Krystie decided not to let her earlier trauma keep her from practicing some form of magic. As she explored the strange, tingly sensation within her, she learned it was stronger at certain places and that certain things would react to it. Searching through her uncle's private library, she found several tomes on magic. They described the lingua franca of mages and described types of magical energy. It was all very interesting but didn't offer much on practical application.
As she studied the books she had taken, a squirrel bounded by riffling through the leaves looking for maple seeds. “Se'freogas,” she said to it, unsure. The squirrel took notice and wandered up to her. She repeated the phrase and the squirrel swished its tail then hopped onto her knee. As she delighted in her newfound ability, she felt a rush of energy through her. A whole new world had opened to her.
“Re'gas!” The squirrel fled in terror. Krystie jumped and turned around guiltily. Uncle Morgan stood there with a clear orb in his hand. “I believe your father did not want you learning those secrets, but if you're going to learn, you shouldn't do so unsupervised, or without his consent.”
December 02, 2008
December 01, 2008
Noblesse Oblige
Year 202: It is with great regret that I see the human race nearing extiction at the hands of these monstrosities. If they are to have any chance, it will have to come from subverting the very beings that hold them in the thrall of terror. As such, I task you, whom I name Litheva, to bear my issue. From them and through them, I will redeem you and cast your soul alight. They will follow my edicts and will bear young themselves. They will protect the weak and convert the ignoble. Any who defy them, defy me. I am Mor'ganth, sword of vengeance, death of the unrighteous.
November 30, 2008
Author Note 2
Valerie Anne Winmere; half-magir; magus divinus; hustler; Queen of the Court of Mages (deposed);caring, protective, just; wife to Eldin Sands & Morgantides; mothered eighteen, one stillbirth; shot by her Scafir-controlled daughter, ascended; alternate name: Valane, Horseman War
Through a Watery Mirror
“Have you been to the other side yet?”
George looked up from his coffee and considered Morgan's question. “No, can't say I have, but I don't plane jump much at all. I don't know why you're so attracted to it still.”
Morgan frowned. “Once a mind has expanded, trying to stuff it in a jar does not always work. I cannot forget what is out there. I cannot forget what is down here. My family barely knows me and I have no ties out there.”
“You sound very lonely.”
“I have always been lonely to some degree. It was far, far less when Michael was with me.”
“And Valerie?”
“She is,” Morgan gave a rare smile, “wonderful company. She has tried to talk me into staying here, too. I wish I could, but rules...”
George knew the rules. He answered, “Will you ever come to stay?”
“I would if I could. At least now, when I do come, I have moments like this, rather than elongated moments of pain. I see people I know. People I love. I see dead people. It is preferable to awaiting return in the agony of death.”
“Has there ever been a good death for you?”
Morgan nodded. “I was executed at Leavenworth at midnight, February 16, 2005 by lethal injection. As I lay on the table, my father came and stood next to me.”
“Your father?”
“John Hunter Fitzgerald Wallace. We talked about why I was there. I told him that I chose to die and that I wanted to see him and Michael again. And grandfather too. I told him I was sorry that I was not the son he wanted me to be. I told him I was sorry that I was never his son. He said it did not matter. That, in his heart, I would always be his child, even if he did not sire me. He would always love me, no matter what I did. He said everything would be alright as long as I let him carry me when I needed it. And, then, he picked me up like he would when I was little and carried me here.”
George smiled. “Is heaven what you expected?”
“It's not where I expected to be after being executed.”
“The reason you are here is because you are capable of love, even after everything you've been through. You are still capable of humanity. And because there are those here that love you back.”
“I think Hitler could get in on that defense.”
“Morgan, with the conditioning you have, you shouldn't love anyone or anything. You haven't even given up yet. You still rescue damsels and refugees.”
“If I risk nothing by dying, is it really noble?”
“If you don't do it, you risk your soul or your humanity.”
Morgan felt a tug inside. Sighing, he blinked and was assailed by the cold of a hostile world. He got up from the muddy, wet ground and looked sightlessly at the blank, cloudy sky. Ascension had its privileges.
George looked up from his coffee and considered Morgan's question. “No, can't say I have, but I don't plane jump much at all. I don't know why you're so attracted to it still.”
Morgan frowned. “Once a mind has expanded, trying to stuff it in a jar does not always work. I cannot forget what is out there. I cannot forget what is down here. My family barely knows me and I have no ties out there.”
“You sound very lonely.”
“I have always been lonely to some degree. It was far, far less when Michael was with me.”
“And Valerie?”
“She is,” Morgan gave a rare smile, “wonderful company. She has tried to talk me into staying here, too. I wish I could, but rules...”
George knew the rules. He answered, “Will you ever come to stay?”
“I would if I could. At least now, when I do come, I have moments like this, rather than elongated moments of pain. I see people I know. People I love. I see dead people. It is preferable to awaiting return in the agony of death.”
“Has there ever been a good death for you?”
Morgan nodded. “I was executed at Leavenworth at midnight, February 16, 2005 by lethal injection. As I lay on the table, my father came and stood next to me.”
“Your father?”
“John Hunter Fitzgerald Wallace. We talked about why I was there. I told him that I chose to die and that I wanted to see him and Michael again. And grandfather too. I told him I was sorry that I was not the son he wanted me to be. I told him I was sorry that I was never his son. He said it did not matter. That, in his heart, I would always be his child, even if he did not sire me. He would always love me, no matter what I did. He said everything would be alright as long as I let him carry me when I needed it. And, then, he picked me up like he would when I was little and carried me here.”
George smiled. “Is heaven what you expected?”
“It's not where I expected to be after being executed.”
“The reason you are here is because you are capable of love, even after everything you've been through. You are still capable of humanity. And because there are those here that love you back.”
“I think Hitler could get in on that defense.”
“Morgan, with the conditioning you have, you shouldn't love anyone or anything. You haven't even given up yet. You still rescue damsels and refugees.”
“If I risk nothing by dying, is it really noble?”
“If you don't do it, you risk your soul or your humanity.”
Morgan felt a tug inside. Sighing, he blinked and was assailed by the cold of a hostile world. He got up from the muddy, wet ground and looked sightlessly at the blank, cloudy sky. Ascension had its privileges.
November 29, 2008
Can't Go Back
Year 39: Michael seemed agitated. “Just how much have I forgotton? I really can't remember much about you.”
Morgan sat at his desk and stated plainly, “It is normal to come back with all traumatic memories lost. I was one fairly long traumatic memory.”
“I didn't think you would just walk away without contesting some right to stay.”
“I have none.”
Margaret interrupted, “You are the baron?”
Morgan flatly said, “Yes, I was. That is all to which I have right. It is a title. All the baronial power rests in your husband.”
Michael merely shook his head, “That makes no sense.”
Morgan turned to a safe and his fingers delicately turned the lock. When it opened, he pulled out a large docket folder. His fingers danced over braille tabs. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and pushed them towards Michael. Michael's eyes picked up the line “I, Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace, of unsound mind...” and he carefully picked up the document and scanned through it, flipping the pages in silent wonderment.
Michael placed it back down. His voice was quiet, introspective. “You signed over all powers of attorney to me the day we reached majority.”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “All powers. Financial, marital, baronial, you even have power over my reproductive rights. Which, if misused, basically means you can claim everything I own, everything I earn, any children I bring forth, as your own.”
“What would make you sign this?”
“I was, and still am, insane. It never got cleared off my medical records that I wasn't, so, by medical and state decree, I am incompetent.”
Margaret interjected, “But you're not insane anymore! Just get them to clear it!”
Morgan paced. “Do you know when my last fit was?”
She shrugged and looked at Michael. “Your funeral!” she said, pointing at Michael. “It was the last full seizure he had. You had minor ones while in jail, if I remember correctly, but no grand ones.”
Michael looked at Morgan. “You were in jail?”
Morgan smirked. “Yes, I was. They executed me for sedition. I got life sentences for everything else, including your death.”
“My death?!”
“Yes, and I finally got them to agree to charge me with practicing medicine without a license in that regard. I could not get murder to stick. Eight witnesses to your death kept saying I was innocent. I was a dead man anyway. I refused legal counsel, pled guilty to twenty different offenses, and I still got acquitted on about six charges. I actually had to lie to get myself executed. It is of no consequence now.”
Michael stood up and walked over to Morgan and asked, “Why don't you want to be declared sane?”
“For the same reason I do not recognize you as my brother anymore. I became sane when Michael died. If I am still sane, Michael is still dead. And since you don't remember me, perhaps we are both still dead.”
Morgan sat at his desk and stated plainly, “It is normal to come back with all traumatic memories lost. I was one fairly long traumatic memory.”
“I didn't think you would just walk away without contesting some right to stay.”
“I have none.”
Margaret interrupted, “You are the baron?”
Morgan flatly said, “Yes, I was. That is all to which I have right. It is a title. All the baronial power rests in your husband.”
Michael merely shook his head, “That makes no sense.”
Morgan turned to a safe and his fingers delicately turned the lock. When it opened, he pulled out a large docket folder. His fingers danced over braille tabs. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and pushed them towards Michael. Michael's eyes picked up the line “I, Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace, of unsound mind...” and he carefully picked up the document and scanned through it, flipping the pages in silent wonderment.
Michael placed it back down. His voice was quiet, introspective. “You signed over all powers of attorney to me the day we reached majority.”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “All powers. Financial, marital, baronial, you even have power over my reproductive rights. Which, if misused, basically means you can claim everything I own, everything I earn, any children I bring forth, as your own.”
“What would make you sign this?”
“I was, and still am, insane. It never got cleared off my medical records that I wasn't, so, by medical and state decree, I am incompetent.”
Margaret interjected, “But you're not insane anymore! Just get them to clear it!”
Morgan paced. “Do you know when my last fit was?”
She shrugged and looked at Michael. “Your funeral!” she said, pointing at Michael. “It was the last full seizure he had. You had minor ones while in jail, if I remember correctly, but no grand ones.”
Michael looked at Morgan. “You were in jail?”
Morgan smirked. “Yes, I was. They executed me for sedition. I got life sentences for everything else, including your death.”
“My death?!”
“Yes, and I finally got them to agree to charge me with practicing medicine without a license in that regard. I could not get murder to stick. Eight witnesses to your death kept saying I was innocent. I was a dead man anyway. I refused legal counsel, pled guilty to twenty different offenses, and I still got acquitted on about six charges. I actually had to lie to get myself executed. It is of no consequence now.”
Michael stood up and walked over to Morgan and asked, “Why don't you want to be declared sane?”
“For the same reason I do not recognize you as my brother anymore. I became sane when Michael died. If I am still sane, Michael is still dead. And since you don't remember me, perhaps we are both still dead.”
No Reasonable Offer
The killer looked at Morgan, then looked around, expecting Michael to be somewhere in the background pastiche. Morgan just watched him. This would take some time to sink in. “On your fourth attempt, do you expect to do any better?” Morgan asked flatly.
“I don't see your pacifist flunky about.”
“I do not have a flunky. I have a traveling companion, but hardly a pacifist.”
“Does this 'companion' know how many lives you've taken? Wha' kinda scum you are?”
“Yes.”
The swagger meant nothing to Morgan. He knew it for the drunkenness it was, even without seeing it.
“Whatever traveling companion I have or have had are all far better than you.”
“Oh, why's that?”
“Would you take a bullet for me?”
“Pffft! No!”
“My companions are chosen for their loyalty. Not their mockery of courage. Not their alcohol-stoked violence. Not their bloodthirsty tendencies. They are competent, helpful, resourceful, and creative.”
“I don't supposhe they acktually protect you?”
When the cavalier stranger pulled a flintlock, a half-eaten apple flew across the market plaza and hit him squarely in the head. He flipped around and Morgan applied a fist to one temple. “No,” he said to the flopped body, “they just facilitate me protecting myself.”
“I don't see your pacifist flunky about.”
“I do not have a flunky. I have a traveling companion, but hardly a pacifist.”
“Does this 'companion' know how many lives you've taken? Wha' kinda scum you are?”
“Yes.”
The swagger meant nothing to Morgan. He knew it for the drunkenness it was, even without seeing it.
“Whatever traveling companion I have or have had are all far better than you.”
“Oh, why's that?”
“Would you take a bullet for me?”
“Pffft! No!”
“My companions are chosen for their loyalty. Not their mockery of courage. Not their alcohol-stoked violence. Not their bloodthirsty tendencies. They are competent, helpful, resourceful, and creative.”
“I don't supposhe they acktually protect you?”
When the cavalier stranger pulled a flintlock, a half-eaten apple flew across the market plaza and hit him squarely in the head. He flipped around and Morgan applied a fist to one temple. “No,” he said to the flopped body, “they just facilitate me protecting myself.”
November 28, 2008
Once Upon a Time
Michael's day has been hectic. Morgan's day has been quiet and contemplative. Despite vast differences in how they passed the time, often they had a means to blow of steam or liven things up without ever wasting precious time on Earth. They never spoke about it or discussed it outside of Morgan's apartment. None of the household outside of Holmes knew of their 'disappearances.' But, when one hundred and seventy-five rooms in a mansion became confining or the rat race too frustrating, they would sympathetically 'know' and leave together for other places, dimensions, planes, or times. Often, for Morgan, it was work and, for Michael, a sidekick position, but they could disappear for weeks at a time and return only minutes after they had left by the clock.
Children, marriage, financial upheavals, and Morgan's frequent deaths did not stop them from going out again. Indeed, the bonding between them was so intense from these that it would take Michael's death to stop the partner sojourns. Morgan would continue working solo until his brother's unfortunate resurrection.
Children, marriage, financial upheavals, and Morgan's frequent deaths did not stop them from going out again. Indeed, the bonding between them was so intense from these that it would take Michael's death to stop the partner sojourns. Morgan would continue working solo until his brother's unfortunate resurrection.
November 27, 2008
Road Sage
Year 26: Dodging bullets was easy enough for Morgan. Karen was having a lot of trouble running in heels. He picked her up, threw her over his other shoulder, and proceeded to run at a faster speed. Getting to Michael's car, Karen fumbled with the keys and managed to open door as the gang was coming into earshot. Morgan quickly dumped Michael's body in the back and shouted, “Start the car!”
Karen got behind the wheel and said, “I can't!”
Manifesting a curved wall behind them, Morgan shouted back. “Why not?”
“This is a Ferrari. It has a stick.”
The sound of a bullet hitting the shield made Morgan thicken the wall. “I'm sure you can figure it out!”
“I don't know how!” she yelled back, she sounded frantic, verging on terrified.
Morgan took about a tenth of a second to think it over. “Get in the passenger seat!”
“What?”
“Don't freeze up now! I'm going to need you functional. Get in the passenger seat!”
Karen climbed frenetically over the center console. Morgan dropped hastily into the seat. He felt for the keys and turned the ignition.
“You're crazy!”
“If you can't get us out if here, I'm going to do so,” said Morgan evenly. “Now, warn me if anything is in our way.”
Morgan put his feet on the brake and clutch, switched to first, then put his right foot down on the gas while lifting the left off the clutch. The car ineleganlty lurched forward. When the tires hit asphalt, he pressed on the clutch, switched to second and tried to align the car straight with the road. Karen found herself yelling “Left!” and “Right!” spasmodically. The road itself wasn't very obliging as it snaked about in irregular S-curves, dips, and sudden right angles. The light dotting of trees weren't helping either. After about the seventh near miss and about several thousand dollars worth of body damage, Morgan asked, “Are they still following us?”
Karen risked a look behind. “I don't see them.”
“Okay, I'm going to stop and if I guide you, do you think you can drive this?”
“Okay, I'll try,” she said, still somewhat panicked.
Positions switched, Morgan explained the three pedals, and told her to clutch, brake, shift into first. After several more minutes of abuse, Michael finally revived. His first statement was, “What are you doing to the transmission?”
Karen turned around to look at him. “Oh, thank go-”
The car performed a slow motion French kiss with a guardrail. Michael sat up and said, “Okay, let me drive.”
Karen shook her head. “I don't think this car going anywhere.”
“It probably won't want to, but give me a shot.”
After another driver switch, Michael commented, “It looks like Morgan was driving this.”
“I was.”
“That would explain why we're going the wrong way.” Michael pulled a bootlegger reverse and shot the car back the way they came. Karen flew out of the back into Morgan's lap.
As she and Morgan extricated her from the odd position. “This is probably the wrong time to ask, but how do you know how to drive a car?”
Michael smiled and said, “Oh, I taught him. Lots of open space and the minds of teenagers.”
“But he's blind.”
“Should I bring up why you weren't driving from the start?” Morgan asked.
“I think I can guess,” Michael said. “You need to learn to handle the unexpected better, sexy.”
Karen's scream snapped both men's eyes back on the road. The gang was heading for them. Morgan slid open the sunroof. “I'm going to trust your driving now. Karen, stay down.”
Morgan could sense the incoming hostility while standing halfway out of the sunroof. His mind focused on the distance closing between the pack and the car. It needs to stop them, he thought, without damaging us. His mind flipped through possibilities as a short straightaway presented itself between the lead vehicles and their car. The sharp-pointed, flat-topped road spikes emerged almost too late. Michael pulled hard left too late. The opposition failed to respond at all. It takes some skill and experience to drive a car on two wheels. It takes luck to do so under pressure with oncoming traffic while under suppression fire from handguns. Michael apparently managed to meet the intersection of luck, experience, and skill while Morgan almost got his head clipped off. He sat down while hearing a sizeable multi-car pileup behind them. The car leveled out roughly.
“Okay, I'll aim for the back gate, do you have the key, Morgan?”
“I thought I gave you a copy.”
“Yes, that happens to be in my Mercedes... ah, hell.”
“Did we just blow a tire?”
“No, I think we just lost the hubcap.”
“Damn it!” He didn't slow the car as the road got bumpier and smaller. When they arrived, he yelled “t'abral!” and the gate flew open on its own. He stopped inside just an inch shy of a tree. Turning around he commanded, “t'clausan-el!” and the gate closed and locked itself, including the padlock that had flown free.
Once everyone's heart rate returned to normal, Michael turned to Karen and said, “I suppose there's some things we should explain to you...”
November 26, 2008
The Final Strawman
Year 72: Her death came suddenly, unexpectedly. He was standing next to her when she was shot. She saw the bullet flying at her and accepted its path, accepted her fate. She interrupted his intuitive thought to cover her before his body could enact it. A moment later, she was seeping blood and brains on the steps of the plaza. The shock was superseded by his immediate vengeance and mere heartbeats later he found out it was their own daughter who'd pulled the trigger. Public sentiment towards him wavered between pity for a widower and malice for his action. None of that seemed to affect him. He walked the streets of the capitol speaking to no one. The voice of his mother laughing as comprehension dawned was all he could hear. “Son, you do not deserve love. Look at what your love has done to any who received it.”
November 25, 2008
Author Note 1
I just re-read The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allen Poe and realized how unoriginal my writing is. That is all.
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