In the Dark of Night – Part 5

We all relate to writing differently.

We are able to find within ourselves the parallel that works best to fit the task of writing into our lives.

I personally have equated writing, seamlessly, to about seventeen various activities that I do with maddening regularity. It’s fun, and it distracts from the mundanity of such tasks.

What fascinates me to no end is that while the amorphous cloud-shape of the work allows each of us to see what faces we will, the sheer aggravating nature of it all gives us a sense of commonality of purpose.

It doesn’t matter if you’re an indie, a newbie, or a thirty year decorated veteran: there’s a lot of suffering to be shared. It rains equally on the old and the young alike. And no matter how long you have been at the keys, it never gets any easier.

I think it is this trait, more than anything else, that allows a chore which is done alone in a room, mostly talking to yourself or your pets or both, to create such strong bonds between those in the industry.

We cling to one another, shivering castaways desperate for warmth and reassurance. We gripe and we bemoan and we lamantate, yet all of it would seem melodramatic were it not for the harsh and unrelenting nature of our tormentor.

It is the very nature of writing which unites us all against our common foe: writing.

I found that thought humorous and compelling, so of course I had to share.

I love writing and I can’t tell which pleases me more: doing the task or watching what the task does to me.

Musings for another day, I suppose.  Onward!

In the Dark of Night – Part 5

The tan-and-vomit chique of the bathroom tiles amplified the sickly green glow of the arriving demon.

I had only seconds to live. It was frustrating that so many of them were being wasted trying to get my hoodie back over my hat. I ripped at myself frantically until I managed at last to fling both acurrsed objects across the bathroom.

I dumped the contents of my satchel unceremoniously onto the bathroom floor. A few hurried flings later, I had uncovered the large history book which contained my only hope. Officer Davis was right; he had been required to confiscate a large amount of my possessions. That was where the faded portrait of George Washington came into play.

I flipped the cover and first third of the book to what I was looking for: the hollowed out portion I had cut into the pages and then glued together. I pulled the nunchucks I had placed in the paper sheath like Arthur pulling forth Excalibur.

I smiled at what I would look like in full plate, but the glowing light brought me crashing back to Earth. I got to work channeling as much magic as I could into the thin wood that was my only means of defense.

The glowing intensified as a web of cracks in the tile gained a hole at their center. Where once there had only been floor, there was now a crevice into the darkness of the Abyss. From that crevice came a howl; a blood-curdling three-voiced lustful roar craving every ounce of my blood. It rang in my ears as I started whirling the nunchucks, pushing as much magic through me as my frantically beating heart would allow.

The three-headed goat which finally gained the room found me whirling my nunchucks with precision. I couldn’t see him, but the cracked Michelangelo on my TMNT shirt would find me quite gnarly.

I almost dropped my weapon in shock at the sight of the demon. The thrice-crowned disciple of Azazel had indeed returned, but it had been transfigured into even more of a monstrosity in its absence. The middle head that had been reduced to paste had been reconstructed. Yet the repairs were ghastly beyond imagining. If I made it out of this bathroom alive, I would be seeing that visage in my nightmares for years to come.

It was a misshapen collection of bone and flesh glued together with hatred. Gore clung to the chalk-white bone and where skin and sinew were missing pulsating black ichor lay in a thin layer. The irregular eye sockets no longer contained eyes; instead pure hellfire burned within them.

Even for a spawn of the netherrealm, this was an entirely new level of grotesque.

I swallowed the fear and bile in my throat, and continued spinning the nunchucks for all I was worth. I thought of Bruce Lee. I thought of Jacqueline, of The Tweedles and the master of mayhem Ryan. Memories of my Switzerland of a sister in her oversized sweater swam past as I chucked about. An image of my mother’s face came to me as I sunk deeper within myself. She wore the scared-and-apologetic-and-loving-all-at-the-same-time face she’d had this morning as she silently offered up my torn hank of hair. My life beat through my veins with every frenetic heartbeat, and the strength of it seeped into the wooden instrument designed to hold as much of it as possible.

Blue-white light now flowed with each revolution. Not as strong nor pure as I could I wield with my Slugger, but the whirling light was enough that the three-headed beast recoiled. I decided that two could play this shouting game. Channeling my inner Schwarzenegger, I sprang at my foe with a full-throated yawp.

The demon, dazzled by the magic I had grafted onto my nunchucks and the fact that a hundred pounds of girl was charging a monster three times her size, was momentarily taken aback.

Then the moment was over.

With a triple-throated yowl of murderous intent, all four hooves and three hundred pounds of demon came hurtling across the tiles to meet me. There might have been a universe where I met the charge head-on. That alternate me would use brute-strength and magickal might to best my foe in a head-to-head challenge.

This wasn’t that reality, however, so I whipped my chucks out at the head closest to the stalls on my left. The head, expecting me to try for a repeat beating on the middleman, didn’t even realize the blow was coming until it arrived. It reared back and inward with a roar of agony and a spray of demon-gore. I’d managed to crack it solidly across the jaw and eye, smashing both at the same time.

I used the blow and its aftermath as cover to hurl myself away from the beast.

It wasn’t a pretty dodge, either. I fetched up hard against a stall divider, the wind leaving me in a huff. I felt a crunch that was either a rib or my pride breaking. Possibly both.

The thrice-crowned demon smashed into the wall of the bathroom with the sound and fury of a bomb.

The wall was in shambles. The room next to it filled with a frozen wave of debris as the shattered remnants hit the edge of our time-locked fight. It felt like my insides had been turned to ice. Any hope of simply quitting the field were gone. If I died, or failed to send goat-boy packing from whence he’d come, everyone in that room would die. Authorities would quibble about what had caused the explosion, wracking their brain for any explanation which would allow them to ignore what actually happened.

That wouldn’t matter for the twenty-some kids and the teacher in that room. Among them, nearest to me, was Karen. The chief architect of my daily torment, and all I had to do in order to be rid of her was run like a smart person would.

That thought calmed my nerves and replaced the ice with a billowing inferno of righteous indignation.

No, I wasn’t about to let Karen and the rest die just to make my life easier. Karen was a self-absorbed moron who wouldn’t know empathy if it bit her, but I hadn’t been given power just to protect those who deserved it.

Sometimes doing the right thing means protecting those who don’t deserve protection.

Azazel’s servant was recovering from the awkward wall-slam and the blow I had landed. Left hand on my ribs, I pushed myself to my feet and started spinning hope with my right hand.

Blastfully,

The Unsheathed Quill