Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Losing My Religion

I am defying gravity.

I glance out the window of the Greyhound Bus. We’ve been broken down in a small town in Kansas for an hour now. Everyone else has gotten off, for one reason or another, but I’ve stayed put. My mind has been too focused for me to pay attention to anything else.
I am running away. I am seizing the day; I am a million choices and chances packed into a tiny suitcase. I am doing the impossible.

“It’s going to be another hour before we’re able to get moving again, miss. Do you want to take another bus?” a portly gentleman with a pocket watch smiles at me. His eyes sparkle out from the wrinkles and his moustache curls at the ends. He almost reminds me of Santa Claus, but this is a bus not a sleigh and its July not December.

“It’s bad luck if you don’t finish a journey the way you started it.” I reply, smiling. I must sound crazy, talking about luck when mine has already been so dreadful. This is probably my fault. Momma always said bad things followed me like fleas follow a hound. Momma also said that it was bad luck to start something and not follow it through to the end.

The bus driver shrugs and goes back to the front. He looks back at me for a moment, before shaking his head and climbing down. I look back out the window at the endless fields and dust. I suppose they call it the Dust Bowl for a reason.

Thinking of Momma makes me feel mildly ill. I can see her face, bruised, and her once brightly colored tourmaline eyes dull and sunken. She was scarecrow thin, her calico dress hanging off her bony frame. She kept pressing the rolled up twenties into my sweaty palms, whispering so that he wouldn’t hear her. All her years of taking in laundry, baking bread, wiping bottoms; all of her dreams being pressed into my hands. All of it rolled into a coffee can she had hidden under our porch. I just looked at her, uncomprehending.

“Livy, you have to take a chance.” She had whispered. “This is your chance, take it.”

“Momma,” I replied, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t stay here forever. You were born under a good sign, Livy, make the most of it.”

I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. I wonder how angry he was when he found out I was gone. I wonder how long he made her stand, tied to the whipping post. It is too late for guilt. It is too late to turn back. She wouldn’t want me to do that anyway. She wouldn’t want me to feel guilty, it isn’t as if I didn’t ask, beg, her to come with me.
I am powerless to change anything at this point. I am several hundred miles away from the back woods and dirt roads of Shawnee.

I am tired. The exhaustion of my frantic escape takes up physical weight at the marrow of my bones. I rest my cheek against the smudged glass and stare up at the perfectly empty sky. It is the bluest sky I’ve ever seen and I wonder if things change color when you are free.

A girl, about my age, climbs up and into the bus. She has short flaxen hair curling perfectly around her heart-shaped face. She has opal eyes that glitter with unsuppressed joy and anticipation. She awkwardly lugs a big black suitcase. It reminds me of a coffin and I want nothing to do with it, but I still stand to offer her a hand.

“Can I help you with that?” I ask, stretching out a hand to help.

“Its ‘may I help you?’” She replies, letting me grab the handle. “You certainly can help, but the question is will I let you help?”

“Obviously you will let me, as I just did.”

She smiles, little crinkles appearing on her nose. She has a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheeks. She is a hand shorter than I, but she carries herself as if she were a giant, proud.

“I’m Sadie.” She says, wiping her hand on her jean shorts before extending it to me.

“Livy.” I reply, shaking her hand. I think, after I take her hand, that I should have wiped my hand on my jeans as well.

“Short for Olivia?” she asks, settling herself into a seat across the aisle from me.

“Short for Olive.” I say, looking at the gray-green top I am wearing.

“Ah. Sadie is what my mother always called me, but my name is actually Seraphina.” She wrinkles her nose, as if she has just tasted something sour. “I prefer Sadie.”

We sit in companionable silence for a moment as she adjusts herself. She looks out her side of the bus, wrinkles her nose again and looks back at me. She seems to be sizing me up, her eyes drifting over every detail of my outfit.

“Where are you going Livy?” she asks, turning so that her back is pressed against the bus wall.

“Headed up to Maine, possibly taking the first boat I can find to Europe.”

“Maine, huh? That’s where I’m going. What’s in Europe?”

“Life.” I reply, a small smile creeping onto my face.

“Life?” She cocks her head to one side and ponders my expression.

“Well, a chance for a life, I suppose.”

She looks at me, quizzically, but doesn’t ask anything else.

“Why are you going to Maine?” I ask, mimicking her posture and positioning.

“I’m going to be a teacher. An English teacher for Miss Abernathy’s School for Girls.” She says this in a pompous tone that makes me laugh. “It’s very fancy, you know.”

“I wouldn’t know fancy if it bit me.” I say, honestly. “I grew up in the back woods of Oklahoma.”

“Ah, Oklahoma! I have been through there. I have recently come from Utah.”

“What were you doing in Utah, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She gets quiet. Her eye color shifts, ever so subtly, and for a moment I wonder if she will begin to cry. Just as I am about to apologize for being so nosy, she smiles and gives her head a saucy shake.

“Why, living the American dream of course!” she says, brightly. She shifts in her seat so that she can look out the window and that ends our conversation. I don’t try to engage her again, instead tugging my small bag closer to me and leaning my head against the window again.

The bus driver huffs and puffs as he climbs back into the bus. He is followed by two or three other people, all lugging awkwardly shaped suitcases. An old lady in a pink hat and sunglasses plants herself in front of me and a man, whom I can only assume is her husband, plops down beside her. As he sits he expels a small amount of gas, leaving me breathlessly nauseous.

I try to be inconspicuous as I carefully move from my seat. The last thing I want is a confrontation over bodily functions that can no longer be controlled. With a small smile I look at Sadie, half pleading with eyes. She seems to catch my drift and, taking her suitcase, follows me to the very back of the bus. We sit across from each other, staring out of our respective windows as the bus finally starts and toddles toward an exit ramp.
Mostly we stare out of the windows, trying to soak in all the different scenes flashing past us. Every hour or so Sadie asks me a question about Oklahoma and I ask her a question about Utah.

“Is the Great Salt Lake really made of Salt?” I ask, sipping a cola. She laughs at me and takes a bite of her sandwich.

“It isn’t ‘made’ of salt, but it is the largest salt water lake in the Western Hemisphere.”

“How do you know so much?” I ask, accepting a bite of her turkey on rye in exchange for a sip of my drink.

“I read a lot.” She replies, shrugging. She smiles between bites of her sandwich, pulling off chunks for me. I offer her my other bottle of cola, but she waves me off and just takes another sip out of the already opened bottle.

In Indiana we are stopped for routine maintenance. We leave the bus and find a tiny motel room. Collapsing on the beds, we sigh in unison, which makes us giggle.

“Did you have a boy back home?” she asks, turning on her side and propping herself up on her elbow.

“No.” I say, shaking my head and staring at the ceiling. “You?”

“Yes.” She whispers. She rolls back onto her back, her silence tearing at my heart a bit. She has the bruised look Momma used to get whenever he came home after drinking and whoring.

Without thinking, I reach my hand out and take hers in mine. And we just lay there, holding hands as if we have known each other forever. We fall asleep that way, not caring that our arms go numb from hanging off the bed.

In the morning we board the bus and race to the back. I win and we trade suitcases for the day. Inside her bag is a diary, which I don’t touch, and miscellaneous clothes. Under the clothes is a layer of books. Encyclopedias, a dictionary and a couple novels. She smiles at me and winks, holding up my own diary. She opens it to the first page and I don’t stop her. I suddenly feel lighter. As if her reading my words validates me in some way. I feel like a bird about to take off for the first time.

I let her read about the beatings, the rape, Momma’s bruises and the roll of twenties that bought my freedom. I let her read about him and the whipping post. I let her read about my own Sadie being buried before her first birthday.

She never says a word, reading quietly. Every now and then she will look up at me, a knowing smile gracing her face. The smile is tight, but kind, as if she has become too brittle to really smile.

“Well,” she says, after another hour of silence. “Aren’t you going to read mine now?”

“I didn’t want to intrude.” I reply, lamely.

“And my reading your diary wasn’t an intrusion?” she replies. She pauses a moment, before adding, “Are you mad?”

“No, actually I’m relieved. I’ve never been able to tell anyone those things. Not even Momma, even though she knew.”

“I want you to read mine, then. Maybe it will help me as well.” She makes me promise that I will, then turns to watch the Indiana countryside roll by the window.

I slip my hand into her suitcase and retrieve the diary. It is a better quality than mine, with a fine leather cover inscribed with the name “Seraphina.” I am afraid to open it, afraid to read what this young woman, this stranger, has felt. To read what she has believed, what she has done.

With a deep breath, I open it to the first page.

“I am dying.” It says. “I am wilting, like a flower in a too sunny window box with no water or love.”

She lets me read. She lets me read about her forced marriage to her mother’s cousin, a man with two other wives already. She lets me read about her love for her younger brother who has gone off to Vietnam. She lets me read about a daughter she didn’t even name before she fled. She lets me read about a young man named Carson, a man she loved enough to run away for, a man who abandoned her in the mountains of Colorado.
When I come to the end, I find a pen and write her a note.

“Freedom is riding a Greyhound bus with a stranger who becomes a friend.”

In Pennsylvania, Sadie gets off. She doesn’t say a word, but she waves goodbye as the bus pulls away.

I open my diary to write and find a note of my own. I smile and twist to catch one last glimpse of the beautiful young woman who just stepped out of my life.

“Losing your religion isn’t always a bad thing, sometimes it is a new beginning. And love is becoming friends with a stranger on a Greyhound bus.”

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Come Find Me.

You are effervescent, filled to the brim with bubbles and champagne. The man across the room has noticed your peach colored tea dress and mint julep eyes. You blush and take another sip of your drink. When you chance another look, he winks. You fake a saucy smile, though you suspect it is more of a frightened wince, and smoothly slip onto the balcony.

The night is light and crisp, a million candles burning in the windows of the sky. You rest your elbows against the railing and let your eyes wander across a different type of sky. The lights from the city are doing their best to dim the candles in the sky with their fancy electric glow. The stars, ancient in their wisdom, simply are; with no need of fuss or proof of their worth. You, however, do not contemplate the struggle of new against ancient. Nor do you really notice the bright faux starlight of the city. You are imagining a kiss from the man inside.

As if he heard your thoughts, he slips out of the crowded apartment and comes to stand beside you. You play calm, though your nerves are jangling like sleigh bells. To bolster your, quickly failing, nerves, you take a sip of your champagne. You dare a glance at him, your eyes sweeping over his starlit face. He takes a sip of his martini and sighs.

"Its a lovely night," you venture, as nonchalantly as possible.

"Yes." he replies, though you can barely hear him over your pounding heart.

You take another sip of your champagne, desperately trying to find a topic to fill the silence. Thinking of nothing, you sigh and glance longingly at the door.

"If you are uncomfortable," he says. "I would be willing to go back inside. I did not mean to intrude."

He turns to go and you reach out to him. In the space of a moment, you find yourself engulfed in his strong arms with his lips pressed to yours. He smells of hyacinths and he tastes like spiced rum. Your fingers slowly twine themselves in his black and silvered hair. You hold him as close as possible, your hips pressed to his without being sexual. But, oh, how you wish it would be that way.

When he tries to pull, you pull him back to you. He smiles, the bow of his lips delicately enunciating his sharp canines. You recognize the hunger in his eyes and are suddenly wary. His hands stop, just above your hips, and the pressure of his fingers is almost maddening. You abandon your misgivings and kiss him, thoroughly. He lets a small moan escape his lips, pushing you to near frenzy.

He nibbles on your right ear, trailing kisses down your neck to your shoulder. He nips the spot where your neck meets shoulder, then tenderly sucks on it.

"Your place or mine?" he asks, breathily. You note, with keen arousal, that he will have to wait before you return to the party.

"Mine." you say, your hand drifting toward the prize, but stopping just before it is reached. He lets out a frustrated whimper and you kiss him once more before darting into the apartment.

You flash your friends a knowing smile before slipping off your heels and leaving through the front door. If you time it just right, you'll reach the elevator as he exits the party. It will take a moment, but he'll head toward the elevator and it will close just as he gets to it.

You fly towards the elevator, your bare feet a whisper of sound against the carpet. You giggle when you enter the elevator and see him coming toward you.

"Let's play Cinderella," you say, tossing a heel to him as the doors close. You press a button and whisper to yourself. "Come find me."

As the elevator descends to the first floor you imagine the look on his face. He had barely had time to register confusion before the doors had closed.He is the first to catch your shoe as it flew through the doors. Usually they are too stunned to catch it before it hits the floor, shattering into a million beautiful pieces. The game is over at that point, much to your disappointment. This one, however, has started the game with promise.

You glance at your bracelet watch as the hour hand touches midnight. This New Year should be interesting if he follows further than the front desk. You permit yourself a smile before exiting the elevator and heading toward the lobby.

One glass slipper in hand, you push through the revolving door and hail a taxi. The doorman wishes you a good night as you slip him a tip and a note for the young gentleman to follow. You wink, conspiratorially, at the doorman and climb into your taxi.

You twist in your seat just in time to see him rush out of the revolving doors, your slipper still in hand. He tries to flag your driver down, but for an extra tip he speeds on. You see the note exchange hands before you settle in your seat and enjoy the ride.

Friday, May 10, 2013

Screaming Whispers

I could spend my life writing poetry you'll never read.
We could spend an eternity not saying what we're thinking,
avoiding the topics, wishing they would just go away.
You could tell me the truth, be honest with me for just a moment,
let the walls come down.

I whisper the things I want to scream.
Things that I'm dying to tell you, though I know you won't hear.
We talk, but we never speak. Words are just filler, there is
no real depth. We're afraid to reveal anything beyond the superficial.
You hold me at bay, always at a distance, never letting me in.

I love too easily. I wish for things that I don't deserve.
We aren't happy here, but we keep going because it is comfortable.
Its easy to believe the things we tell ourselves as long as we never
question.
You light another cigarette, filling the spaces between us with smoke.

I run away because I am scared of commitment. I never stay,
hoping for something better to come along even though I love you.
We have collapsed into this space I don't want us to be in.
You don't say anything, your silence cutting like a knife.
I want more than I am entitled to because I love you.

I can't hate you, but I can lose my faith, lose my trust. And in the end
isn't that the same thing as hating you?
We creep towards an undefined destination. We aren't running through
the flowers any longer.
You don't seem to mind that we've come to this point.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

A New York State of Mind

In New York City the streets are paved with stars because you can't see the sky.

In New York City the lights are so bright you almost need sunglasses.

In New York City there is trash and people smoking weed in dank construction "hallways." There are sewage smells and people begging for change. There are veterans begging for enough to survive and people wearing the latest fashions.

In New York City there are small sections of beauty, delicious food and bits of whimsy. There are tall buildings full of lights that twinkle brighter than the moon and Times Square is the sun at night.

In New York City there are museums full of fragments of our history, fragments of other lives. There is a bitterness of dreams deferred and a sweetness of something being right. There is kindness if you look for it, if you are willing to share it.

In New York City a cop pulls over a taxi driver for running a red light. Someone walks in on another person in the bathroom even though they are screaming "occupied!" There are huge slices of cheese pizza and "Ponzu sliders." There are frightening taxi rides and smiling faces. Bacon Lollipops are on sale next to the black teas in Chinatown bazaars.

New York, New York. Its a hell of a town. A big juicy apple waiting for you to take a bite, just mind the worms. It'll be Marilyn Monroe if you let it, or it'll be a sad commentary on the rush and deconstruction of our everyday lives. Which do you choose?

Either way you go it is simply New York.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: XV

XV

Everything suddenly went sideways, staggering Lorcan. Everything tilted and sent some of the others sliding. Niamh stood as though she were unaffected, her eyes seeing something more than could be seen. He looked at her and was afraid.

“She woke him. She woke God.” She whispered, her eyes searching the ceiling for something only she could see.

A roar came rushing up from under them then, knocking everyone down. Lightning cascaded from the ceiling, a waterfall of energy and light igniting the Cells. Fire roared up from their feet, spreading quickly, but not touching them. It was followed by a rushing wind and the thunder grew louder.

The room continued to shift, sending them flying, their feet out from under them. Niamh took hold of Lorcan’s hand and hauled him up just before another clone fell past him.

“We have to get to Kean.” He cried.

“We have to leave here, Lorcan.” She whispered. “We have to flee. There isn’t much time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is no time! You must trust me! Kean will understand.”

Uncomprehending, Lorcan took hold of Niamh and held her close. The feel of her against him was enough to send him into frenzy. Quickly, they gathered those they had freed and ran. The Cells were collapsing, the water coming up and the wind taking on the howl of a woman possessed. The speed of the oncoming waves washed them further down the staircases, closer to the tunnels.

Then everything went still. The main entrance to the Caverns stood open to full daylight. A radiant sun poured warmth into the opening, a small pool of it growing golden in the darkness. The water and the wind vanished. The fire and the electricity retreated. A soft melody pulled at them, inviting them to taste the sweetness of the world outside.

Taking Lorcan’s hand, Niamh led them out into the sunshine.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: XIV

XIV

The air was tinged with the scent of fear. The silence was lightly punctuated with heavy breathing. The monitors had exploded in an impressive display of pyrotechnics. The wires within had plunged through the casing and lunged, their ends sparked electric arcs across vulnerable skin. The Archivist had run then, hiding behind anything available.

There would be no escape this time. They had ignored the power lying dormant within Kean for too long and it would not be contained now. She was awaking the construct around them, the beast that housed them was coming alive and there would be no time to escape. How long until they were massacred? A few moments? An hour?

Kean exploded into the central Tower room, surrounded by mangled robots and snaking wires. Her black hair had come alive with fire, the tips burning bright red against her glowing skin. Her voice rose in a triumphant howl when she saw the Archivist, cowering against a crumbling shelf.

“Long have I hoped that we would meet, Archivist.” She said, her words measured, but her eyes were wild.

“Yes, I suppose you have.” Replied the Archivist, straightening to meet her gaze.

“You destroyed the Septemberists, my people, and now I shall return the favour.”
With a sweep of her hand, Kean struck the remnants of the shelf, sending shards of wood in all directions. The Archivist ducked, the flying refuse barely missing.

“You are a construct! You are not some long forgotten goddess! You are not some legend walking!” The Archivist dodged another striking blow, screaming at Kean.

“I am more than mere synthetic. I am less than a goddess, but I am more than human. I am more than a construct. I can awaken this being you have forced into submission. You dare to tell me what I am?” Kean’s hair flamed around her head, the sparks of electrical energy shooting from fingertip to fingertip.

“You are nothing! We created you! We built this place, we put the constructs to sleep and we awaken them! You have no powers here!”

The Howlers lunged toward the Archivist, grabbing limbs and twisting them. The smell of blood and urine filled Kean’s nose, her eyes widening with ever increasing fury. As they began to overwhelm and devour, Kean smiled, viciously.

“No, Archivist, I seem to have all the power here.” Raising her hands, Kean flung her head back and a mighty roar could be heard rumbling from beneath their feet.

Monday, May 6, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: XIII

XIII

Kean strode ahead of the horde, leaving a gulf of flames in her wake. On her right stood Niamh, the electricity within her pulsing so that she was more than alive. She had been awoken, her eyes lit from within, alive with the knowledge of self. On her left stood Lorcan, shining like a torch in darkness. He, too, had been awoken. His construct heart was pounding as though it might shatter his chest and his eyes glowed with a controlled madness.

She had been meant for these times. Had always been destined to lead this battle. How many times over the long centuries had she imagined this moment? How many times had she quietly sung the words that would become a rallying cry during those long years of slavery?

As they went forward, she awakened every machine and wire, calling them to the fight. Above them she could hear the androids and gynoids straining to be released from the Cells. They were restless, waiting for her to fling the doors of the cages open.

“Lorcan,” she whispered. The whole of the horde went deathly silent, hanging upon every word she might utter. “We must release our brothers and sisters above. Take Niamh to the Cells and free them. When every android and gynoid walks from the pens, find your way up to the Tower and we will finish what was started long ago.”

Lorcan nodded, curtly, and took Niamh’s hand. They ran as though they were being chased, up and up the spiraling staircases to the Cells. They could feel the restless murmur of others in their circuits. The unspoken wishes of androids and gynoids filtering through their minds. The desire to be human, the desire to escape the Cells and the deconstructionists. The desire to find some purpose in this world.

Niamh let go of Lorcan’s hand and pressed her hand to a door. In a matter of moments it was opened and there were hundreds of eyes looking at them. Clones of them. It took a moment to grasp, to take the scene in. There were so many of them.

“How long were we to be the experiments in favor?” whispered Niamh, her hands trembling.

“As long as it took to find out what it was they wanted to know.”

“They gave us enough emotion to make us the perfect playthings.”

“Come on, we have to free them and find Kean.” Said Lorcan, grabbing hold of Niamh and dragging her toward the first cage.

Inside was a young gynoid, similar to Niamh in make and model. She looked much younger, however. A mere child, with the barest blush of womanhood. She did not cry, simply looked at them with almost curiosity.

Though they opened the door, she did not move forward, simply standing in her cage assessing them with eyes slightly too big for her face.

“You are not a deconstructionist. You are not an Archivist. You are gynoid and android, but you are other. What are you?”

“We do not have time to explain. You must either follow or be destroyed by them that keep you.” Replied Niamh, holding out a hand. The clone took the outstretched hand and they began the long task of freeing their brethren.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: XII

XII

The Archivist shuttered. Something was wrong, very wrong. A moment ago all the lights had blinked out, then the monitors had flared to life. There was no picture, only static, but the sound coming from the speakers was of words. They were unintelligible to unknowing ears, yet their meaning was unmistakable. The Archivists had buried that language, with blood and war, and they knew better than anyone what the words meant. There was no mistaking the battle cry of a Septemberist goddess.

Saturday, May 4, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: XI

XI

Kean led Niamh and Lorcan back to the Cells. As they got closer Lorcan became more and more agitated. Creeping through the darkness, they came upon an entrance to the Caverns. Motioning them closer, Kean picked the lock and eased the door open.

“Once we are inside, be wary of anything you come upon.” She whispered. “Who knows what has been twisted beyond all recognition?”

As if in answer to this, a Howler began wailing in the darkness off to their left. This started a chorus of screams, swelling to ear shattering crescendos and then sudden silence.

Confused, Lorcan turned toward Kean. All her contrived humanity had dropped away and she had begun whispering in a language he did not understand. Turning toward Niamh, he froze. Niamh’s face reflected something he had never seen before. She was radiant, glowing like a candle in the dark. The wires beneath her skin shone as if she were made of glass. She was ethereal, like a goddess risen from the dead. Transfixed on Kean, Niamh moved with fluid grace, swaying like a flower in a great storm.

As Kean’s whispering grew louder, changing and shifting until it was a song of battle, Lorcan felt himself being pulled. It felt as if a hand gripped his construct heart and was dragging him under waves of physical and electrical sensation.

Then, suddenly, the Caverns were alive. The Howlers staggered out of the tunnel. Hundreds of them mangled beyond repair, yet glorious to behold. Wires snaked up and out of the earth, twisting and writhing. Firelight exploded, setting everything ablaze. Lightning glittered in Kean’s eyes and in her hands was a tiny ball of fire.

Kean’s army had been called to war.

Friday, May 3, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: X

X

In the Caverns, the Archivist took out frustrations on a hapless deconstructionist. The man hadn’t done anything in particular to deserve punishment. However, someone had to be chastised for the loss of Kean, Lorcan and Niamh. This one had been offered up as sacrifice by his squad, no one else willing to shoulder the blame.

Deep in the darkness of the Caverns, the feral machines screamed, hungry for the blood they could smell. The eeriness of it made everyone’s hackles rise, though no one moved until the victim was unconscious. As soon as he fainted, the Archivist had him removed and fed to the Howlers.

For a moment an oppressive silence filled the Caverns. The Archivist looked around, feeling the weight of stone and hunger. It was naturally beautiful here, such a conflict with the terrible things committed in the darkness of various recesses. The Howlers began to make themselves heard, feeding on not just flesh, but the screams and the fear as well. They echoed in every tunnel. The Archivist shivered and fled to the Cells.

The Howlers never left the Caverns, their minds so hideously warped by torture they couldn’t even be reset. They were malformed; shuffling through the darkness, skin only partially attached revealing the mechanisms beneath. They were ravenous monstrosities, devouring anything biologically organic, though they had no reason to eat. All the androids and gynoids were threatened with the Howlers, especially if a reset was out of the question.

The deconstructionists had tracked Kean to the end of an alley, but no further. She seemed to have vanished without a trace, as she had so many years before.
This time, however, failure was not an option. She must be found and brought in alive. She must be broken and pressed into service.

As the very last of the demi-god Septemberists, she must be harnessed.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: IX

IX

Once they were deep inside the bunker, Kean began preparations for a fight. She knew it was only a matter of time before the deconstructionists discovered they were gone. And, if this Archivist was anything like previous Archivists, they would be hunting her more than Lorcan and Niamh.

“What are you?” asked Lorcan. He had been quiet until now, obedient and thoughtful, but silent. He no longer held Niamh’s hand and was standing in the archway looking as though he were prepared to run.

“What do you think I am?” she countered, stopping to look at Lorcan. Her silver eyes bespoke centuries of existence and pain.

“I know you are not human. I know that you are, at least part, gynoid. You are not other as Niamh is other, but you are just as alien, foreign.”

Pulling herself up to face Lorcan, Kean allowed another glimpse of what lay behind the mask. It did not surprise her when Lorcan took a step back.

“I am ancient. I was called an ‘elemental’ once. I was also called a witch. At the time I was created the Archivists were at war with a group called the Septemberists. The Septemberists were not quite human and not quite other, but they had power. The Archivists wanted this power for themselves and began kidnapping Septemberists for experiments.

“One of these victims was a young woman with oddly silver eyes. She did not fight back, simply allowing the deconstructionists to take her hostage. She believed she could kill the Archivist and escape. As powerful as she was, she was wrong. Torture and mutilation break you.

“They cracked open her skull and inserted the probes. They stripped skin off one of her arms and replaced bone with mechanized rods. True to their names, she was deconstructed to her base components before being rebuilt. They tried to bind her in the form of a gynoid.

“They discovered, after they rebuilt her, that they could play God with her. They had created her, they would enslave her. They used her, never knowing what her powers were. The Septemberists were destroyed and the Archivists had the last of them as a pet. They may not know what powers they had, but neither would anyone else.

“However, they had left no reason for the girl to live. Her entire world had been destroyed and all she knew was revenge. They had stripped away her identity, had transformed her into this being, this monster. So she sang the wires to life and she woke the fires beneath the earth. The wires moved, like snakes, into the houses of the Archivists. They electrocuted and strangled everything in their path and the fires burned everything.

“The deconstructionists used the scanner hooks to capture her and they brought her to the Caverns. They tortured her with water and electricity. They peeled the flesh from her body so that she was more than naked. They burned her with cigarettes and heated glass. And they reset her.

“She knew only that her name was Kean, a name they gave her, and that she was more, but she was less. She served for two centuries, yearning for a part of her she could not remember.

“At the end of the second century, the Archivists grew lazy and began an experiment. Believing that I had no emotions, and no awareness, they released me into the human world to see if they could make me human again. What they had forgotten was I was never human to begin with. I rediscovered myself in the Caverns, the tapes and records of my existence kept in the open. They believed me docile, what need was there of lock and key?

“Again I awakened the wires and the fire. I called the winds and the oceans as well. This time they were completely unaware and I ravaged their numbers. When they began to fight back, I disappeared, leaving only my name behind. The new Archivist is led down to the Caverns each summer to learn why I should never be forgotten.”

Lorcan was silent for a long moment, just looking at her. She did not move, only watched for him to come to his conclusions. He glanced at Niamh, who looked chilled, before looking back at Kean.

“Can you raise the wires as you did before?” he asked.

“I can.”

“Can you raise deactivated androids and gynoids?”

“I can.”

“When do we attack?”

Kean smiled, feral and wicked.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Awaken September's Gods: VIII

VIII

The Archivist sat back, looking at the dark monitors.

Kean.

This was not a part of the experiment. This was something much more dangerous.
It had been believed that Kean was a myth. A story to frighten the deconstructionists and lesser human beings into submission to the Archivists. However, every Archivist in power was led to the Caverns, the vaulted torture chambers beneath the Cells, and shown the records and tapes of Kean.

The fact that no one had ever seen Kean had leant to the myth of her. In fact, except for the Archivists, no one had even heard of Kean in over a century. She was more than a ghost, but everyone, including the current Archivists, believed she was no longer in existence. How could she have hidden for so long? Surely someone would have realized she wasn’t human by now.

Suddenly, the monitors blinked to life and began flashing out of sync. The images on the screens were Kean, her silver eyes revealing part of her would never be human. The part of her those long gone Archivists had sought to bind to a gynoid, to flesh. The part of her that made her the most dangerous of the three.

Chilled, and intrigued, the Archivist leaned toward the monitors. What if she could be captured? Surely she could be made to heel, like any other machine. Wouldn’t it be a crowning glory if she was taken alive, forced to serve? She would have to be tortured, brought to the begging point, broken. She would have to be muted as well. If she was allowed her tongue she would use it to rally the other machines, use it for the mysterious power she supposedly wielded. It would be a shame to lose that power, whatever it was, but better to lose it than to lose one’s life.

Yes, the Archivist would reclaim Kean and force her back into the Caverns.