Here's a short story I wrote over the weekend. I'd *love* feedback of any kind, about anything: what I'm doing right, what I'm doing wrong, what needs to change, what there needs to be more of. Well?
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From the vantage point of the moon, the Earth looked serene and peaceful. Utopian. Flawless. Saintly, even. It was hard to imagine that anything but a sort of Eden could exist underneath that gorgeous, cloud-swirled blue sky; that anything but complete accord could be the standard for the populous as they lived their lives in glistening buildings, grand towers, and gigantic cities.
One could hardly believe that on that surface a hellish drama of greed, corruption, malice, lust, and murder was being played out.
It was a grandiose performance, indeed, with all the depravity one could hope for in a production that featured those fallen creatures known as Men. A dense tapestry of miniature tragedies was embedded in every scene, in every act, and in every line—thousands of tiny imitations of the greater work. Even at that moment, in an obscure scene of an equally insignificant subplot, something was happening in a space of a few seconds of Earth time. It was nothing in comparison with the world at large or even the sprawling play itself. Just a little thing, maybe, to a casual observer. But to those involved it was a variety of things.
A moment’s pause.
A beginning.
An ending.
A turning point.
An impact.
***********
The Admiral leaned back in his command chair. Everything was absolutely perfect: his uniform was freshly pressed, his beard was neatly trimmed, his boots were shined, and his officer’s cap was cocked at just the right angle. Not only that, he was winning the battle quite decisively.
Behind him he could hear the distinct clink of deep green champagne bottles tapping fragile, crystalline glasses ; congratulatory exclamations circled throughout the bridge. The whole crew was quite happy with themselves, and they apparently knew their commander well enough to boldly break regulations by bringing alcohol on-deck. He accepted his own sparkling-clear glass with a delicate grasp and a measured nod. Then he broke out into a wide grin and dismissed the communications-officer-turned-waiter with a casual wave and a pat on the back.
Today was a day to loosen up and celebrate a bit. It had been a victory in several ways, after all, and was therefore deserving of more frivolity. Not only had they captured a vital intralunar supply route intact—along with the precious mecha shipment that had been stolen en route—but they had also inadvertently killed an enemy senior officer. For some reason or another he had been on one of the escort destroyers. Now he was just another cloud of frozen debris and pulverized matter, drifting along with the other battlefield remains.
The Admiral wasn’t about to second-guess his luck, though. This victory would be the one to send him soaring past the political traffic jam that had impeded the advancement of his career for so long. Red tape and bureaucracy would part like the Red Sea when they heard of this. He caressed the decorations and stripes on his uniform with proud nostalgia, dreaming for a moment of both the grand days of yesteryear and the grander days to come. Who knew? He might even get another star or two for this…
He roused himself from his thoughts and started to raise the glass to his lips, mouth already watering in anticipation of the drink’s distinctive bite. It was mere centimeters away when his focus suddenly broadened, zooming past the shiny glass and bubbling liquid to the blackness outside the bridge viewing windows. A flash of some sort had caught his eye.
It was an explosion. He rose halfway from his chair and craned his neck in order to see its source, momentarily berating himself for forgetting the real state of affairs: the battle wasn’t over yet. Technically. His mechanized division was engaged in a mop-up operation, and the enemy apparently still had bite of its own left. Theoretically there shouldn’t have been any problem: just a handful of demoralized mech pilots and a half-dozen crippled escort ships that needed to be finished off.
Theory often differed from reality, though, and this was a good example. One of his mechs was literally corkscrewing down to the unforgiving surface of Earth, sputtering flames and smoke, electricity searing across its entire frame.
He dropped back in his chair and took a sip of the champagne, staring moodily off into the void. Mechs were valuable commodities, and you weren’t supposed to just lose them like that. Having to report that one had been destroyed would definitely affect how much propulsion he could get off this battle. Losing starfighters was quite forgivable—they were cheap to produce and easy to train pilots for. Mechs, on the other hand, were extremely expensive, and it took a long time to produce a capable pilot.
Still, maybe he could just keep it hush-hush for the engagement report and maybe save himself. Pay the family a sum to keep their mouths shut and not complain to the higher-ups; get the onboard politician to omit it from his own account, even. It could be done, of course, with the right amount of money. A lighter pocket would be worth the preservation of promotions. The Admiral nodded sagely to himself and crossed his legs, settling in to down the rest of his drink.
He couldn’t help watching the pathetic little dot that was a mecha continue to plummet to its doom, the belching fires looking like firecracker motes at that distance. He visualized the final moments in his mind: the thing would keep falling until it hit the immovable blue wall below that was the city’s energy shield. The force field would barely ripple as the mech atomized in a burst of plasma.
The champagne flowed freely across his teeth and down his tongue; the laughter in the background rose in pitch. Still the little spot of black fell. He tilted back his head to take in the last of the beverage; almost instantly the communications officer was by his side. Still the mech dropped. He felt the weight of the newly-filled glass in his hand before gulping it, too, in a single, jerky movement.
Impact.
**********
He could hardly believe it, but with that single twitch of the fire trigger he had joined the ranks of the Aces. On the cheek of his mech’s head assembly was a row of decals: twelve starfighters and four—once he got back to the hangars it would be five—mechs. For the past year he’d been searching for that last mecha decal that would garner him the glorious title of Ace, but for so long all he’d been able to do was accumulate more of the little starfighters.
All that time he’d been flying a mere mass-produced unit, had been forced to subordinate himself to people with fewer kills, had just gritted his teeth when his tiny paycheck arrived. He had grown stronger in the face of hardship, certainly, but that didn’t mean he had to be content with his situation. Until now he’d just dreamed of being lifted out of the enlisted ranks and to a higher pedestal. With that pull of the flightstick his dream had been made tangible, glorious reality. He would get a promotion, a better machine, higher pay, more benefits, and a formal commendation as a “Hero of the Causeâ€
Impact: A Short Story
15 posts •
Page 1 of 1
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
- Joined: Sun May 23, 2004 10:21 am
- Location: Missouri
*****************
His heart had lurched into his mouth during the ‘terminal moment’, as the pilot slang termed it. That horrible, awful second when all the systems died, and the mech’s smooth hover turned into a helpless descending spiral. The pseudoptics had winked out, the controls had gone stiff in his hands, the reassuring vibrations and rumbling of the engines and auxiliary systems had vanished, and the faint hissing of the life support system had faded away. Now he was sitting in the utter dark of the cockpit, encircled—trapped—by ten-foot-thick armor plating and a tangle of machinery. Nothing could have been more isolated.
During the actual combat, only seconds before the enemy’s fire had found him, there had been a wide array of thoughts and feelings pulsing through his mind and heart. The entire spectrum of emotions that only combat could give you: exultation, fear, hate, anger, vengeance, despair, sadness, sympathy, revulsion… The terminal moment had swept them all away.
His grip on the flightsticks went slack, and he sagged back into the plush chair, hands covering his face and head inclined downwards. This was it: the last heartbeats he’d imagined a thousand times in his mind. Only here it was different from lying on your bunk, staring up at the wireframe supports above you and trying to visualize what it would be like to die. Despite what you were seeing in your mind’s-eye, you were safe and sound in bed. Whenever you started to make yourself uncomfortable you could just shrug it off. It was just conjectures and thoughts. But you couldn’t shrug off reality.
Images zipped through his mind like a veritable whirlwind.
An unfinished letter to his estranged parents, nestled away underneath his mattress back at the cruiser. In its tear-stained pages were written his heartfelt regret and pain at the rift that had formed between them. All it lacked was a final sentence, a signature, and a stamp. A few seconds’ work, yes, but he had put it off, loathe to damage his pride by crawling back to them. Now they would never see it.
His novel, the product of countless little sessions: a sentence here, a paragraph there, a page when he could get the time. It was secreted on a lone computer disk and hidden away in his pack. Why hadn’t he ever tried to get it published? Because he didn’t want to be rejected. Now it would never have a chance.
That wonderfully attractive and heartwrenchingly sweet girl from the Supply and Ammunition Corps. He’d always watched her easy smile, her glittering eyes, her long hair, her confident walk, her companionable air from afar—just a nod in the corridors, a pleasantry in the mess hall, a halting word or two in the lounge. He’d never been able to get the nerve up to actually talk to her, despite the constant back-slapping encouragement of his lancemates. How many opportunities had he been given to strike up a conversation? To just bite the bullet and give it a chance? To forget the embarrassment of a cold shoulder and make a move? Now it would never happen.
And then there was another matter, something entirely more serious than anything else that had previously touched his mind. Where was he going? All alone in the mech, with death possibly only a heartbeat and a breath away, the afterlife seemed a bit more important than before. The images changed: a childhood church; a huge, highly decorated Bible nearly as large as the small child who turned the pages; a group of college kids sitting in a circle in an empty classroom at a university, each one sharing their testimonies and experiences; a base chaplain’s gentle exhortations.
He’d been a religious type once—your standard Christian kid in a standard Christian family. That had all changed, though, over the passage of time. He’d gotten accustomed to just saying he was a believer when asked and living his life like he wished the rest of the time. He’d even been part of an ECSA group during his university days, but his testimonies had just been extrapolated tales of a past lifestyle that had decayed to shreds.
The military had swept away those final shreds with uncaring efficiency. Jesus was for weak people who couldn’t control their own destiny, the Bible was for those so pathetic that they couldn’t direct their own lives. God was a fairy tale designed to keep the populous in line. The new generation—the Star Generation—didn’t need such fabricated deities and stories to give their lives meaning. They were a strong generation, accustomed to fighting for their goals and making their dreams reality. They would take mankind to a new height, propelling the race to its proper position as master of the galaxy. No god was needed for such a generation. There was no life after death, anyway.
It all sounded great in the parade grounds; it gave you so much pride and nationalistic fervor when you heard it while gazing at row upon row of mecha, tanks, soldiers, and the general might of the army. Now it seemed rather frail, and there was no assurance in it. Too late, though, just like everything else.
Impact.
*****************
She stumbled down the final steps of the stairway that switchbacked up the apartment complex and out onto the quiet street, sobbing heavily. The tears had only flowed for a few seconds, but already her purple turtleneck was dotted with salty wetness; she wrapped her arms around herself tightly and backed up against the concrete wall of the building opposite the apartments before letting herself drop down to the sidewalk, her eyes shut tightly and lips pressed together. Hushed little gasps and sniffles punctuated the silence.
By anyone’s standards she was exceptionally pretty—by the majority’s opinion she was nothing short of gorgeous. Her simple sweater and jeans weren’t very daring or vogue, possibly, but she regularly caused minor traffic accidents and sprained ankles because of her face and hair. Lusciously fine, brown tresses that dropped down past her shoulders and curled only at the ends; an uncomplicated hairstyle that seemed to be both unobtrusive and eye-catching at the same time. Eyes that were quick and bright, constantly catching light and sending it dancing; straight, perfectly white teeth that flashed every time she smiled. In summary, a vision who had no trouble securing the attentions of every male in the room and the grudging admiration—or jealousy—of all the females.
It was odd, then, that she should choose the man she had chosen. Maybe it was the fact that he came closest to being her male equivalent as far as appearances went; maybe it was the fact that he had hordes of women vying for his attention and was somehow more desirable. She didn’t really know why herself, but the reality was that she didn’t feel like she could live without him.
He didn’t physically abuse her maybe, but his verbal attacks were just as damaging. He tormented her constantly, demeaned her, insulted her, and criticized her. But…she kept coming back to him.
Finally she opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was overcast, with just enough sunlight creeping through the cloak of clouds to create a dull ambience. The wind had picked up suddenly, knifing through the streets and slashing unimpeded across intersections and down alleyways. All around her now there was the whistling and howling of urban breezes. She smiled a tight-lipped, bitter smile. This is just like when Father left.
She’d been just short of her seventh birthday when it had happened, but—of course—she could remember it perfectly. You just didn’t forget things like that, ever. They’d argued with each other all the way back from the camping resort. With every passing hour the tones of their voices rose and there had been more and more insults traded and curses tossed around. She had sat there in the back seat, helpless, with no escape route from their fighting. An hour or two after they had gotten back home, the climax had arrived, and he had charged out of the house, never to return.
Everyone had thought that she’d recovered marvelously. Within a few days she was back at school, and within a month it appeared that everything was normal again. But it wasn’t. Not deep inside.
Around her thirteenth birthday it had started, and she just couldn’t help herself. Her thoughts had turned constantly to romance, to ‘love’—or at least how a young girl saw it. Soft kisses, warm summer evenings and warmer embraces, walking hand-in-hand down a leaf-littered sidewalk. Having someone to hold you at the end of the day.
A few years of empty daydreams later—just after she turned sixteen—she realized that she had the mysterious power to actually make her dreams more than just longings. She discovered that all it took was a smile, a laugh, a tilt of the head, a fidget with her hair, and she could have anyone at school she wanted. Now she really could have the soft kisses, the embraces, and someone to hold her when she was sad and tired. Whenever she needed it. And she needed someone now more than ever, now that the harsh memories of that day were welling up in her heart.
----
Preceding was copyright 2005 Godly Paladin.
~Nick
His heart had lurched into his mouth during the ‘terminal moment’, as the pilot slang termed it. That horrible, awful second when all the systems died, and the mech’s smooth hover turned into a helpless descending spiral. The pseudoptics had winked out, the controls had gone stiff in his hands, the reassuring vibrations and rumbling of the engines and auxiliary systems had vanished, and the faint hissing of the life support system had faded away. Now he was sitting in the utter dark of the cockpit, encircled—trapped—by ten-foot-thick armor plating and a tangle of machinery. Nothing could have been more isolated.
During the actual combat, only seconds before the enemy’s fire had found him, there had been a wide array of thoughts and feelings pulsing through his mind and heart. The entire spectrum of emotions that only combat could give you: exultation, fear, hate, anger, vengeance, despair, sadness, sympathy, revulsion… The terminal moment had swept them all away.
His grip on the flightsticks went slack, and he sagged back into the plush chair, hands covering his face and head inclined downwards. This was it: the last heartbeats he’d imagined a thousand times in his mind. Only here it was different from lying on your bunk, staring up at the wireframe supports above you and trying to visualize what it would be like to die. Despite what you were seeing in your mind’s-eye, you were safe and sound in bed. Whenever you started to make yourself uncomfortable you could just shrug it off. It was just conjectures and thoughts. But you couldn’t shrug off reality.
Images zipped through his mind like a veritable whirlwind.
An unfinished letter to his estranged parents, nestled away underneath his mattress back at the cruiser. In its tear-stained pages were written his heartfelt regret and pain at the rift that had formed between them. All it lacked was a final sentence, a signature, and a stamp. A few seconds’ work, yes, but he had put it off, loathe to damage his pride by crawling back to them. Now they would never see it.
His novel, the product of countless little sessions: a sentence here, a paragraph there, a page when he could get the time. It was secreted on a lone computer disk and hidden away in his pack. Why hadn’t he ever tried to get it published? Because he didn’t want to be rejected. Now it would never have a chance.
That wonderfully attractive and heartwrenchingly sweet girl from the Supply and Ammunition Corps. He’d always watched her easy smile, her glittering eyes, her long hair, her confident walk, her companionable air from afar—just a nod in the corridors, a pleasantry in the mess hall, a halting word or two in the lounge. He’d never been able to get the nerve up to actually talk to her, despite the constant back-slapping encouragement of his lancemates. How many opportunities had he been given to strike up a conversation? To just bite the bullet and give it a chance? To forget the embarrassment of a cold shoulder and make a move? Now it would never happen.
And then there was another matter, something entirely more serious than anything else that had previously touched his mind. Where was he going? All alone in the mech, with death possibly only a heartbeat and a breath away, the afterlife seemed a bit more important than before. The images changed: a childhood church; a huge, highly decorated Bible nearly as large as the small child who turned the pages; a group of college kids sitting in a circle in an empty classroom at a university, each one sharing their testimonies and experiences; a base chaplain’s gentle exhortations.
He’d been a religious type once—your standard Christian kid in a standard Christian family. That had all changed, though, over the passage of time. He’d gotten accustomed to just saying he was a believer when asked and living his life like he wished the rest of the time. He’d even been part of an ECSA group during his university days, but his testimonies had just been extrapolated tales of a past lifestyle that had decayed to shreds.
The military had swept away those final shreds with uncaring efficiency. Jesus was for weak people who couldn’t control their own destiny, the Bible was for those so pathetic that they couldn’t direct their own lives. God was a fairy tale designed to keep the populous in line. The new generation—the Star Generation—didn’t need such fabricated deities and stories to give their lives meaning. They were a strong generation, accustomed to fighting for their goals and making their dreams reality. They would take mankind to a new height, propelling the race to its proper position as master of the galaxy. No god was needed for such a generation. There was no life after death, anyway.
It all sounded great in the parade grounds; it gave you so much pride and nationalistic fervor when you heard it while gazing at row upon row of mecha, tanks, soldiers, and the general might of the army. Now it seemed rather frail, and there was no assurance in it. Too late, though, just like everything else.
Impact.
*****************
She stumbled down the final steps of the stairway that switchbacked up the apartment complex and out onto the quiet street, sobbing heavily. The tears had only flowed for a few seconds, but already her purple turtleneck was dotted with salty wetness; she wrapped her arms around herself tightly and backed up against the concrete wall of the building opposite the apartments before letting herself drop down to the sidewalk, her eyes shut tightly and lips pressed together. Hushed little gasps and sniffles punctuated the silence.
By anyone’s standards she was exceptionally pretty—by the majority’s opinion she was nothing short of gorgeous. Her simple sweater and jeans weren’t very daring or vogue, possibly, but she regularly caused minor traffic accidents and sprained ankles because of her face and hair. Lusciously fine, brown tresses that dropped down past her shoulders and curled only at the ends; an uncomplicated hairstyle that seemed to be both unobtrusive and eye-catching at the same time. Eyes that were quick and bright, constantly catching light and sending it dancing; straight, perfectly white teeth that flashed every time she smiled. In summary, a vision who had no trouble securing the attentions of every male in the room and the grudging admiration—or jealousy—of all the females.
It was odd, then, that she should choose the man she had chosen. Maybe it was the fact that he came closest to being her male equivalent as far as appearances went; maybe it was the fact that he had hordes of women vying for his attention and was somehow more desirable. She didn’t really know why herself, but the reality was that she didn’t feel like she could live without him.
He didn’t physically abuse her maybe, but his verbal attacks were just as damaging. He tormented her constantly, demeaned her, insulted her, and criticized her. But…she kept coming back to him.
Finally she opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was overcast, with just enough sunlight creeping through the cloak of clouds to create a dull ambience. The wind had picked up suddenly, knifing through the streets and slashing unimpeded across intersections and down alleyways. All around her now there was the whistling and howling of urban breezes. She smiled a tight-lipped, bitter smile. This is just like when Father left.
She’d been just short of her seventh birthday when it had happened, but—of course—she could remember it perfectly. You just didn’t forget things like that, ever. They’d argued with each other all the way back from the camping resort. With every passing hour the tones of their voices rose and there had been more and more insults traded and curses tossed around. She had sat there in the back seat, helpless, with no escape route from their fighting. An hour or two after they had gotten back home, the climax had arrived, and he had charged out of the house, never to return.
Everyone had thought that she’d recovered marvelously. Within a few days she was back at school, and within a month it appeared that everything was normal again. But it wasn’t. Not deep inside.
Around her thirteenth birthday it had started, and she just couldn’t help herself. Her thoughts had turned constantly to romance, to ‘love’—or at least how a young girl saw it. Soft kisses, warm summer evenings and warmer embraces, walking hand-in-hand down a leaf-littered sidewalk. Having someone to hold you at the end of the day.
A few years of empty daydreams later—just after she turned sixteen—she realized that she had the mysterious power to actually make her dreams more than just longings. She discovered that all it took was a smile, a laugh, a tilt of the head, a fidget with her hair, and she could have anyone at school she wanted. Now she really could have the soft kisses, the embraces, and someone to hold her when she was sad and tired. Whenever she needed it. And she needed someone now more than ever, now that the harsh memories of that day were welling up in her heart.
----
Preceding was copyright 2005 Godly Paladin.
~Nick
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
- Joined: Sun May 23, 2004 10:21 am
- Location: Missouri
The rain started to fall, and from somewhere she heard the crack of thunder.
She stood up again, sniffing one more time and straightening her clothes before looking up at a window in the third story of the apartment complex. She’d go back to him and tell him she was sorry, that she was wrong, that she was ungrateful, that she didn’t deserve him, that she loved him and wanted to start over. Then, maybe, he’d take her back and hold her close to him again, stroke her hair and whisper comforting words in her ear, rock her back and forth until she felt better.
No sooner had she stepped off the curb than a totally foreign sound stopped her in her tracks. It was a snapping, grating, buzzing, cracking, and it was accompanied by a shower of sparks from above. She snapped her head in the direction of the noise, searching for the cause. The sparks originated from one of the massive force field-generating pylons down the street—it must have been knocked out by a power surge.
At first she was inclined to think nothing more of it, but then she saw it out of the corner of her eye: a black shape, plummeting out of the sky. She craned her neck to look up at it in wonder, blinking and squinting through the light shower. Droplets rolled off her face and hair, refracting the light in little sparkles; her hair was drenched and therefore almost black in hue.
By most people’s standards she looked even more beautiful than usual when a multi-ton machine crashed into the department store next to her and sent her flying with the shockwave; huge chunks of concrete and shards of metal ricocheting everywhere.
Impact.
*****************
Impact.
The earth-shaking thunder finally quieted, leaving the world much as it had been. The rain still fell, the occasional bass rumble of thunder still swept through, and the wind still droned on.
Very slowly and cautiously he stepped out of the diner and down onto the street, eyebrows bent in concern, mouth slightly agape in awe and arms limp at his side. He was a young man around twenty years old, by anyone’s standards unremarkable and by the majority’s nothing short of completely average. His choppy and rather uncared-for hair was mostly hidden underneath a battered ballcap; a pair of sleek headphones was around his neck, and from them came a driving melody that could just barely be heard over the soundscape of his surroundings. He wasn’t paying attention to it at all, though. His attention was fixed completely on the scene before him.
The twisted, nearly skeletal frame of some sort of combat mecha was sprawled in the middle of the rubble of some building of some sort. How had it penetrated the force field barrier? A geyser of sparks from above answered the question. The pylon was knocked out, which meant that the part of the shield above was out of commission. What were the odds, though, of a damaged mech just happening to freefall to the right spot?
He pressed his lips together tightly and locked his jaw. The odds were a hundred percent, if He willed it. Whereas most would have run to the nearest shelter, fearing for their lives now that the protective barrier was gone, he started forward fearlessly to survey the wreckage closer—and see if the pilot was dead or not.
Something his eyes noticed off to the side, though, brought him to a stunned halt. The can of soda in his hand slipped away and clattered to the ground, spewing the frothing drink out on the concrete. He sprinted the short distance between him and the body amidst the rubble, head shaking in disbelief. It can’t be.
In a moment he was down on his knees, discarding the cap and swiping away a few curls of hair that got in his eyes as a result. He shoved a twisted girder away from her, pulled a plate of drywall from off her chest, and swept away the smaller concrete chunks that enveloped her legs. With a grunt from him and a broken moan from her, he had her up on his lap and was cradling her head in his right arm; her hand searched for his left one and she gripped it tightly.
She looked up at him with frightened eyes, unable to speak or do anything but breathe in short, ragged gasps. Her face was white, and her hand seemed cold in his sweaty palm. Between breaths she tried to whisper something, but nothing intelligible came out. Then she cuddled in closer to him, squeezing his hand as fiercely as possible. He could feel her frail heartbeat slow down, could hear her breath grow fainter and fainter.
Helplessly he looked up and down the street, searching for someone to call. By the time he looked back down at her, the gaze had turned glassy, and she was perfectly still. No breathing, no movement, and no beat other than the one that reverberated from his headphones. He exhaled brokenly before taking in a shuddering breath. She was dead. Dead. And of all people, it was her.
He knew exactly who she was from the moment he’d seen her. They went to the same university, worked at the same bookstore. She was the most popular person he knew, a radiant angel who had the campus’s entire male population at her feet. He couldn’t say that he, too, hadn’t been stricken by her looks and movements. It was hard to think of anyone or anything else when she was in the room.
She was also the loneliest person he had known.
He had heard stories, of course—stories of her history. How her parents had separated when she was seven, how she had become obsessed with boys and love. When he had initially heard it all, he’d instantly recognized how much she must be hurting and what a gaping hole she must have had in her heart. She’d thought that the only way to fill it was with romance, maybe, but he had known another way.
At first he’d been eager to talk to her, to share with her how to obtain the love that he knew could help her. She was the perfect subject, he had thought. The textbook case. He’d memorized all the lines he had learned from the books, had practiced in the mirror, had planned out his course of action. Finally, he was ready. Her yearning for love would be the perfect entrance point to get her interested, to get her attention. Then he had learned that she was going to be working at the same bookshop he did, and he’d been ecstatic. He could tell her about Jesus Christ, could tell her about a saving relationship with Him that would heal her heart and give her life new meaning.
But then he’d realized just how pathetic—in worldly terms—he was compared to her. She had generated a three hundred percent increase in customers at the store in the space of a few days. She was so gorgeous, so perfect. He was the dork, the guy with the bizarrely eclectic tastes and less-than-perfect social skills. The guy who ‘matched the wallpaper of life’ rather well; the guy who always managed to fall through the cracks. She was so impossibly far above him. He listened to Japanese techno, watched anime, wrote sci-fi novels, and programmed. She sang karaoke, went to all the latest movies with her Ken-like boyfriend, and bounced from social event to social event. So he’d stalled, never having the courage to try to witness to her.
Now she was dead, and there’d never be another chance.
He eased her body to the pavement and stood up, straightening his back and slowly popping his neck. His gaze was still riveted on her, though, and tears were trickling down his face, mixing with the rain and splashing to the ground.
The thought came to him, unbidden: what would have happened if he’d just taken the dive? Just trusted his Commander and followed the Prerogative?
No way he could ever know.
*****************
From the surface of the moon it looked like nothing had changed on Earth, far away. The marbled skies were just the same as before; the blue globe continued in its slow spin and the moon continued to dance around it just as slowly. But something had indeed changed: Time had inched forward, even if just a few more seconds. Which meant that the Glorious Return was that much nearer at hand. Its impact would be the biggest of all.
Fin
----
Preceding was copyright 2005 Godly Paladin.
~Nick
She stood up again, sniffing one more time and straightening her clothes before looking up at a window in the third story of the apartment complex. She’d go back to him and tell him she was sorry, that she was wrong, that she was ungrateful, that she didn’t deserve him, that she loved him and wanted to start over. Then, maybe, he’d take her back and hold her close to him again, stroke her hair and whisper comforting words in her ear, rock her back and forth until she felt better.
No sooner had she stepped off the curb than a totally foreign sound stopped her in her tracks. It was a snapping, grating, buzzing, cracking, and it was accompanied by a shower of sparks from above. She snapped her head in the direction of the noise, searching for the cause. The sparks originated from one of the massive force field-generating pylons down the street—it must have been knocked out by a power surge.
At first she was inclined to think nothing more of it, but then she saw it out of the corner of her eye: a black shape, plummeting out of the sky. She craned her neck to look up at it in wonder, blinking and squinting through the light shower. Droplets rolled off her face and hair, refracting the light in little sparkles; her hair was drenched and therefore almost black in hue.
By most people’s standards she looked even more beautiful than usual when a multi-ton machine crashed into the department store next to her and sent her flying with the shockwave; huge chunks of concrete and shards of metal ricocheting everywhere.
Impact.
*****************
Impact.
The earth-shaking thunder finally quieted, leaving the world much as it had been. The rain still fell, the occasional bass rumble of thunder still swept through, and the wind still droned on.
Very slowly and cautiously he stepped out of the diner and down onto the street, eyebrows bent in concern, mouth slightly agape in awe and arms limp at his side. He was a young man around twenty years old, by anyone’s standards unremarkable and by the majority’s nothing short of completely average. His choppy and rather uncared-for hair was mostly hidden underneath a battered ballcap; a pair of sleek headphones was around his neck, and from them came a driving melody that could just barely be heard over the soundscape of his surroundings. He wasn’t paying attention to it at all, though. His attention was fixed completely on the scene before him.
The twisted, nearly skeletal frame of some sort of combat mecha was sprawled in the middle of the rubble of some building of some sort. How had it penetrated the force field barrier? A geyser of sparks from above answered the question. The pylon was knocked out, which meant that the part of the shield above was out of commission. What were the odds, though, of a damaged mech just happening to freefall to the right spot?
He pressed his lips together tightly and locked his jaw. The odds were a hundred percent, if He willed it. Whereas most would have run to the nearest shelter, fearing for their lives now that the protective barrier was gone, he started forward fearlessly to survey the wreckage closer—and see if the pilot was dead or not.
Something his eyes noticed off to the side, though, brought him to a stunned halt. The can of soda in his hand slipped away and clattered to the ground, spewing the frothing drink out on the concrete. He sprinted the short distance between him and the body amidst the rubble, head shaking in disbelief. It can’t be.
In a moment he was down on his knees, discarding the cap and swiping away a few curls of hair that got in his eyes as a result. He shoved a twisted girder away from her, pulled a plate of drywall from off her chest, and swept away the smaller concrete chunks that enveloped her legs. With a grunt from him and a broken moan from her, he had her up on his lap and was cradling her head in his right arm; her hand searched for his left one and she gripped it tightly.
She looked up at him with frightened eyes, unable to speak or do anything but breathe in short, ragged gasps. Her face was white, and her hand seemed cold in his sweaty palm. Between breaths she tried to whisper something, but nothing intelligible came out. Then she cuddled in closer to him, squeezing his hand as fiercely as possible. He could feel her frail heartbeat slow down, could hear her breath grow fainter and fainter.
Helplessly he looked up and down the street, searching for someone to call. By the time he looked back down at her, the gaze had turned glassy, and she was perfectly still. No breathing, no movement, and no beat other than the one that reverberated from his headphones. He exhaled brokenly before taking in a shuddering breath. She was dead. Dead. And of all people, it was her.
He knew exactly who she was from the moment he’d seen her. They went to the same university, worked at the same bookstore. She was the most popular person he knew, a radiant angel who had the campus’s entire male population at her feet. He couldn’t say that he, too, hadn’t been stricken by her looks and movements. It was hard to think of anyone or anything else when she was in the room.
She was also the loneliest person he had known.
He had heard stories, of course—stories of her history. How her parents had separated when she was seven, how she had become obsessed with boys and love. When he had initially heard it all, he’d instantly recognized how much she must be hurting and what a gaping hole she must have had in her heart. She’d thought that the only way to fill it was with romance, maybe, but he had known another way.
At first he’d been eager to talk to her, to share with her how to obtain the love that he knew could help her. She was the perfect subject, he had thought. The textbook case. He’d memorized all the lines he had learned from the books, had practiced in the mirror, had planned out his course of action. Finally, he was ready. Her yearning for love would be the perfect entrance point to get her interested, to get her attention. Then he had learned that she was going to be working at the same bookshop he did, and he’d been ecstatic. He could tell her about Jesus Christ, could tell her about a saving relationship with Him that would heal her heart and give her life new meaning.
But then he’d realized just how pathetic—in worldly terms—he was compared to her. She had generated a three hundred percent increase in customers at the store in the space of a few days. She was so gorgeous, so perfect. He was the dork, the guy with the bizarrely eclectic tastes and less-than-perfect social skills. The guy who ‘matched the wallpaper of life’ rather well; the guy who always managed to fall through the cracks. She was so impossibly far above him. He listened to Japanese techno, watched anime, wrote sci-fi novels, and programmed. She sang karaoke, went to all the latest movies with her Ken-like boyfriend, and bounced from social event to social event. So he’d stalled, never having the courage to try to witness to her.
Now she was dead, and there’d never be another chance.
He eased her body to the pavement and stood up, straightening his back and slowly popping his neck. His gaze was still riveted on her, though, and tears were trickling down his face, mixing with the rain and splashing to the ground.
The thought came to him, unbidden: what would have happened if he’d just taken the dive? Just trusted his Commander and followed the Prerogative?
No way he could ever know.
*****************
From the surface of the moon it looked like nothing had changed on Earth, far away. The marbled skies were just the same as before; the blue globe continued in its slow spin and the moon continued to dance around it just as slowly. But something had indeed changed: Time had inched forward, even if just a few more seconds. Which meant that the Glorious Return was that much nearer at hand. Its impact would be the biggest of all.
Fin
----
Preceding was copyright 2005 Godly Paladin.
~Nick
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
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- Location: Missouri
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steelbeliever - Posts: 150
- Joined: Fri Jun 03, 2005 5:16 pm
Hey there. Sorry for a slow response, I did skim through your work the other day...I just haven't been able to get to my computer much lately...
It's very intriuging. I like the setting a lot, the mysterious-ness of it all and how each section is heavily slanted through someone's perspective. One problem...I wasn't always sure who's perspective I was hearing... The lack of names makes it extremely difficult keep track of who's doing what...(especially when someone skims it like I did). Besides the admiral we start out with, I think there were two female characters mentioned and two male? See, I'm not sure. Even if you only tag them with a name in the first sentence of a section and use 'he' 'she' everywhere else, I think it would make it much easier for a reader to follow. I am curious to read more...with some names added, that is...
But over all, I like you descriptions and the mood they create. To put it into words...it made the landscape feel saturated with cold gray hues.
It's very intriuging. I like the setting a lot, the mysterious-ness of it all and how each section is heavily slanted through someone's perspective. One problem...I wasn't always sure who's perspective I was hearing... The lack of names makes it extremely difficult keep track of who's doing what...(especially when someone skims it like I did). Besides the admiral we start out with, I think there were two female characters mentioned and two male? See, I'm not sure. Even if you only tag them with a name in the first sentence of a section and use 'he' 'she' everywhere else, I think it would make it much easier for a reader to follow. I am curious to read more...with some names added, that is...
But over all, I like you descriptions and the mood they create. To put it into words...it made the landscape feel saturated with cold gray hues.
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Esoteric - Posts: 1603
- Joined: Sun Aug 22, 2004 1:12 pm
- Location: The Lost Room.
I wondered how hard it would be to keep track of everyone without names, but I figured that since each scene is a different character, everything would be all right.
Admiral, Male Enemy Pilot, Male Pilot, Female, Male.
That's it, actually. It's just a short story, as opposed to a series or something.
That made my day! That was exactly what I was after, and I'm thrilled to no end to know that it carried over to the readers. Yay!
*bow* Thank you kindly, sir!
Besides the admiral we start out with, I think there were two female characters mentioned and two male?
Admiral, Male Enemy Pilot, Male Pilot, Female, Male.
I am curious to read more...
That's it, actually. It's just a short story, as opposed to a series or something.
But over all, I like you descriptions and the mood they create. To put it into words...it made the landscape feel saturated with cold gray hues.
That made my day! That was exactly what I was after, and I'm thrilled to no end to know that it carried over to the readers. Yay!
O.O...that was awesome! you're a great writer...
*bow* Thank you kindly, sir!
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
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- Location: Missouri
Okay...so what did I do wrong? Does it not have enough of a hook at the beginning to draw readers in? Or is it just boring? Not many people are reading...
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
- Joined: Sun May 23, 2004 10:21 am
- Location: Missouri
Godly Paladin wrote:Okay...so what did I do wrong? Does it not have enough of a hook at the beginning to draw readers in? Or is it just boring? Not many people are reading...
Frustrating isn't it? I don't think you done anything wrong here...good feedback is simply hard to come by. If you're really serious about wanting feedback for your work, perhaps try a web forum devoted entirely to writing, or else join a writer's guild in your area. You should get much results then.
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Esoteric - Posts: 1603
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
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- Location: Missouri
Hmm. Good question, since I'm not on a forum myself. One of my friends is on a forum..I'll ask him where he goes.
I used to have a membership in the San Diego Christian Writer's Guild (back when I had time to write, grrrr). Although many of their groups met locally in homes, they had online groups as well. That might be an option for you. An SDCWG membership is around $20 a year, so the people are serious about writing and giving feedback.
I used to have a membership in the San Diego Christian Writer's Guild (back when I had time to write, grrrr). Although many of their groups met locally in homes, they had online groups as well. That might be an option for you. An SDCWG membership is around $20 a year, so the people are serious about writing and giving feedback.
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Esoteric - Posts: 1603
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- Location: The Lost Room.
Godly Paladin wrote:Okay...so what did I do wrong? Does it not have enough of a hook at the beginning to draw readers in? Or is it just boring? Not many people are reading...
As Esoteric said, writing generally does not generate much of a response on this forum; the lack of a response isn't due to anything wrong with your opening, although some people might have been daunted by the length of the story.
I thought that the structure of your story was fairly effective; the reader knows that something unusual has happened in this impact but doesn't know exactly what happened until near the end. This is an excellent way of generating interest; it kept my curiosity, at least.
The glimpses that the reader is given into different people's lives is interesting; you did a good job of telling the event from multiple points of view but revealing more information about what happened each time. One potential problem is that, with the overt inclusion of Christian material, it is easy to slip into a moralizing tone. However, I did like this metaphor, near the end: "what would have happened if he’d just taken the dive? Just trusted his Commander and followed the Prerogative?" That phrase did a nice job of tying the military imagery and Christian message together.
Let others believe in the God who brings men to trial and judges them. I shall cling to the God who resurrects the dead.
-St. Nikolai Velimirovich
MAL
-St. Nikolai Velimirovich
MAL
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Kaori - Posts: 1463
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I tried to beware the horrible 'preaching' feeling that I've seen in so much...did I avoid it well enough? It seems so hard to put Christianity in without making it read like it was forced, at least for me. Thank you for reading it, though, and for making a comment. 
And thanks for the info, Esoteric.
Now, does anyone know of a Christian short fiction magazine? (Scifi or no?) "Dreams and Visions" went out of business, and that was the only one I knew of.
And thanks for the info, Esoteric.
Now, does anyone know of a Christian short fiction magazine? (Scifi or no?) "Dreams and Visions" went out of business, and that was the only one I knew of.
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
- Joined: Sun May 23, 2004 10:21 am
- Location: Missouri
Godly Paladin wrote:Now, does anyone know of a Christian short fiction magazine? (Scifi or no?) "Dreams and Visions" went out of business, and that was the only one I knew of.
To read or to submit to? If it's to submit, (and I guess to read also) find yourself a copy of Sally E. Stuart's Christian Writer's Market Guide for 2005 (or 2006 might be out already). This will have listings for all sorts of publishers, including short fiction magazines.
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Esoteric - Posts: 1603
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Godly Paladin - Posts: 2016
- Joined: Sun May 23, 2004 10:21 am
- Location: Missouri
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