http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/ Here's where I'll put my five hundred words. en Copyright 2008 Fri, 02 May 2008 14:06:28 -0500 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Zach sat on his haunches and looked out at the water. The lake was completely still, reflecting the beautiful sky above. It was about as Carolina blue as could be and he hoped that the Big Man would smile kindly on this Tar Heel. He needed all the help he could get. A twig cracked behind Zach, sounding less like a gunshot and more like the time he’d gotten his arm broken during his last game against Duke. His career as a quarterback was over after that, so he decided to go pre-law and oddly enough finished his degree as a Demon Deacon. That had earned him no small amount of ribbing from his fraternity brothers. A second noise, this one a bit closer, brought him out of his reverie. He stood, straightening his dark blue jeans and letting them settle in place brushing the tops of his brown leather work boots. A turn brought him to face the Secret Service agent who was the source of the disturbance. “Can you keep it down son. I’m trying to concentrate.” Zach snapped. “Yes Mister President. Sorry.” The too young redhead in his dark suit nodded. All of these young men, willing to give their lives for mine. Zach thought to himself. Would it be worth it? Of course given what he knew, that death didn’t need to be permanent, but resurrecting the dead was no mean feat. One needed to choose the recipient carefully and the boon probably wouldn’t be “wasted” on an agent, a soldier, or Hell, even a surly old lawyer from Chapel Hill, President or no. He turned back to the lake to think. The girl that had been chosen for this year’s gift had died early the year before. Sue Walton had been on one of those little Sunfish sailboats, barely big enough for two. She was by herself and a stiff breeze had blown out of the east, making the light boom swing unexpectedly, knocking her overboard. That was how the police felt it had gone down anyway. Her parents, were big in real estate, tobacco, wine, you name it. They had hired a New York City lawyer to fill out the application. The White House received thousands of applications a year, more than that if you considered all the ones that didn’t follow the protocol. The lucky “winner” each year got to be brought back from the dead. There were all manner of conditions, naturally. The corpse had to be in good shape. They could not have a criminal record. The Book of Life as it had come to be called was a good six inches thick with rules and regs. Thankfully the choice was ultimately out of the President’s hands. Zack didn’t know how anyone would be able to sleep at night if they had to make such a choice. Thankfully, it was left to popular vote. Starting January first, you could go online and vote for that year’s beneficiary. Votes closed November thirtieth and on December fifteenth it would be done. Though no one knew it for sure, there was a certain amount of corruption. The Net was full of speculation and in this particular case money had indeed changed hands and that was what would bring young Sue back. He could barely sleep and hadn’t been able to eat well all month. It had been the same on the other two occasions. The thoughts of those thousands, Hell, tens of thousands of folks that qualified and them not being able to receive his touch nearly drove him out of his mind. Still, if it had to be anyone, little Sue was a good choice. He would have voted for her himself if he had been allowed to. Resolve firm, he turned to look at the dais. There she lay, looking asleep rather than dead. He chuckled bitterly at the thought of Jesus having merely to say “Awaken.” If only it were that easy. The process itself almost was. There was no animal sacrifice or ancient incantations. It was quite scientific and incredibly expensive. That was the only barrier really. The cost was a cool trillion dollars, but it was well worth it PR-wise. Being the only country with the technology and using it to bring back regular citizens had gone a long way towards making the US look like the good guys again. The men in white coats kept saying that they were so close to making it widely available. Given his position and knowledge, Zach knew that was so much BS. It would be decades if not another century before anyone but the richest could afford it and that was if the United States gave up the secrets. So far as he knew they had kept this secret much more effectively than they had the nuclear bomb. The irony of that wasn’t lost on him. He climbed the stairs and waved his hand over the input panel. Cold wind whipped off the lake and tousled his thick white hair. It also served to dry his tears. He probably looked like an old fool. Oh there were plenty of cameras on him. Nothing that could pierce the veil of secrecy, but the American people demanded to be front and center. They had chosen her, so they thought, and they would see her take her first breath. He said a brief prayer, more for his own benefit than for the ultra-sensitive mics that nevertheless picked up his words. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep” was the extent of what they got, thanks to lake wind. The sequence of numbers complete, he then placed his hand on the flat glass. A swift pain shot through his palm as his blood was sampled. Then a larger portion was taken. It was just enough so that Sue would get the nanomachines her body needed to reknit her flesh. The process complete on his end he stood back and waited. It wouldn’t take long. That was the truly freakish thing about it. A few minutes and she would be up and among the living. His sadness would be abated once he saw that. Sure her parents had bought this second chance with their money and power. Of course there were others perhaps more deserving. There was nothing fair about this, but then nothing in life was fair. Who you were born to was up to either Divine Providence or chance, depending on how you thought about such things. Why should this be any more or less fair? The young lady sat up slowly. Her long dark braids framed a face full of young, pure beauty. She looked more than a little confused and somehow disappointed. That seemed to be the usual state and persisted until it was explained to them through the months of counseling that would follow exactly what happened. Zach never heard the shot. He saw her jerk and then felt something slam into his chest. There hadn’t been an assassination attempt in three decades. Maybe everyone had gotten a bit lazy. He thought about that and about how he hoped they would have to let young Sue rest and about how he hoped they would just lower his old body into the welcoming Carolina clay. All of these thoughts filled his head in the time that it took his body to hit the ground. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep, just let me sleep, just let me sl…” Were his last words, caught by those mics, as he closed his eyes. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/05/awaken.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/05/awaken.html Awaken Fri, 02 May 2008 14:06:28 -0500 The rest of that morning and afternoon passed in a flurry of activity. Satellite maps were pulled from the ‘net, discussions were had on what to wear and take, thoughts about what exactly might be in the Stash were thought, but went largely unexpressed. They even made time for a few rounds of Omega Chess. When the time came to leave Peter looked at his comrades in arms. Gregory had changed into a set of all black BDUs and was even wearing a black balaclava, rolled up for now. Donnie called him Snake-Eyes whenever this get up made its appearance and usually that earned a solid punch in the arm. Occasionally that devolved into a wrestling match. Not today though, today was serious business. Donnie had changed into a pair of heavy-duty black carpenter’s jeans and pulled a dark grey hoodie on over a xDEATHSTARx logo tee. A pair of black twenty eye Docs covered his feet and black greasepaint was smeared all over his face. Not someone Peter would have wanted to meet anywhere. In contrast Peter looked almost comically underdressed. He hadn’t realized that there was going to be a night mission and really had only what he usually wore. His jeans were dark blue as was his jacket. That would have to be enough. He borrowed a pair of Donnie’s boots since more rugged footgear seemed called for and some paint for his face. His ever present backpack completed the ensemble, now filled with water, “iron rations” aka PB and J on Donnie’s housekeeper’s dark wheat bread, and a few hand tools. They all carried mini flashlights and little cheapo digital cameras to document their adventure. The plant was about a thirty minute bike ride from Donnie’s house. Starting this time of year they all left their bikes here, since this is where they spent most of their free time. Donnie winked at his friends. “I think we’re about as ready as we’ll ever be. Let’s roll out!” Minutes later the quiet whir of rubber on asphalt filled the air as the three began their trek. The moon was waning full and there were few clouds. There was already a bite in the air which meant a cold camp, not something any of them looked forward to. Peter spent the time worrying. He was a champ at worrying. What if there were guards? What if they had guns? What if the Seniors were there tonight? What if he fell and broke his collar bone? His stomach kept doing these little flips and rolls. He knew that he could call this off. A quick double flash and the other two would pull over. He’d explain that he’d really rather be playing video games. They’d call him more than a few names. Everyone would be pissy and disappointed, even Peter. Still two hours later they’d be immersed in sensory overload and all would be forgotten, mostly. “No.” Peter said through gritted teeth. “Not this time.” Gregory was right. He needed this. They all needed this. He’d be damned if he’d call it off. Peter knew he was a coward. Left to his own devices he would have been chewed up and spit out by high school. Thank God he’d had his friends to back him, but that wouldn’t last much longer. They were all headed different ways, had been for the last year. He’d need to learn how to make it on his own. Maybe this would help or maybe it was just a last hurrah. Either way the sodium arc lights brightened the near horizon telling him that they were well past midway and whatever happened tonight, good or bad, he was down. They all were. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/03/the_cage_pt_5.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/03/the_cage_pt_5.html The Cage Fri, 28 Mar 2008 15:48:50 -0500 The two boys approached the stairs leading down to the basement apartment. When Peter saw the large black duffle bug he was filled with a sense of fear and anticipation. It meant that Gregory had come with a Mission in mind. Usually they were a sort of military live action role play, a grander version of playing soldier. One or two had been somewhat risky, involving invasions into gang territory. They were never boring. Peter knew better than to ask about it though. Gregory never revealed anything about his Missions until everyone involved was together. Gregory grabbed the bag and headed down first. “Time for Sleeping Beauty to get up.” He raised his fist to make their presence known and just as he would have made contact the door swung open. “Been awake for hours, chumps.” Donnie ushered in his friends with a sweep of his arm. He was dressed simply in a plain white tee and a pair of navy sweat pants. His normally unruly black hair was kept restrained in a pony tail by a thick leather band. There wasn’t a bit of makeup in site. In short, he looked like a normal teenage boy. This was the Donnie that the school never saw. Once all of the bags had been dumped and the first of many bags of chips had been opened the boys sat facing each other. Each sat in a large, overstuffed recliner separated by a four foot square table covered in one inch hexes. Peter was the first to speak. “So what’s the plan?” A grin split Gregory’s face. “I have a Plan.” You could hear the capital P in his voice. “Next year we’ll be Juniors. You know as well as I do that means that we’ll all be far too busy for adventures until the summer at least. We need one big blow-out Mission before that happens. We also need to kick off this summer in a major way. Vacation starts in a month and I have plans to make men of you both yet.” Donnie smirked. “Does that mean I’ll have to stop wearing panties?” “Wear what you like freak boy, but Peter here needs to man up and you need to stop hiding behind that stupid Goth crap.” The words were said without anger, but there was a good deal of long standing frustration. Peter started humming the Be All You Can Be theme and even Gregory cracked up. “Look Colonel, I know you have ‘what’s best’ for us in mind and I’m sure it involves getting drunk and losing our precious virginity so that we can be ‘real men’, but I ain’t a grup yet and I don’t plan to spend my precious, waning childhood days trying to be one. Love you man, but ease up.” “Well maybe we aren’t grups, but you need to learn to stand up to the punks at school and Queenie over there…” “Lecture over, Gregory.” Donnie said around a mouthful of chips. He swallowed and looked at Peter. “You do have a point about our resident coward though.” “Hey,” Peter said a little weakly. Donnie soldiered on. “Dude, you’re scared of your own dang shadow if you don’t have dice in your hand. So what do you have in mind for us?” All name calling and character assassination stopped as Gregory pulled a small notebook from a cargo pocket. “Well you know the old chemical plant outside of town?” He didn’t wait for answers. “We’re going to break in and camp out there.” “That’s it?” Peter asked. He tried not to think of how creepy it must be at night. “No, that’s not it. We’ll have to avoid some security cameras and scale some barbed wire fence just to get in. And in addition to that I have it on highest authority that that’s where the stash is.” His audience seemed to get even more thoughtful at the mention of the stash. It was rumored to contain everything from drugs and booze to stacks of cash that the seniors would use for their big end of year party. “If we found that…” Peter left the thought unfinished. There was a great amount of potential for mayhem. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/03/the_cage_pt_4.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/03/the_cage_pt_4.html The Cage Mon, 10 Mar 2008 21:33:28 -0500 The camo backpack’s straps bit into Peter’s shoulders under the weight of all the books and dice. He knew that the plan was centered mostly around video games, but it never hurt to be prepared. Sunlight spattered the long driveway that led up to Donnie’s house. The boy’s parents were seriously loaded. His dad was somehow involved in banking. Every time Donnie tried to explain it, Peter’s head began to throb. That was a familiar feeling any time the two were around one another. Peter began the half-mile trek, wondering, not for the first time, why he didn’t simply let Mom drive him all the way up. Sometimes he didn’t even make sense to himself. He shrugged and continued walking. Birds sang and a stiff breeze kept things cool. His own personal geek uniform of Vans knockoffs, jeans, and the latest PvP tee shirt was augmented by his cursed corduroy. Mom had insisted he wear it as it might be cold tonight and he was already thankful for it. Halfway up the rise he heard a loud snap come from a stand of trees off to the right. Naturally he jumped and cursed himself for a scaredy cat. He looked and didn’t see anything. Still he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Peter touched the Scout knife in his right pocket. Not that it would be of any use as a weapon, but ever since the snipe hunt it had been a source of comfort for him. Another loud crack sounded, this time from his left, followed by a snickering that immediately drained all tension. “Okay Gregory, game over.” Peter looked toward the source of the noises and waited. Gregory Ramirez stepped out from behind a huge cedar and bowed theatrically. He was dressed in his Junior ROTC battle dress uniform. The camouflage pattern was incredibly effective. It wasn’t until someone was actually using it for its intended purpose that you realized there was a method to the random swirls of color. Peter was just so used to seeing it in malls and at school that the painfully obvious suddenly became clear. Gregory quick jogged to the driveway. He was wearing a backpack that matched Peter’s own. They had met in the JROTC in eighth grade and formed their unlikely bond. Peter opted out after that first year, but Gregory stuck with it and it worked for him. “Hey there slacker!” he sang out. “Got you good didn’t I?” Peter nodded. “Yeah you got me alright. Jackass.” The boys exchanged mock salutes, smiles, and slapped hands. They continued on up the path. “So how long have you been waiting for me?” “Oh, maybe an hour.” Gregory glanced at his watch. “I hiked here and figured I might as well wait. His royal highness won’t even be out of bed yet.” “Heh, yeah. I wouldn’t even be here this early but Mom had to go in at ten. I figured I’d just catch up on some reading and maybe do some game prep while I was waiting.” Peter said. They came in sight of the house. It was a three story job, and Peter reckoned it at about five thousand square feet. Every inch was pretentious and the only saving grace was the dog house. It was the basement apartment that Donnie’s parents had given him as his thirteenth birthday present. With three bedrooms, a full kitchen and a fantastic entertainment center it was the go to place for all of the boys’ gatherings. His Mom was more than glad to give their son an area that could be as thoroughly trashed as any teen's room should be, without it spreading into the rest of their show place. As long as his grades stayed up and he stayed out of trouble it was his. “Lucky S.O.B.” Gregory said, mirroring Peter’s own thoughts. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/03/the_cage_pt_3.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/03/the_cage_pt_3.html The Cage Tue, 04 Mar 2008 12:54:02 -0500 Eyes an unhealthy distance from the page, Peter was engrossed. A peculiar mix of body odor and a sort of sweetness announced someone’s presence before words were necessary. “Hey Donnie.” Peter said, not even bothering to look up. Donnie, a typical Goth at least on the outside, flopped into the burnt orange chair across from his reclusive friend. Every stitch of his clothing was black, the only spot of color a smiley face button with a single eye in the middle of what would be its forehead. “Hey loser. You do realize that there is, at this moment, a ferocious dust kitten attacking your right kneecap?” Peter looked and sure enough a clump of dust and who knew what else was firmly attached to his denim clad leg. He brushed it away and set the book in his lap, holding place with his forefinger. “Loser? Who are you to call me a loser?” “Damn son, loser I may be, but at least I wasn’t hiding under the bleachers.” He crossed his legs and rested vinyl boots on the small table separating them. It was a clear violation of the library rules, but that was Donnie, dangerously edgy. The book would have flown across the small reading room had not Peter possessed a near reverence for the written word. “Word travels fast, huh. Well it’s not like I have face to lose.” “Cheer up son, cheer up. Things are always worse than they seem.” Donnie smiled, black lip stick making his teeth seem preternaturally white. Donnie’s twisted logic often made Peter’s brain hurt. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” The question went unanswered while Donnie pulled a duct tape covered book from his messenger bag. He leafed through it appearing to be satisfied with what he found there. “When you begin to understand the universe, your place in it, and the despair that should cause the only way to go from there is up. ‘What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?’” He snapped his Bible shut and looked at his friend with soft eyes. “Son, I know your life sucks, embrace it.” A short laugh barked from Peter before he could stop himself. “Thanks Donnie. I can always depend on you, even if I never understand you.” A loud shush came from the desk a few steps outside of this alcove. Mrs. Potters did not brook laughter in her domain. “Yeah, yeah, look you’re coming over to my house this weekend and we’re gonna rock out ‘til dawn on some Guitar Hero, while drinking our fill of caffeinated beverages. It’ll make you feel like a new nerd.” His look said that resistance would not only be futile, but silly. “I think that can be arranged. Mom’s working doubles all weekend so I think she’d argue that even my unhealthy ‘anti-social bevior’ with my incredibly weird friends is better than sitting at home alone.” “Spanking it,” Donnie finished the thought. Peter’s ears turned pink. “Yeah. So have you invited Gregory?” The third part of their triumvirate insisted on being called by his full name. “If I didn’t, more the fool me. He’s bringing the Go Juice.” The made stereo faces at the thought of the taste. Neither of them liked the reddish brown goo, but its powers of legal stimulation were legendary. Without another word, ear buds went home and Donnie checked out of this world and into the bizarre inner realm of his imagination, fueled by a mix of music and spoken word compositions that were his own creations. Peter shook his head, a bit envious that Donnie had probably already finished his book reports for the year, halfway through said year. Well if he was going to spend this weekend vegging there was reading to be done. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/02/the_cage_pt_2.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/02/the_cage_pt_2.html The Cage Wed, 27 Feb 2008 21:10:38 -0500 Peter had gotten trapped when someone pushed his jacket off of the bench and under the bleachers. He probably should have left the crappy blue corduroy thing down there for the mice to gnaw on, but jackets, as his mom was fond of saying, didn’t grow on trees. He had tried to imagine a jacket tree with a great deal of success, but it, like most things in his imagination, remained firmly entrenched in the ether. So down he went. He wasn’t really trapped, making his way out wouldn’t be impossible. All that blocked his way were his classmates’ bodies and more importantly a screen of jeers. “Freak!” “Weirdo!” “Stupid fucker!” and other taunts pelted him like verbal garbage. That most of the assault came from girls, made it even more of a challenge. He’d been taught from a young age that a girl’s body was sacrosanct. You weren’t to touch them without permission and hitting them was right out. The insults really didn’t even hurt any more. Where once he would have felt shame or fear, there was now only annoyance and a rising anger. With each passing minute he came closer and closer to the breaking point. What that meant, he wasn’t quite sure. This time around though, he was saved by a whistle. Coach Tim’s black plastic medallion chased the students off their seats. “Alright you slackers, get to your classes.” As the thundering herd obeyed the order, the only one they were likely to listen to all day, Peter could hear the coach’s final words intended for the middle aged man’s ears alone. “If you worked like you should you wouldn’t have such fat asses.” Peter watched as Tim chuckled at his own doggerel. He could imagine the adult practicing that wit in his head, waiting for the right moment to unleash it. That thought instantly made Peter feel only half as pitiful as he had moments before. With some effort he climbed out of his wooden prison. “Shelton? What the hell were you doin’ down there?” Tim pushed his ball cap back and scratched at thinning hair. “Never mind. You get on to class too.” Peter wasted no time in doing as he was told. His English class had library time today, which meant he could indulge in the only freedom he knew, the kind that came between the covers of a book. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/02/the_cage.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2008/02/the_cage.html The Cage Wed, 20 Feb 2008 15:45:42 -0500 Jacobi pointed to the steel box on the counter. "Go ahead." Blowing out through pursed lips she rubbed her hands together and examined it. She'd never seen it before today, though it didn't surprise her that Dad had some sort of safe in the back room. This safe didn't have a combination, but she'd seen enough spy movies to figure what the small square on the side facing her was. Her thumb covered it, with just a bit to spare. A brief whirring followed by four sharp clicks came from within. The door pushed against her thumb. She moved her hand back and made a motion as if to grab the box. "Ah, ah, ah. Please be so kind as to step back." Jacobi didn’t relish the idea of her opening it. There could be a gun in the strongbox. He opened it, the lid coming down to rest along the counter. The whole thing was lined in dark gray, half-inch thick. egg crate foam. Slabs of foam separated it into four segments. In the first was a Heckler & Koch pistol with three magazines. The second held a black silk bag, the third a bundle of CDs or DVDs in cheap plastic jewel cases, and in the last one another metal box. Jacobi began to reach for that when he felt a searing pain in the small of his back. Danny had watched her take the shard of metal from her back pocket. He couldn't believe that Marla was going to get the drop on him. His vision was still a bit blurred so he couldn't tell what it was exactly, but it was about as long as his hand. He silently wished her luck and slowly began to get to his feet. His body, especially his braincase, protested. After plunging the letter opener into his kidney or at least where she hoped his kidney was, Marla stepped back. She knew that she didn't have the strength to hang on to him until he went down. Like a wounded bear, Jacobi swung around to face his attacker. Surprise and what may have been admiration filled his eyes. Though the pain was immense, not a sound escaped him. He lashed out with his foot and caught the young lady directly on her kneecap. A loud crack split the air. Marla screamed and fell to the floor, clutching her leg. "You've outlived your usefulness." The pistol in his hand sought her torso. Danny began to move just as Marla went down. His hands were still linked behind his back, so he just lowered his head and ran the half dozen steps. His shoulder caught the gun and knocked its aim off, the top off Danny's head connecting with the pit of Jacobi's stomach at the same time. A bullet whined off of the tile and sprayed Marla's arm with fragments of lead and flooring. Jacobi fell back against the counter, driving the letter opener even deeper into his back. The loud grunt and growling scream were music to Danny's ears, as was the clatter of the gun on the floor. The young man lay sprawled on top of the man who had held their lives in his hand. The two were tangled together and there was no way of easily extracting himself, especially with the handcuffs hampering any movement he made. Jacobi wasn't moving, so that was good. "Marla, are you…" "I'm okay." She said through gritted teeth. "I don't think anything's broken." Marla stood, stifling another scream of pain as she put a little weight on her damaged leg. The world seemed to dim and her head swam as endorphins began to work in her. To her eyes it looked like Jacobi was either dead or unconscious. A rivulet of blood ran out from under the tangled bodies. It was her intent to make sure that he stayed down either way. The big gun Jacobi had brought in was only a few hops away. She managed to make it and sprawled gracelessly onto the floor as she tried to bend down and pick it up. Another searing bolt of pain connected her knee and head as she met the hard surface with jarring force. Her hand gripped the metal barrel, still warm from use. Reversing the gun, she pointed it at the killer's head. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/07/reversal_of_fortune.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/07/reversal_of_fortune.html Ryan's Florist Fri, 13 Jul 2007 10:47:45 -0500 "Can I help him sit up at least?" she asked Jacobi. "Alright. Since we are going to be here a while." He fished out the key to her cuffs with his left hand. "Turn around." He watched her carefully as she slowly spun one hundred-eighty degrees. One of the circlets popped open. Marla resisted the urge to make any quick motions. She did take a few seconds to massage her wrists, before stooping to check on Danny. The letter opener wasn't far from her mind. If her hands stayed free long enough, she'd take pleasure in jamming it into some soft part of Jacobi's body. Soft fingers touched Danny on his temple. Pain shot through his head, sharply clearing cobwebs and causing him to wince. "Easy." "Sorry. It doesn't look too bad." Marla paused. "Okay well, it actually looks awful, but head wounds are never pretty. I think you'll be okay." The gash was long and narrow and would probably benefit from a couple of stitches. She looked up at Jacobi. "Can I get the first aid kit? It's under the cash register." Without answering he walked around the short counter and grabbed the small metal box. It flew through the air in a brief arc, caught easily by the young lady. "Thanks." She opened it and took out some sealed envelopes. "This will sting a bit." The tang of rubbing alcohol filled the air. A hiss of air forced its way out of Danny. "Liar." "Wuss." She cleaned his scalp as best she could and held a patch of gauze in place to staunch the bleeding. "Hold that there." While he did as he was told she shook to tablets out into her hand. "Take these, you'll have to dry swallow them." Danny grimaced at the thought, but took them just the same. A whopper of a headache had already begun. "Thanks." The two young people locked eyes, light green and brown, both showing determination. He saw her determination turn into realization or something akin to it. She stood, pivoting as she did so. "I know you. I mean you looked familiar when you first came in here. There's a picture of you in my dad's study. It's younger, but it's definitely you." Jacobi cracked a smile. "Your father and I do know each other. We go back quite a way as a matter of fact." Marla wanted to come to him, to poke a finger in his chest. Brave though she was, she was not foolish. So she stopped short of that. "So why? Why are you doing this?" Jacobi chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Don't confuse relationship with friendship. We were never friends. We had business dealings. I occasionally worked for him, sometimes it was as equals. No doubt you know that he was not always a florist." "I know enough about him to know what you're saying is probably true." She set her jaw and spoke her next words through clenched teeth. "But he has changed." The chuckle became a full bore laugh. It rang through the shop. "Men like your father and I don't change. We can try, but it doesn't take." Danny watched the two go back and forth, then stood. "Look, you know what, can we just get this over with?" He struggled to keep his voice even. "I'm tired of being threatened, confused, and afraid. Kill me if you want to. Hell kill us both, I don't care. I'm just ready for this to be done." "Alright. It's as well done here as anywhere at this point. That wasn't the plan, but it seems that God is laughing at my plans today." http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/realizations.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/realizations.html Ryan's Florist Wed, 27 Jun 2007 21:50:27 -0500 Written for Lorna's Blog Party. It required the use of the words practical, shaggy, porcelain, dragon, approximate, explain, narrower, fountain, gyrate, exhaling, off-balance, angels, exaggerate, cotton, incriminate, afterward, moon, terror, ruptured, and sickly. I'll return you to your regularly scheduled florist soon enough. Bobby was never a very practical boy. At least that's what his teachers always told him. He was raised by his Mom and Dad to always seek the most interesting solution to any problem, rather than necessarily taking the shortest route. "Son," Dad would say, patting Bobby's shaggy brown hair, "life is too short to treat every situation like some sort of porcelain doll. If your answer ruffles some feathers then you're probably on the right track. If you're wrong then just keep trying." So when the young lad saw his first dragon, rather than assuming he had gone off his rocker, he took it at face value. With an approximate length of four inches and iridescent pink scales, it didn't look much like the ones he'd read about in faerie stories. Still it would no doubt be easier to catch and keep than something the size of a car or larger. There was no book that he could find to explain how one caught a dragon. Most of them concerned themselves with matters of killing and that just didn't sit well with him. Unfazed by this, he came up with his own idea. Using a cardboard box, some string and a stick that was a bit narrower than his thumb Bobby built a trap. He'd seen something like it on Looney Tunes. The primitive trap was constructed in his back yard, near the fountain his Mom had built to compliment her Zen rock garden. He'd sighted the pink dragon there on several occasions, sunning itself. On schedule he watched it gyrate through the air, until it lighted on the sturdy branch of an apple tree that occupied the rear corner of their lawn. Exhaling the tension from his little body, he waited now for it to discover the bait. He didn't know what smaller dragons ate. There was much talk in the book about virgins and that sort of thing. Lacking anything appropriate, he decided to go with a strawberry pop-tart. It was what he had and perhaps the sweet confection would be as big a hit with the dragon as it was with Bobby. The speed with which the beast moved to the box caught him off-balance. Before Bobby could blink it had grabbed the pale rectangle and flew to a perch on the fountain. Looked like it was time to take a more direct approach. He said a prayer to his guardian angels, someone had once said that a boy like him would need more than one, and stood slowly. "Pardon me, Mr. Dragon," Bobby said in a clear, quiet voice. "I'm not sure if you can talk or even understand me. I won't exaggerate my knowledge of your kind. But if you can, would you be so kind as to be my pet?" The petite monster, if such a thing could be so called, reared back on its haunches. Its belly was as white as Bobby's cotton briefs. It appeared to be thinking. "I'm sorry boy. I don't think I would make a very good pet. Besides, this trap that you have laid for me would seem to incriminate you for attempted dragon-napping. That doesn't incline the odds in your favor of me sticking around." Its voice was light and airy, yet still carried a commanding tone. "I'm sorry. I wasn't sure what else to do. I don't intend you any harm." Bobby took a step forward. "Stay where you are young man," the dragon said sternly. "Let us talk for a moment and perhaps afterward a friendship will be possible. I am called Spinel and you are?" "Bobby Stewart. A pleasure to meet you Spinel." He said, remembering his manners. Spinel took another bite of the pastry. "The bait you chose is quite good Bobby. It was quite a long flight from the moon and I was feeling a bit peckish. Now, as you probably know our races have gone back and forth for generations causing a great deal of terror on both sides." He nodded, though from his point of view it would seem that dragons were far more terrible than humans. "The time has come though, for us to make peace with you and take our place in our rightful home. The moon is lovely, especially this time of year, but we belong here." Spinel took the last bite and licked each claw clean, rather like a cat. "As such, a group of us have been sent to find people who might help. You are one such boy." Bobby's heart felt like it had ruptured by the sudden influx of joy. An ambassador to dragons, him? A look of concern, indistinguishable to humans from any other dragonly look, crossed Spinel's features. "Are you alright young man? You look a bit sickly." "Oh, yes sir. I'm just fine and I'll be glad to help you in any way." Only a boy as impractical as Bobby would make such an offer, though he and the world would one day be glad of it.]]> http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/bobby_and_spinel.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/bobby_and_spinel.html A Dragon and His Boy Tue, 26 Jun 2007 13:30:39 -0500 The steel that Danny saw in the young lady that he thought of as merely whiny eye candy a few hours ago began to frighten him more than a little. He kept telling himself that it was more than likely going to end up killing them both, but as every minute ticked by it didn't. Sure the guy looked more than a little pissed off and frankly Danny couldn't blame him. Still, everyone continued to draw breath. He relaxed his shoulders. That was when the snout of that menacing pistol smacked him on the right side of his head. "You will tell me whatever I ask you." Jacobi looked down on the mewling little boy that now lie bleeding onto the hard linoleum of the shop. The pistol came up, its finish now marred by a slick of red and you couldn't have drawn a straighter line between it's dark throat and Danny's ear with a surveyor's precision. A lump formed in Marla's throat. Thankfully it blocked the mocking laugh that threatened to come at the same time. She didn't like Danny, not one bit. She didn't want him dead, but the idea that his life held a great deal of meaning at this particular juncture seemed ludicrous to her for some reason. Not ordinarily a cynic by any stretch, her own attitude surprised her almost as much as it had surprised Danny. Still, Mom had said for years that it was just like she had been spat out of her father's mouth. And dear old dead was every inch and ounce a cynical man. "I will tell you what I can, when it suits me." Her voice sounded thick and on the verge of tears. "You'll kill us both anyway, so threatening him doesn't do you a damn bit of good." A veil of pain and darkness covered most of Danny's senses. It's like he imagined listening for a train by putting your ear to the cold metal of the track would be. Unfortunately for him, the train had come and danced on his head. He heard and understood Marla's words and wanted to stand screaming in defense of his own life. He couldn't deny the truth in what she said though, what he understood of it. Standing wasn't in his near future and the pool of warmth under his head became tacky. Stay awake, he said to himself. Falling asleep with his brains all about him on the floor was bad form. A giggle nearly came out when he thought that. "Fine then. We'll play it your way for now. You're right in that I do need you alive. For now." He over enunciated the last two words just a bit. "I don't need him particularly, but having you both walking suits me for now." The two fully conscious members of this little gathering simply stared at one another and waited for what was to come. Marla surpassed a sigh that would have been as treacherous as her earlier laugh. One disaster averted. Who knew how many more to go? http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/resolve.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/resolve.html Ryan's Florist Mon, 25 Jun 2007 23:15:28 -0500 The hired killer looked around the small lot and then at his prisoners. An unasked question hung in the air. Marla picked up on it. "I take the bus and he rides his bike. I'd apologize, but ya know, I wouldn't mean it." "Fine. Back inside." Jacobi herded them into the shop. "Back on your knees." He didn't wait for them to comply. He put the box on the counter and took out his cell phone. He barked into the phone and proceeded to ream someone out. At least that's what it sounded like to Danny. Danny had taken some Russian his first year in school and it wasn't that, but it sounded a bit like it. Anytime he'd ever heard a foreign language spoke, it always seemed like the speaker was overly angry or excited. That probably came from the fact that they usually spoke it so quickly. He supposed that people who didn't speak English would think the same thing when they heard him. The look on Jacobi's face made it clear enough that he was not only angry, but enraged. Finished and without waiting for a reply, Jacobi slammed the flip phone shut. He felt like crushing it and feeling the plastic pieces dig into his hand. It would have satisfied some sort of primeval need for blood. Things were beginning to deteriorate and he didn't appreciate that. No one would be available to pick him up for at least an hour. He went to the front door and flipped the thumb lock. There was no sign to indicate that the shop was open or closed. Hopefully the idiots that shopped here would be able to figure out that it was closed if the door was locked. One could never be certain with the cattle that occupied this country. Marla watched Jacobi move. Things didn't look well for them continuing to draw breath. Of course he'd left them alive so far, a fact that more than surprised her. With that knife he could have cut their throats and been on his merry way. Unable to raise her tied hands, she tried to get his attention with a pleading look. Her earlier smartass remark probably hadn't helped his mood. "Yes, Marla," he said in a more level tone, "what can I do for you?" Die she thought. She almost started to say "Let us go." That was likely a bad idea though. She knew how cliché her response was before she even said it. "No, it's what I can do for you. I can get you in that box if you want." "You don't say. And why do you think I want in this box, or couldn't get in it if I did?" He waited for her answer. Marla shrugged just a little. "Someone wants in there and they've hired you to do it. I guess if you've got no interest in it then I have to ask why you are here? As for you getting in, I know you'd have to wreck it to do so. How do I know that? Couldn't tell you, not yet anyway, but I do. If that box gets damaged then I'll wager you're out of a job. Right?" The man just looked through her. "So there's your answers." http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/plan_b.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/plan_b.html Ryan's Florist Fri, 15 Jun 2007 20:18:30 -0500 Jacobi returned to the front of the flower shop. The smell of fresh cut flowers and the sound of quiet weeping were constant companions in his life. He saw Marla kneeling there, her shoulders softly quaking and it touched one of the few remaining soft spots that he had in his heart. He had a granddaughter her age. Of course the tenderness had no bearing on his job and ability to perform it. He circled around to face the two young people. "Cara mia, don't cry." The large frame pistol stayed pointed at the floor. He placed the box on the floor gently and pulled the long, pearl handled knife popping the blade free as it came level with the floor. Danny's eyes widened in horror. He watched the old man move toward Marla. Part of him wanted to leap up and rush Jacobi, knocking him aside with the weight of his body. Fear stuck him to the floor as effectively as any glue. Three quick moves and her green apron hit the floor with a dull thud. "You're not that good of an actress." Jacobi finished his thought. The blade went back in his pocket and he stooped to pick up the cloth bundle. "Good, but not good enough. Your father's daughter wouldn't cry over something like this. Now get up, the both of you." He gestured with the pistol. The gentle sobbing stopped and Marla got to her feet. Her deep blue eyes sparked and her mouth was hard set. "You don't know what I'm capable of." A flinty smile creased Jacobi's face. "No, perhaps not, but I have a feeling that we'll both find out." He gestured with the gun again. Danny looked back and forth between the two. It was like something out of a movie. He couldn't believe that the girl he'd worked with for the last couple of months and had seen at the cafeteria on campus was staring this man down. He stood after he noticed that they were both staring at him. "Okay, okay, I'm up. Now what?" "Now we all go out the front door. You nice folks get in the back of a van that I have waiting and we drive to an undisclosed location." He read the nervous looks, not that it was hard. "You play along, you don't die. You don't and you die right here." Fading light streamed in through the smoked glass door. Marla knew that there wouldn't be many people on the street outside. This wasn't the neighborhood it used to be and this close to sundown most of its inhabitants kept to themselves. Even if someone saw something there wouldn't be any witnesses. Still, alive in the van was better than dead here. She nodded at Danny and he went first. The door bumped open under his foot activating the bell. In moments they all stood outside. A large, nondescript white van was parked in one of the few spaces in front of the shop. Marla suppressed a giggle and Jacobi swore. In the few minutes he'd been in the store all four tires had been slashed and the side had been tagged by one of the local grafitti artists. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/time_to_go.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/time_to_go.html Ryan's Florist Thu, 07 Jun 2007 22:22:18 -0500 "Get back here you idiot," Marla whispered as fiercely as she could. Danny drove her crazy, constantly ogling her and doing little more than he had to around the shop. Now he was going to be the death of them both. She got to her feet a little more smoothly than her co-worker. Danny reached the phone and realized the flaw in his plan. He wouldn't be able to pick it up much less dial it very easily with both hands behind his back. He glanced around the shop. No way he could go through the door. The bell would be a dead give away. Phone it was then. He turned and was about to try and grab it when he looked up to see Marla close the distance. She got right in his face, close enough for her spit to spray him. Her face was bright red, but her words were calm and low. "I swear if you don't get on your knees I will kill you myself." He believed her, so he complied. "I'm sorry Marla. I just don't want to die." "Neither do I Danny, neither do I." She looked down on him and felt the urge to tousle his hair. Of course she wouldn't have been able to anyway. "Now get back over there." She took a small pleasure in watching him knee-walk back to his spot. Before she joined him she saw a letter opener sitting on the counter. It wasn't much, a replica of Excalibur that dad got at some stupid trade show, but its point was wicked sharp and she couldn’t get to the shears. Marla turned her back to the counter and managed to grab it on the first try. It slipped neatly into her back pocket. Thankfully her jeans had just a little bit of bag to them and it shouldn't be too obvious. The sound of something shattering came from the back. She moved quickly back to where she had been and crouched back down. Danny was kneeling about where he had been before and looked like he had settled down just a little. His breathing was measured. That was good. If they were going to make it out of here he needed to be able to listen and do what he was told. She didn't really have a plan per se, but she had always been good at improvisation and her upbringing made her no stranger to men with guns. Footsteps signaled Jacobi's return. She focused all of her mind on Brandi. She was seven when she'd found the Golden Retriever puppy with the bright red ribbon around its neck waiting for her in her bedroom. She had giggled and jumped up and down and showered Daddy with kisses. She loved that dog more than she had loved any human being for the two years they'd had her. Then one day Brandi had run out into traffic. Marla could still feel the burn of the leash running through her fingers. The squeal of brakes and a wet crunching sound woke her from her dreams for months. The emotion from that memory added to the stress of her current situation and tears came easily. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/get_a_grip.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/get_a_grip.html Ryan's Florist Wed, 06 Jun 2007 22:11:17 -0500 Jacobi scanned the area surrounding the work table. He'd been told that there was a loose floor tile hiding what he was here for. The details were sketchy beyond that. The floor was a patchwork of mismatched tiles. Ryan was nothing if not cheap and had probably bought a mix of boxes at some closeout sale and done the work himself. He holstered the forty-five and got down on his hands and knees. Close up he could actually see that the quality of the work itself was good. The floor was level and each square flush with its' neighbors. There was one at the corner, near the workbench's front left leg, that was raised just a few millimeters. It was the sole white one with off white at each compass point. Jacobi chuckled a bit and reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulling out his pearl handled switchblade. It clicked open and he used it merely to test the edges to see how easily it would come open. No sense in using such a fine tool for so gross a purpose as a pry bar. Though raised, the square did not unseat easily. He put the knife away and stood. Surely there was something that he could put to good use. A small toolbox peaked out from a shelf that ran the length of the room at head height. It sat amongst a collection of vases. He eased it down and opened it. The meager collection of tools did include a stout hammer. Three sharp raps to the middle of the square fractured it into more than a dozen small pieces. Carefully, he moved each fragment to an adjacent tile slowly revealing a six inch square hole, one foot deep. A black steel box filled it with only a hairsbreadth on any given side. Jacobi grabbed it by its handle and pulled it free. This was it, no doubt. It matched the measurements he was given and was every bit as heavy as he was told it would be. He didn't know what was inside it and in truth had no desire to know. He was being paid handsomely to do what he was told and no more. He rested the box on the bench and dusted off his pants, straightening the fabric in the process. Jacobi prided himself on being an immaculate dresser. The running clothes he wore were detestable and he couldn’t wait to burn them, but just because one had to dress like a slob to blend in didn't mean that he needed to be dirty. The strongbox had a small square in centered on one long side, an inch under the crack that ran around its perimeter. He rested his thumb against it in a moment of weakness. As he suspected it did nothing, not even emitting a noise. He took it by the handle in his left hand and pulled the pistol with his right. It was time to collect the other part of the package. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/buried_treasure.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/buried_treasure.html Ryan's Florist Tue, 05 Jun 2007 22:40:36 -0500 The cold steel of handcuffs went around Marla's wrist and snapped tight by momentum. It hurt like hell, but she worked hard not to flinch. After all, it wasn't the first time she'd been cuffed. A hiss did escape her lips though. "That hurt, did it?" Jacobi yanked her arm down and around by the cuff's chain. "Be so good as to put that other hand behind your back." He confined her left wrist and cinched it tight as well. "Now you, young man." He gave Danny the same treatment. Satisfied that they'd stay put, he went to the cash drawer and emptied it out. "You're correct Mistress Marla, not much in the till at all. Still one needs to be thorough." The cheap plastic of the cash register sounded like a small bomb going off as it hit the concrete floor. Shards flew and another crash, this time glass, filled the air like a sharp echo. Danny nearly crapped in his pants. He started praying under his breath, trying desperately to remember anything other than "Now I lay me down to sleep." "It'll be okay Danny," Marla whispered. She thought he looked like he was going to puke, pass out, or both. She didn't think she sounded too convincing, but she wasn't sure that he heard her anyway. She wasn't convinced herself. Her shoulders were already throbbing and while she was relatively sure that she'd be able to stand without falling there was no way she could do it fast enough and nothing that she'd be able to do once up. She focused on relaxing and started doing some deep breathing she'd learned in yoga class. Jacobi looked his prisoners over. Killing them here wasn't part of the plan, but he was beginning to rethink that. "It'll just be a few more minutes. I'm going to have a bit of a look around. You children sit tight. Move and it will be messy." He went through the doorway into the work area, where Marla had been. Danny's brain latched onto something half heard. "'Miss Marla'? He knows you. How does he know you? Do you know…" "Shut it, Danny. No I don't know him." Her cheeks flared red. She didn't look at him. "Keep your head screwed on straight and we'll get out of here." "That's crap. You know what's going on here, don't you?" Danny began to think that there was more to the whiny redhead than he knew. No way was he going to die because of her. Right now he had to admit that she was right, though. He had to keep calm. He looked around and saw that the phone was only a few steps away and the old guy had gone into the back. Danny's legs felt fuzzy, but he thought maybe he could make it to the cordless and dial nine one one. Maybe leave it off hook and get back to kneeling before the man returned. "Don’t do anything stupid Danny," Marla hissed through clenched teeth. She saw him begin to struggle to his feet. http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/stupid_stupid_stupid.html http://www.spiritualtramp.com/500/2007/06/stupid_stupid_stupid.html Ryan's Florist Mon, 04 Jun 2007 16:07:41 -0500