It's been a while. I haven't been writing much in terms of stories or poems, but I started another blog, so I'm still writing on and off—just different sorts of things.
I'm starting to feel like I need an outlet for creativity again, though, so I thought it might be time to poke around here a bit. Nothing new to post yet, but I thought I might as well add something I wrote back in March/April for a forum contest:
***
I’m still waiting.
Every morning I wake up with the sun and I think that to myself. Or I think it to you, really. It’s a stupid ritual; it’s not like I believe you can actually hear me. My brain waves don’t telepathically transmit the message to wherever you are, or however that mystical bullshit is supposed to work.
Whatever. It passes the time, and it’s true—I’m still waiting.
I haven’t been lazy, though. I don’t just sit around all day at our rendezvous point, looking down each street for the shape of a human figure. (At least, I don’t any more.) Nah, I've been keeping plenty busy.
In fact, the first thing I’ll do is give you the grand tour. (Well, after the hugging and crying, obviously.) I’m pretty proud of my place. It was slow at first, but I think I might have enough food for next winter. I mean, I haven’t run out of canned stuff yet, but it’s good practice for when I do. And wait ‘til you see the solar panels I scavenged!
So yeah. There’s the garden over here. I got a whole bunch of seeds from a Home Depot the first week or so. I had no fucking clue what to do with them, but that’s what libraries are for, right? That building across the street is a library; I chose this house because of it. Knowledge is power, and all that.
Still, books aren’t everything, so I screwed up my first crop of beans and tomatoes. Some disease, or something. I dunno, it wasn’t very clear, and books aren’t great for diagnosing stuff. No idea what I’ll do if I get sick or injured; I doubt some aspirin and medical textbooks will save me, and you're the one who was studying to be a doctor, not me. But hey, I’ll deal with that if it happens. One step at a time.
Anyway, libraries. Totally the shit, despite my failings. I hope you’ve come across some good ones on your journey here. I’ve learned so much useful stuff. How to hotwire cars, how to collect rainwater, how to shoot.
I’m still not very good at shooting things, though. Sometimes I flinch right before I pull the trigger. But there are plenty of guns in the houses around here, so I’ve got a lot of practice. This rifle is my favorite; I carry it everywhere, just in case. Sounds crazy, since I always hated guns, but I like it ‘cause it saved my life. (I know you love dogs, but I swear it was either him or me. I’m hoping you like me more than a feral dog.)
The bastard was going after my chickens. I could show them to you next—there they are. I made the hutch and the wire cage myself. Easy peasy, once I’d stopped hitting my thumb with the hammer.
But the chickens, man, I was lucky to find them. Some hippie was raising them in a backyard. (Well, I dunno if they were a hippie, but I pretend.) I was out looking for things to use, and I heard this faint whimpering. They don’t always cluck, you know. Sometimes it sounds like whimpering. Anyway, I found them, just scratching around in this backyard. Major jackpot. You should’ve seen me chasing them around; took me what felt like hours to catch them. Bet I looked pretty silly.
So I eat a lot of eggs these days. Fried, boiled, scrambled—I haven’t got the hang of poached yet. My kitchen’s on the porch. Yeah, I know it’s just a fire pit and some pots and pans, but I’m still working on the solar oven. Can’t go post in a web forum asking people what I’m doing wrong anymore. I’ve only got a few diagrams and my vague idea of how it should work to go on.
Still, fire’s good. It’s my heat, my stove, my light. I’ve got these solar panels rigged up now, though, so at night I usually use electric light. Sometimes it’s comforting. Other times, when I stare out the windows into the dark street at the dead houses, it’s not.
Night time is the worst, really. It's when the fears and doubts creep in. I wonder if you're really coming. I wonder if I imagined that brief conversation we had as the internet was slowly dying around us, websites disappearing as servers shut down. Everything contracting down to nothing.
Of course, the stars are really beautiful. You know that from wherever you are. When I look at them I wish my sister were here. She wanted to be an astronomer, so my parents bought her all these books and charts and even a telescope. But we lived in the city, so she couldn’t see many stars.
Then I'm glad she isn't here, not because I don’t love her, but because I do.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. The solar panels. I use them for more than just lights. Maybe you’ll think it’s stupid. Here I am, the power grid gone, running out of fuel for things like generators and stoves, and I use the solar panels to listen to music.
It’s amazing, though.
Maybe the first thing I’ll do is put on a CD. You like Led Zeppelin, right? What am I saying, everyone likes them.
Finding chickens was good for my stomach, but finding the solar panels was like a fucking epiphany. I just turned the corner one day and there they were on someone’s roof. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I mean, I knew they existed. But I guess I was still thinking inside the box then. Gardening came to me because of my aunt; I had some experience with it, even if I'm shit at it. But my brain was still stuck in old patterns. Expecting electricity to come to me from distant power plants, seemingly by magic.
Expecting someone to parachute in and rescue me.
But yeah. Something about those solar panels flipped a switch, and suddenly I was all gung-ho about this survival shit. Human race might be doomed, but I'm going out in style.
'Course, I don't actually know that the human race is doomed. Maybe the quarantines worked, the ones they set up just as they realized things were getting bad. About a year ago I thought I heard a helicopter going overhead; could've been imagining it, but maybe some foreigners in bio-suits were taking a look-see.
What would they do with us, I wonder? Kill us to stop its spread, or stick us in labs to see why we didn't die? Either way, I decided after the ghost helicopter that I'd hide inside next time, if there is a next time. Y'know, just in case.
Sorry, I'm probably being depressing and shit. Not a great welcome, is it? “Hi, welcome to hell. But at least we're here together!”
It'll be better once you get here, though. I promise.
Showing posts with label locution. Show all posts
Showing posts with label locution. Show all posts
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Friday, February 5, 2010
Taking a Stab at Poetry
First up is the prose-with-line-breaks-masquerading-as-poetry I wrote for a contest on Locution to do with clichés.
***
Love is Blind
Cupid needs glasses.
He must, for he always
passes over me.
His aim is /not/ true--
it's a wonder his arrows
flew straight before now.
I don't really mind,
but if he can't seem to
find me sitting here,
how is he to hit
his real targets? It's a
bit suspect, I think.
I should say something.
Oi, mister Roman god!
Ring up an optician!
No? It's not so bad.
I survived the visit I
had sometime last year.
Oh well, it's your loss.
No running to me when
cross lovers complain.
It's not like I mind,
but love is so very blind.
***
I started something else before writing "Love is Blind." It felt a bit more like poetry, but the imagery/direction seemed muddled. Here goes trying to make something of it:
***
Climbing up the Walls
You've got me climbing up the walls,
still remembering yesterday's fall when
you failed to take up the slack--
I might as well be bouldering.
I feel like I'm at the end
of my rope (even though I'm not),
and all I can see is red
tape marking the route's holds.
***
I can't get any further with it. Somehow I'm unable to crystallize the premise--comparing a fight with rock climbing. It was supposed to tie in the idea of a person climbing in anger, to let off steam, but it just doesn't gel properly. I like individual lines, but not the poem itself, unfinished though it may be.
***
Love is Blind
Cupid needs glasses.
He must, for he always
passes over me.
His aim is /not/ true--
it's a wonder his arrows
flew straight before now.
I don't really mind,
but if he can't seem to
find me sitting here,
how is he to hit
his real targets? It's a
bit suspect, I think.
I should say something.
Oi, mister Roman god!
Ring up an optician!
No? It's not so bad.
I survived the visit I
had sometime last year.
Oh well, it's your loss.
No running to me when
cross lovers complain.
It's not like I mind,
but love is so very blind.
***
I started something else before writing "Love is Blind." It felt a bit more like poetry, but the imagery/direction seemed muddled. Here goes trying to make something of it:
***
Climbing up the Walls
You've got me climbing up the walls,
still remembering yesterday's fall when
you failed to take up the slack--
I might as well be bouldering.
I feel like I'm at the end
of my rope (even though I'm not),
and all I can see is red
tape marking the route's holds.
***
I can't get any further with it. Somehow I'm unable to crystallize the premise--comparing a fight with rock climbing. It was supposed to tie in the idea of a person climbing in anger, to let off steam, but it just doesn't gel properly. I like individual lines, but not the poem itself, unfinished though it may be.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
2010
Oh, look, a new year!
I finished my creative writing class, obviously. In the end my revisions for the portfolio went well, despite my stressing. I'm still not quite happy with the story and the poem, but my professor liked them, so I suppose that suffices.
(She suggested I submit the poem to journals for publication, which was a bit of a shock. I don't think it's up to that, but I may do so anyway--never too early to start racking up rejection slips. ^_^)
I've joined meri in a new years resolution, to post at least 200 words at least 4 times a week to a thread in Locution. Mine is here, and meri's is here. I think I'll co-post here, just to keep things in one place...
***
Ben found himself in a waiting room suddenly, in that strange, scene-hopping way that dreams change. One minute he was fishing with his dad in a lake of lava and the next he was sitting in a plastic chair under fluorescent lights.
"Would you like a toffee, young man?"
Ben stared down at the candy in confusion. It shook in the old woman's hands, the red wrapper bright against her skin, and she smiled at him.
"Um, no thanks."
"Ah well, suit yourself." She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, sucking noisily. "I shouldn't, really, but if you can't indulge when you're old, when can you?"
"Yeah..." The lake was fading, and then it was gone. Ben couldn't remember how he got here, or what he was waiting for. He said so to the old woman.
"Oh, don't you worry about that, dearie. I expect someone will be along in a bit to sort it all out." She patted his knee twice and settled back into her seat.
"Wait, don't you know why you're here?" Ben asked.
She frowned, puzzled. "Now that you mention it, no. My memory must not be what it used to be. Maybe I wrote it down." She patted her trouser's pocket and drew out a slip of paper. "Oh, look, my number. Perhaps they'll call it soon."
It was like those numbers taken by people waiting to be served at the the local butcher's.
***
It's a story idea I came up with over Christmas break, while vacationing in the swamp. I'll see where it goes~
I finished my creative writing class, obviously. In the end my revisions for the portfolio went well, despite my stressing. I'm still not quite happy with the story and the poem, but my professor liked them, so I suppose that suffices.
(She suggested I submit the poem to journals for publication, which was a bit of a shock. I don't think it's up to that, but I may do so anyway--never too early to start racking up rejection slips. ^_^)
I've joined meri in a new years resolution, to post at least 200 words at least 4 times a week to a thread in Locution. Mine is here, and meri's is here. I think I'll co-post here, just to keep things in one place...
***
Ben found himself in a waiting room suddenly, in that strange, scene-hopping way that dreams change. One minute he was fishing with his dad in a lake of lava and the next he was sitting in a plastic chair under fluorescent lights.
"Would you like a toffee, young man?"
Ben stared down at the candy in confusion. It shook in the old woman's hands, the red wrapper bright against her skin, and she smiled at him.
"Um, no thanks."
"Ah well, suit yourself." She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, sucking noisily. "I shouldn't, really, but if you can't indulge when you're old, when can you?"
"Yeah..." The lake was fading, and then it was gone. Ben couldn't remember how he got here, or what he was waiting for. He said so to the old woman.
"Oh, don't you worry about that, dearie. I expect someone will be along in a bit to sort it all out." She patted his knee twice and settled back into her seat.
"Wait, don't you know why you're here?" Ben asked.
She frowned, puzzled. "Now that you mention it, no. My memory must not be what it used to be. Maybe I wrote it down." She patted her trouser's pocket and drew out a slip of paper. "Oh, look, my number. Perhaps they'll call it soon."
It was like those numbers taken by people waiting to be served at the the local butcher's.
***
It's a story idea I came up with over Christmas break, while vacationing in the swamp. I'll see where it goes~
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Locution Issue 3 Is Out!
You can download it here. ^_^
I expect anyone reading this blog (all three of you) already knows of the publication, but what the heck. I'm excited.
In other news, I started my math class a few weeks ago. So far it's really going well; I forgot how much I enjoyed math. Yesterday I also bought my books for the creative writing class, since I'm hopeful that I'll be able to manage taking it along side the math class. So I'm excited about that, too.
Lots of excitement. :)
On the writing front I haven't been particularly busy. I did post my time travel story for critique on Locution, which has me motivated to take it further and develop the story. As a result, for the past few days I've been thinking up ideas and possibilities at inopportune moments, like when I'm just on the edge of sleep. Ah writing, how I love thee~
I expect anyone reading this blog (all three of you) already knows of the publication, but what the heck. I'm excited.
In other news, I started my math class a few weeks ago. So far it's really going well; I forgot how much I enjoyed math. Yesterday I also bought my books for the creative writing class, since I'm hopeful that I'll be able to manage taking it along side the math class. So I'm excited about that, too.
Lots of excitement. :)
On the writing front I haven't been particularly busy. I did post my time travel story for critique on Locution, which has me motivated to take it further and develop the story. As a result, for the past few days I've been thinking up ideas and possibilities at inopportune moments, like when I'm just on the edge of sleep. Ah writing, how I love thee~
Thursday, July 16, 2009
News
I haven't written a lot in the past two months, at least not in terms of fiction—most of my energies have gone into writing essays and journal entries for my first college class (English Composition). It's nice to get back into the habit of writing essays, and I certainly need the practice, but five paragraph essays do get wearing after a while...
I did slightly edit a story I wrote last October for a contest on the Locution Forums. The next issue of Locution is coming up (planned date of publication is August 15), and as a staff member I had to submit something. It was interesting to do, since editing is my usual obstacle to finishing a story. I can edit as I write, and I can edit before entering a forum contest, but afterwards? For some reason or another, I get stuck.
This time, however, I had a reason to persevere, and I managed a few changes that (I hope) were worthwhile. So that's progress, perhaps. ^_^
I'll also hopefully be taking an online creative writing course in the fall, which will mean I have to make the time for more creative stuffs. Huzzah~ \o/
I did slightly edit a story I wrote last October for a contest on the Locution Forums. The next issue of Locution is coming up (planned date of publication is August 15), and as a staff member I had to submit something. It was interesting to do, since editing is my usual obstacle to finishing a story. I can edit as I write, and I can edit before entering a forum contest, but afterwards? For some reason or another, I get stuck.
This time, however, I had a reason to persevere, and I managed a few changes that (I hope) were worthwhile. So that's progress, perhaps. ^_^
I'll also hopefully be taking an online creative writing course in the fall, which will mean I have to make the time for more creative stuffs. Huzzah~ \o/
Monday, April 13, 2009
April Prose Contest (Locution)
I wrote this over the past few days for the contest I mentioned last post. It didn't go where I wanted it to, and it's more of a very short first chapter than a stand-alone story. Still, it was rather fun to write, if intensely frustrating at times. ^_^
More on the ending (or not-ending) below.
***
Maia slipped into the classroom and carefully shut the door behind her. She turned to face the clutter and sighed in relief. Just as she had thought—a thick layer of dust covered every surface, and all the desks were broken and pushed against the far wall. The University had many rooms such as these hidden at the ends of empty corridors, and Maia could be sure she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Moving into the middle of the room, she swallowed around the lump in her throat. Deep breaths, Maia, deep breaths. It was just twenty four hours, just a little extra time to study metallurgic and gemological magics before the exam that morning; soon to be tomorrow morning.
It’s not as if anyone will miss it. She fingered the pendant that hung around her neck on a long gold chain. A small sapphire, it didn’t seem much, but the spells within it were very rare. I’ll be returning it just a few minutes after taking it, at least as far as they’re concerned, she reassured herself. All the same, it made her nervous.
Maia watched the light refract in the pendant’s facets for a moment, calming her heart. With a final deep breath she closed her eyes, clenching the stone in her hand. Focusing her mind, she felt it begin to warm. “Just twenty four hours, that’s all I need,” she whispered. Sudden heat pierced her palm—she gasped in pain but did not let go—and the floor tilted beneath her sharply. She fell to her knees on the stone floor and groaned as the world slowly stopped spinning around her.
“Who are you?” demanded a voice.
Shakily Maia pushed herself up, letting the pendant swing free of her hand. She gaped. The clutter of the abandoned classroom was gone. She stood amongst shelves of scrolls and books, and before her sat a man. He wore a red tunic and on the desk in front of him lay several scrolls and writing instruments.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, punctuating his statement with a jab of his quill. He scowled at her silence.
“I—I—” Maia grabbed her satchel and held it in front of her.
“Guards!”
Maia jumped at his roar. Spurred into action, she ran to the door and flung it open. An arm reached for her but she ducked under it, skidding into the opposite wall. Men were shouting and yelling, and she caught a glimpse of several red uniforms as she fled.
Down one corridor, turn left at the end, through this room, then another, heart in her throat. She knew the University like her own hand, and this was it. But where were all the students and professors? Everywhere she ran there were men in red, all of them shocked or outraged at her presence. What was going on?
What have I done?
She stumbled into the kitchen. A cook screeched at her from behind a giant pot of stew, nearly thwacking her with a ladle. Maia fell back into a servant who swore.
“Watch where you’re going, will ya!”
Through the steam, past the dry heat of the giant ovens, out the servants’ entrance, shoes slapping the dirt. The street was as busy as she’d hoped, merchants, sellers, and customers all yelling over the din. Maia pushed her way through the crowd, glancing back. She saw the purple of the well-off and the browns of commoners, but no red.
Several streets away she dared to stop to catch her breath. Crouching on the stoop of a shop, she dangled the sapphire on its chain and stared. It was not supposed to do this. It did not have the power to change things like this. Maia looked around. This was Arriol City, no mistaking. And she had just escaped from the University, her University. But things aren’t right.
She watched a woman setting out vegetables on a stall opposite. Something was off about her clothes, about everyone’s clothing. Maia shook her head. And what about the men in red? Some wore armor, but there hadn’t been an army within the city since the reign of Duke Ochoa. Her history lessons with Professor Ibarra rang in her head.
“Duke Ochoa, who despised the work of mages, dissolved the University and used its buildings as his military headquarters. Our place of learning was only restored when his niece, our Duchess, overthrew him with the help of Haizea Inon.”
“No…” Maia whispered, feeling dazed. It wasn’t possible. She tucked the sapphire inside her blouse and jumped up, grabbing the sleeve of the first person to walk by. “What year is it? Please!”
The look the washerwoman gave her was full of pity. Maia was suddenly aware of her appearance; her skirt was rumpled and dirty where she’d fallen, and her hair was coming loose from its plait. The woman gently pulled her hand free and continued on. “Poor lass…”
The next woman spat at her feet, and the man that followed tried to give her a copper piece, which Maia refused. “I just need to know the year, please!”
“Three hundred an’ seventy eight, miss.”
Maia turned at the voice. A man leaned in the doorway she had just vacated, watching her with curiosity. Then the meaning of his words reached her, and Maia’s knees gave way.
“Steady on!” He stepped forward to grab her arm.
“Twenty four years,” she mumbled, swaying on her feet.
“What’s that, you say?” He peered at her and she gulped.
“Twenty four years. Not hours—years.” The world spun as the man helped her to the step where she collapsed.
“Easy there.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and disappeared into the building, but Maia barely noticed.
There was no way back. The sapphire could only take one to the past, not the future. Her mother, her friends, her life, all gone. She wouldn’t see them again for twenty four years, all because she had wanted a bit more time. Maia laughed bitterly. Well, she certainly had more than enough now.
How could I have been so foolish?
Maia pulled her satchel to her and opened it. She searched through the scrolls and quills for the book she always carried with her. Her hand brushed the familiar worn leather, and she pulled it out slowly. She traced the title, “Haizea Inon,” and fought tears. Her mother had given it to her on her last birthday. As a child she’d asked for stories about the famous woman mage again and again. And now here she was, in Arriol before the unseating of the Duke. Of all the times to end up…
“What’s that?” The man was back, leaning over to look at the book.
“It’s nothing,” Maia said thickly. She went to put it away.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
He reached out to take it and Maia panicked. He couldn’t read about things that hadn’t happened yet! “It’s a diary,” she blurted. “Private.”
The man drew back his hand. “Nice to meet you, Haizea Inon.” He smiled.
“Wait, no, I’m not—”
“If that’s not your name,” he said, pointing at the cover, “then whose diary is it?” His eyes were laughing at her. “Mayhap I can help you find the owner.”
“No, it is mine, I’m just not—”
“As I said, nice to meet you, Haizea Inon. I’m Ander Bakar.”
“I told you, I—” Maia stopped. Ander Bakar. It couldn’t be! Maia’s hands shook as she opened the book, flipping to the first page.
“Haizea Inon rode into Arriol as the sun set. On its streets she met Ander Bakar, a merchant. She was weary from her journey from a far off and distant land, and he offered her a room at his friend’s inn. The great mage told him that she was here to overthrow a tyrant, and he, like many others in the years to come, joined with her. He was to become her closest ally.”
Maia began to feel faint again. Fingers snapped in front of her face and she jumped. Ander Bakar, the Ander Bakar, stood over her, frowning.
“Do you have a place to stay? My friend runs an inn just around the corner. I wouldn’t feel well with myself if I just left you here, the state you’re in.”
Maia shook her head, mute. He pulled her to her feet and led her down the street.
“So what’s your business here in our lovely city?”
“I think—I think I’m here to overthrow the Duke,” she whispered.
***
Technically I shouldn't really have ended it here. It gives a different impression than the one I would like to give. The twist is that the stories she knows, the ones she learned and the ones in the book, aren't entirely accurate. They sanitize things--Ander is a buyer and seller of questionable merchandise (aka a thief), not a merchant; right after this line he laughs uproariously and says she's mad, instead of saying "okay, when can we start?" And all the adventures she has as Haizea turn out in entirely different ways than she expects, making it almost as difficult and confusing as it would be if she didn't have the book and knowledge of the future. Sometimes it's even more confusing.
Basically, if I wanted to I could write a novel based on this idea. I might one day, when I have more of the details worked out...
More on the ending (or not-ending) below.
***
Maia slipped into the classroom and carefully shut the door behind her. She turned to face the clutter and sighed in relief. Just as she had thought—a thick layer of dust covered every surface, and all the desks were broken and pushed against the far wall. The University had many rooms such as these hidden at the ends of empty corridors, and Maia could be sure she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Moving into the middle of the room, she swallowed around the lump in her throat. Deep breaths, Maia, deep breaths. It was just twenty four hours, just a little extra time to study metallurgic and gemological magics before the exam that morning; soon to be tomorrow morning.
It’s not as if anyone will miss it. She fingered the pendant that hung around her neck on a long gold chain. A small sapphire, it didn’t seem much, but the spells within it were very rare. I’ll be returning it just a few minutes after taking it, at least as far as they’re concerned, she reassured herself. All the same, it made her nervous.
Maia watched the light refract in the pendant’s facets for a moment, calming her heart. With a final deep breath she closed her eyes, clenching the stone in her hand. Focusing her mind, she felt it begin to warm. “Just twenty four hours, that’s all I need,” she whispered. Sudden heat pierced her palm—she gasped in pain but did not let go—and the floor tilted beneath her sharply. She fell to her knees on the stone floor and groaned as the world slowly stopped spinning around her.
“Who are you?” demanded a voice.
Shakily Maia pushed herself up, letting the pendant swing free of her hand. She gaped. The clutter of the abandoned classroom was gone. She stood amongst shelves of scrolls and books, and before her sat a man. He wore a red tunic and on the desk in front of him lay several scrolls and writing instruments.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, punctuating his statement with a jab of his quill. He scowled at her silence.
“I—I—” Maia grabbed her satchel and held it in front of her.
“Guards!”
Maia jumped at his roar. Spurred into action, she ran to the door and flung it open. An arm reached for her but she ducked under it, skidding into the opposite wall. Men were shouting and yelling, and she caught a glimpse of several red uniforms as she fled.
Down one corridor, turn left at the end, through this room, then another, heart in her throat. She knew the University like her own hand, and this was it. But where were all the students and professors? Everywhere she ran there were men in red, all of them shocked or outraged at her presence. What was going on?
What have I done?
She stumbled into the kitchen. A cook screeched at her from behind a giant pot of stew, nearly thwacking her with a ladle. Maia fell back into a servant who swore.
“Watch where you’re going, will ya!”
Through the steam, past the dry heat of the giant ovens, out the servants’ entrance, shoes slapping the dirt. The street was as busy as she’d hoped, merchants, sellers, and customers all yelling over the din. Maia pushed her way through the crowd, glancing back. She saw the purple of the well-off and the browns of commoners, but no red.
Several streets away she dared to stop to catch her breath. Crouching on the stoop of a shop, she dangled the sapphire on its chain and stared. It was not supposed to do this. It did not have the power to change things like this. Maia looked around. This was Arriol City, no mistaking. And she had just escaped from the University, her University. But things aren’t right.
She watched a woman setting out vegetables on a stall opposite. Something was off about her clothes, about everyone’s clothing. Maia shook her head. And what about the men in red? Some wore armor, but there hadn’t been an army within the city since the reign of Duke Ochoa. Her history lessons with Professor Ibarra rang in her head.
“Duke Ochoa, who despised the work of mages, dissolved the University and used its buildings as his military headquarters. Our place of learning was only restored when his niece, our Duchess, overthrew him with the help of Haizea Inon.”
“No…” Maia whispered, feeling dazed. It wasn’t possible. She tucked the sapphire inside her blouse and jumped up, grabbing the sleeve of the first person to walk by. “What year is it? Please!”
The look the washerwoman gave her was full of pity. Maia was suddenly aware of her appearance; her skirt was rumpled and dirty where she’d fallen, and her hair was coming loose from its plait. The woman gently pulled her hand free and continued on. “Poor lass…”
The next woman spat at her feet, and the man that followed tried to give her a copper piece, which Maia refused. “I just need to know the year, please!”
“Three hundred an’ seventy eight, miss.”
Maia turned at the voice. A man leaned in the doorway she had just vacated, watching her with curiosity. Then the meaning of his words reached her, and Maia’s knees gave way.
“Steady on!” He stepped forward to grab her arm.
“Twenty four years,” she mumbled, swaying on her feet.
“What’s that, you say?” He peered at her and she gulped.
“Twenty four years. Not hours—years.” The world spun as the man helped her to the step where she collapsed.
“Easy there.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and disappeared into the building, but Maia barely noticed.
There was no way back. The sapphire could only take one to the past, not the future. Her mother, her friends, her life, all gone. She wouldn’t see them again for twenty four years, all because she had wanted a bit more time. Maia laughed bitterly. Well, she certainly had more than enough now.
How could I have been so foolish?
Maia pulled her satchel to her and opened it. She searched through the scrolls and quills for the book she always carried with her. Her hand brushed the familiar worn leather, and she pulled it out slowly. She traced the title, “Haizea Inon,” and fought tears. Her mother had given it to her on her last birthday. As a child she’d asked for stories about the famous woman mage again and again. And now here she was, in Arriol before the unseating of the Duke. Of all the times to end up…
“What’s that?” The man was back, leaning over to look at the book.
“It’s nothing,” Maia said thickly. She went to put it away.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
He reached out to take it and Maia panicked. He couldn’t read about things that hadn’t happened yet! “It’s a diary,” she blurted. “Private.”
The man drew back his hand. “Nice to meet you, Haizea Inon.” He smiled.
“Wait, no, I’m not—”
“If that’s not your name,” he said, pointing at the cover, “then whose diary is it?” His eyes were laughing at her. “Mayhap I can help you find the owner.”
“No, it is mine, I’m just not—”
“As I said, nice to meet you, Haizea Inon. I’m Ander Bakar.”
“I told you, I—” Maia stopped. Ander Bakar. It couldn’t be! Maia’s hands shook as she opened the book, flipping to the first page.
“Haizea Inon rode into Arriol as the sun set. On its streets she met Ander Bakar, a merchant. She was weary from her journey from a far off and distant land, and he offered her a room at his friend’s inn. The great mage told him that she was here to overthrow a tyrant, and he, like many others in the years to come, joined with her. He was to become her closest ally.”
Maia began to feel faint again. Fingers snapped in front of her face and she jumped. Ander Bakar, the Ander Bakar, stood over her, frowning.
“Do you have a place to stay? My friend runs an inn just around the corner. I wouldn’t feel well with myself if I just left you here, the state you’re in.”
Maia shook her head, mute. He pulled her to her feet and led her down the street.
“So what’s your business here in our lovely city?”
“I think—I think I’m here to overthrow the Duke,” she whispered.
***
Technically I shouldn't really have ended it here. It gives a different impression than the one I would like to give. The twist is that the stories she knows, the ones she learned and the ones in the book, aren't entirely accurate. They sanitize things--Ander is a buyer and seller of questionable merchandise (aka a thief), not a merchant; right after this line he laughs uproariously and says she's mad, instead of saying "okay, when can we start?" And all the adventures she has as Haizea turn out in entirely different ways than she expects, making it almost as difficult and confusing as it would be if she didn't have the book and knowledge of the future. Sometimes it's even more confusing.
Basically, if I wanted to I could write a novel based on this idea. I might one day, when I have more of the details worked out...
Monday, April 6, 2009
Translation
So! I have not written for... quite a while. I could beat myself up about it, but that's not productive, so no worries.
There's a contest going on at Locution at the moment, so I'm trying to write something for it. Not sure if this will end up being my entry—at the moment I'm just thinking of it as a warm up, to get back into writing (again).
***
Stacy rubbed her eyes stared blearily at the metal table in front of her. She was in a windowless room God knew where, and there was no coffee. Who drags someone out of their bed at three in the morning and shuttles them off to a government facility without offering them cup of coffee? Stacy frowned. The brass wanted help—for what they had yet to say—but how they expected her to think in these conditions she didn’t know.
The door clicked open; Stacy glanced up and did a double-take. “Alec?”
He had the nerve to grin. “How’s it going, Stace?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from her and slapping a folder onto the table.
“That’s Dr. Evans to you.” Stacy shifted in her seat and crossed her arms, glaring.
“Touchy!” Alec didn’t stop smiling, the bastard.
“I was abducted in the middle of the night by the military. I think I have a right to be touchy. Why the hell am I here, Alec?”
Alec had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. “Abducted is a bit harsh, Doctor. We knocked on the door, didn’t we? And I’m sure someone explained that we needed your help.”
“Ha! That’s hardly an explanation. So come on, spit it out. How can such a humble scientist help the likes of you?”
Shooting a glance at the camera in the corner, Alec leaned closer. “Come on, Stace, please. Just—just forget about us for a second. I told them you were the best, and I thought you’d find this interesting, and…” He trailed off.
Stacy sighed and turned her attention to the folder. She flipped open the cover, ignoring Alec for the moment. There were some photos of a crater and some sort of meteor. There were other papers, but Stacy didn’t bother reading them.
“I’m a linguist, not a geologist. Next time wake up someone else.”
***
Not much... ah well~ I got distracted reading up about linguistics. Reading this, I wonder if I haven't unintentionally followed the optional prompt... ^_^
There's a contest going on at Locution at the moment, so I'm trying to write something for it. Not sure if this will end up being my entry—at the moment I'm just thinking of it as a warm up, to get back into writing (again).
***
Stacy rubbed her eyes stared blearily at the metal table in front of her. She was in a windowless room God knew where, and there was no coffee. Who drags someone out of their bed at three in the morning and shuttles them off to a government facility without offering them cup of coffee? Stacy frowned. The brass wanted help—for what they had yet to say—but how they expected her to think in these conditions she didn’t know.
The door clicked open; Stacy glanced up and did a double-take. “Alec?”
He had the nerve to grin. “How’s it going, Stace?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from her and slapping a folder onto the table.
“That’s Dr. Evans to you.” Stacy shifted in her seat and crossed her arms, glaring.
“Touchy!” Alec didn’t stop smiling, the bastard.
“I was abducted in the middle of the night by the military. I think I have a right to be touchy. Why the hell am I here, Alec?”
Alec had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. “Abducted is a bit harsh, Doctor. We knocked on the door, didn’t we? And I’m sure someone explained that we needed your help.”
“Ha! That’s hardly an explanation. So come on, spit it out. How can such a humble scientist help the likes of you?”
Shooting a glance at the camera in the corner, Alec leaned closer. “Come on, Stace, please. Just—just forget about us for a second. I told them you were the best, and I thought you’d find this interesting, and…” He trailed off.
Stacy sighed and turned her attention to the folder. She flipped open the cover, ignoring Alec for the moment. There were some photos of a crater and some sort of meteor. There were other papers, but Stacy didn’t bother reading them.
“I’m a linguist, not a geologist. Next time wake up someone else.”
***
Not much... ah well~ I got distracted reading up about linguistics. Reading this, I wonder if I haven't unintentionally followed the optional prompt... ^_^
Monday, October 27, 2008
Locution Contest: All Children, Except One
My latest story written for a Locution contest. This time the prompt was to take a first line from another work, be it story, movie, song, etc, and use it as your first line. I chose Peter Pan.
***
Locution, Issue 3
***
Locution, Issue 3
Monday, August 25, 2008
Locution Contest: Robyn's Hoods
So, long time no see, eh? ;} In the end, it seems I haven't managed to start Roux's 30 Days of Editing. I still want to do it, but I felt that, despite the first 30 days, I didn't really have enough to edit. Plus, editing's hard. ^_^
This latest piece was written for a contest on Locution. The prompt was to write a modern myth, taking a myth, legend, fairytale, or folktale, and setting it in the present or the future. I chose Robin Hood, and this is a result.
I had a lot of fun writing this. I also found it a lot easier to write than previous contests, probably due to the 30 days challenge. Most of it was written in just one day, which is quite a feat for me.
I may just write some more. I think there may be some potential here, provided I get over my block with editing.
***
The guard took a sip of his coffee before setting it down. He turned to the array of CCTV screens and Robyn silently willed him to drink some more. She tried to remember the good doctor’s reassurances that simpler plans were best, but it was hard; after several minutes of waiting her heart had now found a new home somewhere in her throat.
Robyn checked her watch, ignoring Alana as she shifted in her seat, tapping a fingernail on the metal table. John was a comforting, solid presence on her right, silent as he watched the rest of the café clientele. This late at night there weren’t many people out, but there were workers coming off their shifts, hungry for a late-night snack, and others coming on, in need of preemptive caffeine to keep them awake until morning.
After much thought they’d chosen the café for several reasons. Its view was one; from her seat at the window Robyn could see across the road and into the foyer of the bank where the guard sat at his desk. It also made the current part of their plan that much easier; this particular guard was a regular at the café, and it was amazing what one could achieve with a simple sleight of hand.
The guard yawned and reached for his coffee. Robyn grinned. Several gulps later and his head lolled back, mouth open wide. He probably snored.
“Ready to go?” Her companions nodded and they rose to leave. Robyn dropped a few bucks onto the metal tabletop, and then they were gone.
Around the back of the bank Robyn couldn’t help feeling excited. So far everything was going to plan, and whatever was in that stuff the doctor gave them, it worked like a charm. She said so to Alana and John.
Alana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, great. One guard down. Now we’ve just got the cameras, pick-proof locks, silent alarm, and the rest of the guards to worry about.” She stopped in front of a plain metal door and took a small electronic device out of her rucksack. With its cable connected to the lock, numbers on the screen started cycling through combinations.
“Well, our man John Little can take them on, can’t you, big guy?” Robyn slapped him on the back. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. This was normal; John didn’t talk much, though when he did, you listened.
“Okay, so John knocks out the guards,” said Alana. “But you know who’s stuck with the rest? Me.”
The device beeped, and inside the door a bolt clunked open.
Robyn slung an arm over Alana’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re the best there is. Alana Dale—hacker extraordinaire.”
Alana couldn’t stop a smile from flitting across her lips. She pushed the door open. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The corridor was dim. Alana tapped into the security system and turned off the cameras and the silent alarm. With that taken care of, they found the nearest office. Apparently, while the system was impossible to hack from the outside, any computer inside the bank would do. Robyn didn’t really understand all the hi-tech stuff, but she trusted Alana to know what she was doing.
John stood at the door and Robyn took a place behind the desk, watching as Alana logged on to the computer and started to work, humming a tune softly. Her gloved fingers flew across the keys.
“Damn,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Robyn peered over her shoulder.
“The transfer.” Alana gestured impatiently at the screen. “It’s not here. Someone changed the schedule.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the transfer we planned to reroute isn’t going through tomorrow. It can happen sometimes; Midas Inc must have decided to change the day to discourage—well, to discourage people like us.”
John cleared his throat and they both turned to him. He peered through the crack in the door, one eye on the room and one eye on the corridor. “Guard changes in a few minutes,” he said. “We need to go now, before they find our sleeping friend.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Robyn, running a hand through her hair. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but that’s okay. Alana, are there any other transfers scheduled for tomorrow?”
Alana searched the records. “Yeah, one. Fifty million dollars from a company called Tri Corp, to be transferred to some unnamed account.”
“Sounds fishy enough to me. You said this bank has a lot of crooked customers?”
“Yeah, but we can’t know anything for sure. For all we know, we could be robbing from someone legit.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Robyn,” John said. “We said we’d only rob from the rich and corrupt. Doing this when they could be legit is just too risky. We can’t make a mistake on our first job.”
Robyn looked from John to Alana. “But the odds are against it, right?” she asked. “What’s the point of planning this and coming away with nothing? We know this bank is rotten. Isn’t that enough?”
John just shrugged and turned back to watch for guards. Alana made a face.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
It took less than a minute for Alana to change the number of the account the money was to transfer into. There was only one final thing to do—leave a calling card. Robyn slipped it under the keyboard and followed the others out the door. They would both think it too risky, but somehow she forgot to mention it.
The next morning found them back at their hideout. It was in the rough part of town, known as Barnsdale to the locals, a labyrinth of poky, rowhouse apartments and abandoned warehouses. It was in one of these warehouses, on Watling Street, that Robyn and her friends made their home.
Robyn was dozing in her bunk when Will Scarlet climbed up the ladder and rudely disturbed her. He’d been annoyed that she hadn’t picked him to come on the first job, and she thought his temper had finally flared as a result. As it turned out, he was angry for a somewhat different reason.
“What,” he asked, thrusting a newspaper into her hand, “Is this?”
Robyn stared at the headline blearily. She read it once, then blinked several times. She read it again, but sadly the words were still the same.
“Shit.”
“‘Shit’ is right! In what universe, exactly, does ‘Tri Corp’ sound like ‘Midas Inc’?”
Robyn sighed and looked past Will’s scowling face. Alana was at her computer, looking forlorn. John sat nearby, pointedly ignoring the scene as Doctor Saffiya Djaq bandaged his arm. They’d run into a bit of trouble on the way out of the bank, but he would be fine.
A door slammed open and Robyn jumped. John reached for his gun, but relaxed when he recognized the intruder. A blur of a boy slid to an abrupt stop at the foot of the bunk bed, breathing heavily. “Robyn, Robyn,” Much wailed, “Is it true?” A tear threatened to leak down his cheek, and Robyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Much Miller had found them like a stray puppy, and like a stray puppy he just couldn’t take a hint. He fancied himself one of the gang, but at 10 he was much too young, and much too small, and much too Much to be of any use. Alana encouraged him, to Robyn’s dismay, and the rest of them just observed him with faint amusement.
“It is true,” she explained to Much, though more for Will’s benefit, “But it was a mistake. We thought Tri Corp were bad guys. We didn’t know the money was going to charity. So we’re going to fix this, okay?”
Much sniffed and nodded.
“Why don’t you go over and help Alana research Tri Corp and this charity?” Robyn said.
The boy scampered over to Alana’s den of electronics, where he bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Alana smiled.
Robyn turned her attention back to Will. He was still frowning, but past experiences told Robyn he would soon cool off. Which was good, because she would need his support if they were to sort this mess out.
“Mind if I read this?” she asked, holding up the newspaper. “Then we can start to plan.”
“Fine,” said Will grudgingly. He jumped to the ground and stalked away, leaving Robyn to the paper.
Last night, around one o’clock in the morning, three thieves broke into Doncaster Bank and stole 50 million dollars. They incapacitated one guard with a barbiturate, and two other guards were assaulted when the thieves made their escape.
The police say this was an unusual crime, in that no money was stolen from the vault. Instead the thieves hacked into the bank’s computer system and redirected a transfer that was going to be made the next day. The money belonged to local company called Tri Corp, and was destined for a city charity.
At this time the police say they have only a few leads. One is a card left by the computer that police suspect was hacked. On it is a robin, a red-chested songbird native to Britain. Lately there have been rumors of a female thief known only as “Robyn,” and although police have yet to name her a suspect they say the connection is suspicious.
“These thugs, these hoods, need to know they can’t cross us,” says Sheriff Nottingum. “If this ‘Robyn’ is involved, we’ll find her.”
The police say they have been unable to trace the transfer, and ask that anyone who has information about the money or the perpetrators to call the station. Tips can be anonymous, but Tri Corp has offered a $100,000 reward for any information that leads to the return of their money.
Well, Nottingum had made the connection. Robyn would have been surprised if he hadn’t, but now the job had gone sour this posed a problem. Taking credit for stealing from crooks and giving to charities was one thing. Being blamed for stealing from a charity was a different one entirely.
Robyn folded the paper and hopped down from her bunk. She walked over to see how Alana was getting on.
“Find anything?” she asked.
Alana shook her head. “Not really. I’ve checked news articles about both the charity and Tri Corp, and only one implied something might be going on. The rest say nothing but good things, about both the organizations.”
“Who wrote the article? What did it say?”
“Let me see.” Alana clicked her mouse. “It was written by a Marian Fitzwalter. In it she claims that Tri Corp’s books are fishy, but she couldn’t back it up. The paper retracted the story a few days later. Why, do you think she was onto something?”
“Maybe. Can you look into their financial records?”
Alana cracked her knuckles and grinned. “Have I ever let you down?”
Robyn patted Alana on the shoulder, leaving her to her work as Much watched on with wide eyes.
Doctor Djaq had finished bandaging John’s wound and was putting her supplies away when Robyn joined them.
“Thanks, doctor. For that stuff you gave us, and for this.”
The doctor frowned. “Just be careful, Robyn. If I hear you’ve had a fight with the Sheriff and got yourself hurt, I might not be able to help. There are only so many laws I’m prepared to break.”
Robyn put a hand over one of the doctor’s and smiled. “Don’t worry about me so much,” she teased.
“Ha, worry!” Doctor Djaq lips quirked into a wry smile, but she sobered quickly. “What are you going to do? The public will be against you from the very beginning.”
“Well, first I’m going to have a little chat, maybe make a new friend.” Robyn looked at Will and John. “Want to come along, you two?”
Marian Fitzwalter, it turned out, lived in a house on Leaford Lane. The garden was neat, with rose bushes lining the path to the door. The door was blue, and it had a brass knocker. Robyn stood on the step, with Will and John behind her, and rapped the knocker twice.
It was still morning, but a Saturday, and luck was with them. A woman opened the door and peered out. She had dark, shoulder length hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Fitzwalter?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry; I’m really not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Oh, no! We’re not selling anything. I came to talk to you about a story you wrote on Tri Corp and their financial situation.”
Robyn got a quick glimpse of Miss Fitzwalter’s eyes widening before the door slammed in her face. She knocked on the door again.
“Miss Fitzwalter, I don’t mean any harm. My name’s Robyn, and I just wondered if there was anything behind your suspicions. I—I have an interest in seeing Tri Corp discredited.”
The door slowly opened a crack. “Are you the Robyn everyone’s talking about?”
“Maybe.” Robyn shifted on the step. “Look, if I get you some information that proves Tri Corp is crooked, will you get it printed?”
“I can try.” The door opened a bit more. “If you are who you say you are, how come you don’t already know what they’ve been up to?” she asked. “You stole from them, didn’t you?”
“Well, let’s just say that wasn’t part of the plan.”
Miss Fitzwalter agreed to do her best to get the story printed, and Robyn, Will, and John, returned to Barnsdale. Much had gone home to his mother, but Alana was still glued to her computer screen.
Robyn pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How’s it going?”
“You’ll see,” promised Alana. She hummed a bar of music, then looked up. “Oh, before I forget, they’ve named us.” She waved at the TV nearby. A woman reporter stood in front of Doncaster Bank, microphone in hand. The sound was off, but subtitles crawled along the bottom of the screen. “They took your name and Nottingum’s quote about hoods, combined them, and came up with Robyn’s Hoods,” she scoffed.
Robyn pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. What do you think, Will?”
Will laughed. “Us, hoods? If they ever catch us, they’ll be in for a surprise. Still, it does sorta have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Aha,” exclaimed Alana. “I’ve found something. Take a look at this, Robyn.” She pointed at a bunch of numbers on the screen, and explained. “The charity that money was supposed to go to was a fake. They’ve done something like this before. See this? They donated ten million a year ago, and got a tax break. But since the charity doesn’t technically exist, they pretended the charity bought goods from them with the money. They doubled the money, just with a little bit of paperwork.”
“Where did the money end up?”
“Offshore accounts, it looks like. But that doesn’t even really matter. This proves they were up to no good.”
“That’s great. Not only are they discredited, but this also means the money we stole was dirty. Can you get that to Marian Fitzwalter?”
“No prob.”
“Here that, boys?” Robyn called to John and Will, grinning. “Problem solved.”
The next day, Sheriff Nottingum was sitting in his office reading his morning paper when there was a knock at the window. It was opened before he could move, and in clambered a woman dressed in green. He started to call out for help, but the gun trained on him convinced him otherwise.
“Enjoying your paper, Sheriff?” The woman smirked and snatched the newspaper from his hands. She shook it flat dramatically. “I particularly like the headline: ‘TRI CORP INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD,’ although LOCAL CHARITIES RECEIVE ANNOYMOUS DONATIONS; DONATIONS TOTAL 50 MIL, ROBIN CARD MAILED TO EACH’ is quite nice, too.”
“Who are you?” the Sheriff demanded. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The name’s Robyn, and I just wanted to get acquainted; that’s all. I think we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other from now on.”
This latest piece was written for a contest on Locution. The prompt was to write a modern myth, taking a myth, legend, fairytale, or folktale, and setting it in the present or the future. I chose Robin Hood, and this is a result.
I had a lot of fun writing this. I also found it a lot easier to write than previous contests, probably due to the 30 days challenge. Most of it was written in just one day, which is quite a feat for me.
I may just write some more. I think there may be some potential here, provided I get over my block with editing.
***
ROBYN’S HOODS
The guard took a sip of his coffee before setting it down. He turned to the array of CCTV screens and Robyn silently willed him to drink some more. She tried to remember the good doctor’s reassurances that simpler plans were best, but it was hard; after several minutes of waiting her heart had now found a new home somewhere in her throat.
Robyn checked her watch, ignoring Alana as she shifted in her seat, tapping a fingernail on the metal table. John was a comforting, solid presence on her right, silent as he watched the rest of the café clientele. This late at night there weren’t many people out, but there were workers coming off their shifts, hungry for a late-night snack, and others coming on, in need of preemptive caffeine to keep them awake until morning.
After much thought they’d chosen the café for several reasons. Its view was one; from her seat at the window Robyn could see across the road and into the foyer of the bank where the guard sat at his desk. It also made the current part of their plan that much easier; this particular guard was a regular at the café, and it was amazing what one could achieve with a simple sleight of hand.
The guard yawned and reached for his coffee. Robyn grinned. Several gulps later and his head lolled back, mouth open wide. He probably snored.
“Ready to go?” Her companions nodded and they rose to leave. Robyn dropped a few bucks onto the metal tabletop, and then they were gone.
Around the back of the bank Robyn couldn’t help feeling excited. So far everything was going to plan, and whatever was in that stuff the doctor gave them, it worked like a charm. She said so to Alana and John.
Alana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, great. One guard down. Now we’ve just got the cameras, pick-proof locks, silent alarm, and the rest of the guards to worry about.” She stopped in front of a plain metal door and took a small electronic device out of her rucksack. With its cable connected to the lock, numbers on the screen started cycling through combinations.
“Well, our man John Little can take them on, can’t you, big guy?” Robyn slapped him on the back. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. This was normal; John didn’t talk much, though when he did, you listened.
“Okay, so John knocks out the guards,” said Alana. “But you know who’s stuck with the rest? Me.”
The device beeped, and inside the door a bolt clunked open.
Robyn slung an arm over Alana’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re the best there is. Alana Dale—hacker extraordinaire.”
Alana couldn’t stop a smile from flitting across her lips. She pushed the door open. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The corridor was dim. Alana tapped into the security system and turned off the cameras and the silent alarm. With that taken care of, they found the nearest office. Apparently, while the system was impossible to hack from the outside, any computer inside the bank would do. Robyn didn’t really understand all the hi-tech stuff, but she trusted Alana to know what she was doing.
John stood at the door and Robyn took a place behind the desk, watching as Alana logged on to the computer and started to work, humming a tune softly. Her gloved fingers flew across the keys.
“Damn,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Robyn peered over her shoulder.
“The transfer.” Alana gestured impatiently at the screen. “It’s not here. Someone changed the schedule.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the transfer we planned to reroute isn’t going through tomorrow. It can happen sometimes; Midas Inc must have decided to change the day to discourage—well, to discourage people like us.”
John cleared his throat and they both turned to him. He peered through the crack in the door, one eye on the room and one eye on the corridor. “Guard changes in a few minutes,” he said. “We need to go now, before they find our sleeping friend.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Robyn, running a hand through her hair. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but that’s okay. Alana, are there any other transfers scheduled for tomorrow?”
Alana searched the records. “Yeah, one. Fifty million dollars from a company called Tri Corp, to be transferred to some unnamed account.”
“Sounds fishy enough to me. You said this bank has a lot of crooked customers?”
“Yeah, but we can’t know anything for sure. For all we know, we could be robbing from someone legit.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Robyn,” John said. “We said we’d only rob from the rich and corrupt. Doing this when they could be legit is just too risky. We can’t make a mistake on our first job.”
Robyn looked from John to Alana. “But the odds are against it, right?” she asked. “What’s the point of planning this and coming away with nothing? We know this bank is rotten. Isn’t that enough?”
John just shrugged and turned back to watch for guards. Alana made a face.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
It took less than a minute for Alana to change the number of the account the money was to transfer into. There was only one final thing to do—leave a calling card. Robyn slipped it under the keyboard and followed the others out the door. They would both think it too risky, but somehow she forgot to mention it.
The next morning found them back at their hideout. It was in the rough part of town, known as Barnsdale to the locals, a labyrinth of poky, rowhouse apartments and abandoned warehouses. It was in one of these warehouses, on Watling Street, that Robyn and her friends made their home.
Robyn was dozing in her bunk when Will Scarlet climbed up the ladder and rudely disturbed her. He’d been annoyed that she hadn’t picked him to come on the first job, and she thought his temper had finally flared as a result. As it turned out, he was angry for a somewhat different reason.
“What,” he asked, thrusting a newspaper into her hand, “Is this?”
Robyn stared at the headline blearily. She read it once, then blinked several times. She read it again, but sadly the words were still the same.
50 MILLION STOLEN FROM TRI CORP
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
“Shit.”
“‘Shit’ is right! In what universe, exactly, does ‘Tri Corp’ sound like ‘Midas Inc’?”
Robyn sighed and looked past Will’s scowling face. Alana was at her computer, looking forlorn. John sat nearby, pointedly ignoring the scene as Doctor Saffiya Djaq bandaged his arm. They’d run into a bit of trouble on the way out of the bank, but he would be fine.
A door slammed open and Robyn jumped. John reached for his gun, but relaxed when he recognized the intruder. A blur of a boy slid to an abrupt stop at the foot of the bunk bed, breathing heavily. “Robyn, Robyn,” Much wailed, “Is it true?” A tear threatened to leak down his cheek, and Robyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Much Miller had found them like a stray puppy, and like a stray puppy he just couldn’t take a hint. He fancied himself one of the gang, but at 10 he was much too young, and much too small, and much too Much to be of any use. Alana encouraged him, to Robyn’s dismay, and the rest of them just observed him with faint amusement.
“It is true,” she explained to Much, though more for Will’s benefit, “But it was a mistake. We thought Tri Corp were bad guys. We didn’t know the money was going to charity. So we’re going to fix this, okay?”
Much sniffed and nodded.
“Why don’t you go over and help Alana research Tri Corp and this charity?” Robyn said.
The boy scampered over to Alana’s den of electronics, where he bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Alana smiled.
Robyn turned her attention back to Will. He was still frowning, but past experiences told Robyn he would soon cool off. Which was good, because she would need his support if they were to sort this mess out.
“Mind if I read this?” she asked, holding up the newspaper. “Then we can start to plan.”
“Fine,” said Will grudgingly. He jumped to the ground and stalked away, leaving Robyn to the paper.
50 MILLION STOLEN FROM TRI CORP
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
Last night, around one o’clock in the morning, three thieves broke into Doncaster Bank and stole 50 million dollars. They incapacitated one guard with a barbiturate, and two other guards were assaulted when the thieves made their escape.
The police say this was an unusual crime, in that no money was stolen from the vault. Instead the thieves hacked into the bank’s computer system and redirected a transfer that was going to be made the next day. The money belonged to local company called Tri Corp, and was destined for a city charity.
At this time the police say they have only a few leads. One is a card left by the computer that police suspect was hacked. On it is a robin, a red-chested songbird native to Britain. Lately there have been rumors of a female thief known only as “Robyn,” and although police have yet to name her a suspect they say the connection is suspicious.
“These thugs, these hoods, need to know they can’t cross us,” says Sheriff Nottingum. “If this ‘Robyn’ is involved, we’ll find her.”
The police say they have been unable to trace the transfer, and ask that anyone who has information about the money or the perpetrators to call the station. Tips can be anonymous, but Tri Corp has offered a $100,000 reward for any information that leads to the return of their money.
Well, Nottingum had made the connection. Robyn would have been surprised if he hadn’t, but now the job had gone sour this posed a problem. Taking credit for stealing from crooks and giving to charities was one thing. Being blamed for stealing from a charity was a different one entirely.
Robyn folded the paper and hopped down from her bunk. She walked over to see how Alana was getting on.
“Find anything?” she asked.
Alana shook her head. “Not really. I’ve checked news articles about both the charity and Tri Corp, and only one implied something might be going on. The rest say nothing but good things, about both the organizations.”
“Who wrote the article? What did it say?”
“Let me see.” Alana clicked her mouse. “It was written by a Marian Fitzwalter. In it she claims that Tri Corp’s books are fishy, but she couldn’t back it up. The paper retracted the story a few days later. Why, do you think she was onto something?”
“Maybe. Can you look into their financial records?”
Alana cracked her knuckles and grinned. “Have I ever let you down?”
Robyn patted Alana on the shoulder, leaving her to her work as Much watched on with wide eyes.
Doctor Djaq had finished bandaging John’s wound and was putting her supplies away when Robyn joined them.
“Thanks, doctor. For that stuff you gave us, and for this.”
The doctor frowned. “Just be careful, Robyn. If I hear you’ve had a fight with the Sheriff and got yourself hurt, I might not be able to help. There are only so many laws I’m prepared to break.”
Robyn put a hand over one of the doctor’s and smiled. “Don’t worry about me so much,” she teased.
“Ha, worry!” Doctor Djaq lips quirked into a wry smile, but she sobered quickly. “What are you going to do? The public will be against you from the very beginning.”
“Well, first I’m going to have a little chat, maybe make a new friend.” Robyn looked at Will and John. “Want to come along, you two?”
Marian Fitzwalter, it turned out, lived in a house on Leaford Lane. The garden was neat, with rose bushes lining the path to the door. The door was blue, and it had a brass knocker. Robyn stood on the step, with Will and John behind her, and rapped the knocker twice.
It was still morning, but a Saturday, and luck was with them. A woman opened the door and peered out. She had dark, shoulder length hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Fitzwalter?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry; I’m really not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Oh, no! We’re not selling anything. I came to talk to you about a story you wrote on Tri Corp and their financial situation.”
Robyn got a quick glimpse of Miss Fitzwalter’s eyes widening before the door slammed in her face. She knocked on the door again.
“Miss Fitzwalter, I don’t mean any harm. My name’s Robyn, and I just wondered if there was anything behind your suspicions. I—I have an interest in seeing Tri Corp discredited.”
The door slowly opened a crack. “Are you the Robyn everyone’s talking about?”
“Maybe.” Robyn shifted on the step. “Look, if I get you some information that proves Tri Corp is crooked, will you get it printed?”
“I can try.” The door opened a bit more. “If you are who you say you are, how come you don’t already know what they’ve been up to?” she asked. “You stole from them, didn’t you?”
“Well, let’s just say that wasn’t part of the plan.”
Miss Fitzwalter agreed to do her best to get the story printed, and Robyn, Will, and John, returned to Barnsdale. Much had gone home to his mother, but Alana was still glued to her computer screen.
Robyn pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How’s it going?”
“You’ll see,” promised Alana. She hummed a bar of music, then looked up. “Oh, before I forget, they’ve named us.” She waved at the TV nearby. A woman reporter stood in front of Doncaster Bank, microphone in hand. The sound was off, but subtitles crawled along the bottom of the screen. “They took your name and Nottingum’s quote about hoods, combined them, and came up with Robyn’s Hoods,” she scoffed.
Robyn pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. What do you think, Will?”
Will laughed. “Us, hoods? If they ever catch us, they’ll be in for a surprise. Still, it does sorta have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Aha,” exclaimed Alana. “I’ve found something. Take a look at this, Robyn.” She pointed at a bunch of numbers on the screen, and explained. “The charity that money was supposed to go to was a fake. They’ve done something like this before. See this? They donated ten million a year ago, and got a tax break. But since the charity doesn’t technically exist, they pretended the charity bought goods from them with the money. They doubled the money, just with a little bit of paperwork.”
“Where did the money end up?”
“Offshore accounts, it looks like. But that doesn’t even really matter. This proves they were up to no good.”
“That’s great. Not only are they discredited, but this also means the money we stole was dirty. Can you get that to Marian Fitzwalter?”
“No prob.”
“Here that, boys?” Robyn called to John and Will, grinning. “Problem solved.”
The next day, Sheriff Nottingum was sitting in his office reading his morning paper when there was a knock at the window. It was opened before he could move, and in clambered a woman dressed in green. He started to call out for help, but the gun trained on him convinced him otherwise.
“Enjoying your paper, Sheriff?” The woman smirked and snatched the newspaper from his hands. She shook it flat dramatically. “I particularly like the headline: ‘TRI CORP INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD,’ although LOCAL CHARITIES RECEIVE ANNOYMOUS DONATIONS; DONATIONS TOTAL 50 MIL, ROBIN CARD MAILED TO EACH’ is quite nice, too.”
“Who are you?” the Sheriff demanded. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The name’s Robyn, and I just wanted to get acquainted; that’s all. I think we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other from now on.”
THE END?
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