, small, and sharp, pricking into the soles of my bare feet and causing that all too familiar, warm, red liquid to seep out. I quickly take a few more steps forward, finding that if I move quickly, I remain relatively unharmed. The pricks will return once I stop, so I must continue to walk. 

As I begin to approach the city, I begin to hear the ambiance emanating from it: several series of long droning notes, playing atop each other, each fighting to become the melody. The discordant song was is paired with voices that echo from the city, a distant cacophony clashing with itself. The sounds combine into one overwhelming din beating against my eardrums. An unfamiliar scent comes with it, a pungent smoky smell, beginning to invade my nostrils. The sensations begin to flood my mind and cause me to hesitate as I struggle to focus. The city now seems imposing and I can feel the tension build in my muscles as my chest begins to tighten, like a moth who just realized the light they had been moving toward was placed there specifically to lure them in. 

But I have nowhere else to go; the desert stretches endlessly in all directions, with no other landmarks in sight, an unending sea with unmoving waves of sand. My throat is dry, and my stomach cries out in an intense hunger, so I force myself push through the overwhelming senses, and continue my march toward the divergent city.

#short story #anxiety #the unknown