cassandra

Lucius Faversham found himself screaming in silence. His mouth wide open, throat straining; no sound emerging. Bolts of bright, violet energy pulsed above his head, screaming for him; he felt the intense heat singe his hair, even the stubble across his jaw and angular chin. Somehow, he continued to run.

The creatures had come from nowhere. Whether they were from another world, or dredged up from the caverns of Perseus below him, Lucius had no idea. Nor did he care much. All he cared about was getting away, surviving. His home burned to cinders, he had nothing left – nothing but Cassandra. Nothing but his violin.

After being on the run for days – scavenging in the ruins for food, catching minutes of sleep whenever he could – he almost didn’t recognise the sound of a human voice in the lull between the seemingly-random energy blasts. He paused momentarily, beginning to question his sanity, when he heard the sound again – not just human, but a human child.

Peering cautiously out of the crevice in which he lay, Cassandra held protectively beneath him, locked tight within her case, Lucius saw the hulking, crab-like creatures in the distance. Fully three times the height of man, their silhouettes were all sharp edges and long, sinister curves. Lucius had seen first-hand what those sharp edges could do. Thankfully, they appeared distant enough not to bother him for the moment, and he turned his attention to the sound. It had faded now, to barely a whimper. Nearby. Very nearby.

Lucius had only to crawl through a few more metres of rubble – the wreckage of a factory, he suspected, judging from the chemical smell – and he found a hole half-hidden in the ground. No light emerged, and his hopes raised a fraction. Perhaps this was one of the prep shelters he had heard of in the early days of the invasion, where the people of Perseus had fled to in order to reach the hidden escape shuttles. Maybe, just maybe, he would survive this after all.

He spotted three of the alien figures turning towards him, and quickly slithered down into the hole feet-first, Cassandra cradled gently above his head. There was no light, but the subtle glow from the smoke-filled sky outside served to illuminate the tiny chamber. In it, he found nothing but a single human child. She yelped in fear as Lucius landed beside her.

“Hush, child,” he murmered. “It’s alright – I’m not one of them.”

Her knees up under her chin, arms wrapped tightly around them, the child – she couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years of age – slowly raised her head of messy auburn hair, her eyes meeting his. “What’s your name?” Lucius asked.

The girl raised her head further, and her mouth worked in vain for a moment before she managed to form coherent words. “Cassandra,” she said.

Lucius’ hand tightened around the case he still held under one arm, and he forced a smile, even as he heard the creatures approaching above. This time, he thought, there wouldn’t be a way out. But he could not let this child know that.

“Cassandra,” he said. “I have a friend named Cassandra. She’s very important to me. Would you like to meet her?” The girl nodded, uncertain, and Lucius placed the case on the ground between them, deftly opening the latches.

“This is a violin,” Lucius explained as he pulled the sleek, curved instrument from its case. The soft wood stain gleamed soothingly in the dim light. “You might not know it. Very few people remember such instruments these days. She has a name, though, same as you – Cassandra. Come here and I’ll play you a song.”

Cautiously, Cassandra unfolded herself from the dark corner of her foxhole. She glanced up in fear as the stomping sounds grew closer, but Lucius gestured for her to come, and she clambered over to him, sitting in his lap even as Lucius turned his back to the open hole above and behind them.

Taking up the violin, he fingered the strings without looking, and picked up the bow. “You probably won’t know this song either. It’s called Ave Maria, and it’s very old.”

Cassandra looked up over her shoulder at him as he began picking out long, soft notes. “I know. My mummy used to sing it to me when I had a nightmare.”

Lucius looked down at her, still playing, a sad smile on his face. “That’s good, then. Would you like to sing it with me?” Cassandra nodded, and began singing in a soft, shaking voice. He wrought the notes louder and stronger, and added his voice to hers, so the young girl didn’t hear the sinister whine of the energy bolt as it struck them from behind.

just plain tired

I feel old.

Those who know me will probably recognise this quote, and do one of two things – either joke about it, or just roll their eyes. In point of fact, it’s almost become an ongoing joke amongst some, with me always being referred to as the old man. True, I am the oldest of the group, but I don’t think they realise how much I mean it. When I say it, I’m not trying to get a laugh. I really do feel old.

Old, though, is perhaps the wrong word. ‘Weary’ is somewhat more appropriate, with a touch of ‘drained’ mixed in for good measure. I feel like I’ve been though enough for one life; that I’m ready to just rest. But, having spent only twenty-six years on this ball of dirt, hurtling at breakneck speed around an enormous fusion-powered orb of fire – hell, isn’t this decade supposed to be one of my better ones?

I feel bad for even thinking it, even feeling it, though. So many people have got it far worse than me. Who am I to complain, when so many are suffering? So I push it aside, but sometimes, some days, it’s just impossible to ignore that feeling inside, telling me to lie down already and surrender.

Yes, I have a job – one I enjoy, even. I don’t make as much money as I would like, but who does? I make enough to be comfortable, and that’s working fewer hours than your average nine-to-five drone. Yes, I have a partner who supports me far more than I probably deserve; if it weren’t for her, I’d be far, far lower on the food chain than I am today. No, I’ve never (for the most part) gone without food; even get the luxury of junk food, so can’t complain there. No, I’ve never been homeless (I had aa car). Yes, I’ve had kids, perhaps too early in my life, though I don’t regret them. Yes, I’ve separated with their mother. No, it hasn’t been easy – but so many people have been there and are still going strong. I’ve had my share of long-term relationships over the years, and as each one ends, it drains a little more life out of me, to the point I’m not even sure if there’s anything left.

I’ve vaguely thought it for a while, but never outright put it into words – I may be an alcoholic again, albeit nowhere near as bad as I once was. Something of a functional alcoholic. It doesn’t affect my daily life, and I’m not as dependent on it as I once was (from my perspective; there’s always a small chance my judgment is clouded), but I’ll admit I probably drink a little more each week than I should. But even that’s a luxury I can’t complain about, when other people can’t even find clean water. All my flaws, sins and vices are like that – yet more proof that I shouldn’t be feeling this constant tiredness.

I’m not rightly sure what the point of this is; perhaps just to get it out in writing, in the hopes it will take the weight off my chest? I’ve seen few times in the past where that has actually worked – and I used to write a lot – so maybe not. As it stands, this is all pointless. I know myself well enough to realise I’ll just keep on rolling along, even if it is just day to day, same as those preceding.

Whatever the reason, there it is. I’m just plain tired.

 

“Suddenly the lights go out – let forever drag me down.
I will find the enemy within,
‘cause I can feel it crawl beneath my skin.”
Breaking Benjamin – Dear Agony

gothic christmas

As seems my way lately – words not my own;
my pen now lies dead, and my muse has flown.
So a song of the season, if only ’twere true -
a merry, gothic Christmas, from me to you.

We’re gonna have a gothic Christmas, that is what we’ll do
We’re gonna have a gothic Christmas – hope you’ll have one too

Santa’s going to wear a black dress, just for me and you
Santa’s going to grunt in latin – slay a dragon or two

Rudolph, he will change his name, ’cause Rudolph just sounds really lame
Now we’ll call him Ragnagord – the evil reindeer overlord

His nose, it shall be red no more; it will be blackened to the core
His eyes will glow an evil glow, to guide the chariot through the snow

We’re gonna have a gothic Christmas
Hope you’ll have one too

on the rise

Yet again, it’s been a while. Working on some new writing at the moment (the start of which can be found up there, under ‘Short Stories,’ or right here), but for now, some tunes.

This song has been stuck in my head for… hell, months now. It’s from Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog (Joss Whedon is a genius when it comes to musical episodes). In particular, this section, repeating over and over in my mind:

Listen close to everybody’s heart,
and hear that breaking sound;
hopes and dreams are shattering apart
and crashing to the ground.

Anyway, here’s the video.

stupid friday

Yes, I am well aware today is not Friday. It is Sunday. In fact, by the time I post this, it will likely be Monday. The point is, this is about Friday. Normally, I am loathe to embed videos in posts, but I’m making an exception this time. The song (Mandy Kane’s Stupid Friday) got stuck in my head while I was pondering this all, and it’s one of my favourites, so there it is.

But I digress. To the point:

I lost Friday.

No, I didn’t lose on Friday. I lost the day itself. I’ve no idea what happened to it. Let me fill you in on the particulars.

Thursday night, I was up late as usual. I knew I had class the next day, but only in the morning. I originally intended to get to bed early, but that never happens. Nonetheless, I eventually get to sleep.

Cue the next morning. Well, nearly noon. I slept in – also as usual. Being barely conscious, all I remembered was that it’s a weekday, and I can at least make it to my afternoon class (I hadn’t recalled at that point that Friday afternoons, there is no class (worth going to)). Anyway, I get up and rush about getting ready. Say hi to my father in the kitchen, quickly brew a coffee, take that first sip, and… wait, shouldn’t dad be at work? I, of course, didn’t ask this; merely continued turning things over in my head. Perhaps they knocked off early. Well, I’ll just check my phone… Saturday? That’s not right – my phone is playing up again. Let’s go look at my laptop… still Saturday?! Alright, alright, somebody’s changed all my settings to mess with me. But they can’t change the calendar on the wall! I’m certain it’s the 4th, so… um, Saturday.

What the hell.

I didn’t say anything to anyone, merely spent the rest of the day – well, weekend, really – in a state of quiet confusion. The way I see it, there are two possible explanations.

1: I slept through Friday. Unlikely, because somebody would have mentioned it, I hope.

2: I’ve been confused about the days since Monday or Tuesday. This seems like a more reasonable explanation, but still has some flaws in it. For example, I had an appointment in town on Wednesday afternoon. I checked in at the counter, as I usually do, and they never said I was there on the wrong day – if I was confused as to the days, I wouldn’t be on the list, would I? However, on Thursday, I do recall the crowd in the afternoon class being somewhat thinner than usual. If this was really Friday, that would make sense (very few of us actually attend that class). Yet nobody mentioned it. So, perhaps I have lost Thursday without realising it, and instead believe that it was Friday I lost.

So I’ve been trying to figure out just where I went wrong; it’s been tormenting me for a couple of days now, and I still don’t have an answer. I don’t think I will find the answer. All I can do is accept that that day is gone, and I didn’t even notice.

Well, looks like I’m posting this before midnight, so it’s still Sunday.

I think.

random scribing

Just a couple of random pieces I scribbled down (okay, typed) and then forgot about. They serve no purpose. But hey, they’re words.

More than any other thing, secrets have a way of changing those they are held by, like a fire in the palm of ones hand. Keep your fist clenched, and the fire burns and scars. Keep your palm flat and open, and the fire will disperse with the first breath of wind. But keep the palm curled, shielding, and the secret of fire grows strong. This is the trick – to find that perfect balance. A secret kept entirely to oneself will damage and change you. It must be allowed to breathe, to flirt with others. Tease others with its warmth, but do not give them the flame; that is the surest way to quench the fire altogether. Only by controlling the flow of secrets, fanning the flame, will it become useful. This is how hidden knowledge becomes power.

And the second, which started off with a little paraphrasing of T. S. Eliot:

This is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but with a whimper. The grand death will not come crashing to our side, severing us from life with one fell swoop. It whispers, lurks, and creeps. Its sibilant hiss can be heard only by a few, those whose minds are already twisted, torn from this world. Those sound of mind are too strict in their thinking to ever hear that macabre call. And those who hear it are rarely believed. The end is coming. It will strip our minds of sanity without our even knowing. And we will only realise we are ended the moment it becomes too late. This is the way the world ends.

why did i laugh tonight?

Another of my favourites, and current fleeting thoughts, by Keats:

Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:
No God, no Demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once -
Heart! thou and I are here sad and alone;
Say, wherefore did I laugh! O mortal pain!
O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
Why did I laugh? I know this being’s lease
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;
And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds.
Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,
But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed.

dido’s reply

I find it sad when the latest activity on my dashboard is listed as ‘a while ago.’ Not surprising, but still sad. So here are some words. Not my own, because I have none of my own. But words nonetheless.

If you find your Ilium
and if you build your Troy,
I hope you feel the pain I felt
twice upon your sword.

Aeneas, on your noble hands,
my life shall stain with blood.
Let Dido’s curse rest in the mind;
a shade begot by love.

Carthage shall this grudge recall
upon your seven hills,
and nothing less than misery
remind you whom you killed.

And though with hate I suffer now,
the truth is deeper still;
for I love you with my dying breath
and know I always will.

Beyond this world, into the next,
I know I always will…

confusion?

Fallen deep into this void,
only silence to remain;
trapped amongst these sullied years,
this elaborate, wretched game.
Knowing not the soul within
nor this unfamiliar mask;
the voice of paranoia -
a sibilant, subtle rasp.

An all-consuming doubt,
no faith in my own self;
a constant, heavy tension
erodes my mental health.
Pressure building in my chest,
almost fit to burst;
scatter myself to the wind -
the tempest does it’s worst.

Echoes of things one lost
and now returned to me;
still barely beyond my grasp,
hardly able to see.
The only thing I really know,
all that matters now -
digging up this shallow grave,
some way and somehow.

Lines that I cannot explain
once drawn in the sand -
washed away before me now,
beneath my grasping hand.
Darkness creeps, confusion seeps,
a single convoluted thought;
persistent in it’s entropy,
this discord has me caught.

hourly comics #2, 13.04.10

Let’s do this again, shall we?