Will of Blades – Part 1
I’m sitting here, torn between two stories.
On the one hand, I have a group of vampires that feed upon the very blood of the Earth. Namely, they feast upon rocks. Yup. Rockpires. Vampocks. I’m thinking the first one. They are a steady, long-lived race which joins humanity at the turn of the 7th Century. They have strict beliefs about honor, the role of women in life, and in general spurn the duplicitous and treacherous nature of the humans they now share the planet with. Marriages happen, mostly arranged by the political machinations of the humans desperate to mingle their bloodlines with the new species. This mingling provides the next generations and their progeny with vastly extended lifespans, strength, and a greater degree of will. It also makes them far less interested in political conniving, and the main character is a Rockpire who is forced to wed several women, all of whom were outcast by the court he has sworn his loyalty to. They are tasked with helping him manage his family and his business, and slowly the bond strengthens among these near strangers, and they move forward in the wholly unrecognizable world they find themselves in.
It’s neat, and I spent several good hours dreaming that one. It was an awesome dream.
The other idea I have is one that I’ve been kicking around forever, but with a recent song addition seems to have crystallized into something that can be distilled onto paper. It’s one that I’ve always enjoyed daydreaming about, and one I desperately wish for, though I know it cannot and will not ever happen. I fervently pray it never happens, least of all to me. I cannot even imagine what my life would become with such a thing.
Without further vague-posting…
The Will of Blades – Part 1
My spoon was hovering. I didn’t hear any buzzing. There was no bright flash of light, no mustachioed villain jumped out from behind the corner with a magnet and a Snidely Whiplash laugh. My head didn’t buzz, my ears didn’t ring, and my nose didn’t bleed.
The spoon however, refused to close the last few inches to the bottom of the empty bowl. It simply hung there, impossibly suspended in the air as if a tiny portion of it had turned to clearest glass. At first, I almost didn’t notice. I was chewing the last of the cereal, reading the paper as is my custom. I stopped, staring at first in bafflement and then in alarm. I didn’t do a spit-take, but it was a near thing. I turned my head this way and that, certain my eyes were deceiving me. I leaned closer, inspecting this unheralded phenomena.
The spoon sat, rigid, over the lip of the bowl, the rim perfectly dividing the small eating utensil into equal sections. I slid off my chair, bringing myself to eye level with the hovering hunk of metal. Where there should be a spoon was simply a gap, a few centimeters thick. No thicker than my hand, yet undeniably present. My heart pounded, and the sound was the only one in the room. I didn’t even dare to breathe. I reached out my trembling fingers, hesitating as though I would be burned, and quickly waved it through the gap. Nothing. No heat, no unseen force pressed upon them. There was no waver in the air, nothing to indicate what was happening in my tiny eating nook. Everything was still, everything was calm. All that was missing was the ordinary.
I reached out over the spoon, and gently pressed downward upon it. It refused to move, remaining obstinately level as though to spite my sense of normalcy. I pressed harder, leaning more of my weight against the thin strip of metal. Immobile, firmly resisting all the pressure I could muster. I sat back down, slightly out of breath from the unexpected exertion and the consternation I felt at the absurdity of the moment. A thousand times, I had sat at my small table and eaten my breakfast. A thousand times, the spoon had clinked into the empty bowl. It was a routine akin to ritual. In reality, these small moments in the morning were all I had left.
Frustration boiled within me. I had worked hard my whole life, been through the wringer in my marriage and subsequent divorce, and had nothing but more labor to look forward to. It was Monday, I had a lot of work to get done, and the last thing I needed was the last little bit of life’s enjoyment interrupted by inconsiderate applications of gravity.
“Oh drop already, why don’t you?!” I growled in sullen frustration at the spoon as I ran my fingers through my hair.
The spoon, evidently, had been waiting for my command. It dropped the remaining distance as neatly as if my words had severed the intangible strings holding it aloft, clattering against the bowl and then spilling onto the table. I am not a man prone to excessive reactions of nerves or spirit, but even I have my limits. I startled, letting out a small yelp as I scooted the chair backwards in automatic response.
My heart thundered even louder, and no matter where I tried to turn my gaze, the spoon dominated my view.
“What the fu…”
To be continued…
Spoonfully,
Justin
