Origins IV

Everything was perfect.

The night was cold, crisp, and clear. All the clouds had been swept away, leaving the starry sky a smooth dome that protected the world. Each star was watching someone, whispering unheard secrets across the infinite ocean of space between them. They spoke with their light, each flaring twinkle a few words of a larger sentiment. Hovering directly above them was the moon, a flawless crescent of light. Though everyone who looked into the sky would see the same moon, she liked to think it was even brighter, just for her.

"The crescent moon is the bowl from which God drank after he made the world."

"I'd be thirsty too, after all that work."

It was Amara who spoke first. She was seventeen, laying on the roof of a boy's house. Music was playing quietly from the small speakers they had brought up with them. The boy's name was Jaren. He was tall and graceful, with long arms and delicate fingers, which she always watched whenever he played music. She loved watching him play, loved listening to his songs. That was his F.A.T.E., a musician and songwriter, a far cry from her cold world of medicine. A world without much by way of art or passion, a world without music. His music was poetry that he could read to her heart. Even now they were listening to his work, the speakers were playing a recording demo he had done for his class project. She had sat in the studio watching him, eyes fixated on his hands, flowing from one chord to another without hesitation, without conscious thought. It was beautiful.

Right now, his soft hand was interlaced with hers. It had taken twenty minutes of him slowly twitching his fingers closer to hers to get where they were. It was kind of cute, so much that she didn't mind the goosebumps that covered her exposed arms. They hadn't thought to bring a blanket up with them, or at least Jaren didn't.

Jaren's head rolled towards hers, his hair falling over his eyes. Amara smiled, chewing on the inside of her lip. She was about to say something, but as soon as she began to move closer to him, Jaren suddenly had the immediate need to sit up.

"What's wrong?" She sat up, adjusting her weight so she was leaning against him slightly. She rearranged her glasses more comfortably, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear. They were still holding hands, even though his was a little sweaty. She scooted a bit closer, trying to siphon some of his warmth through his thick jacket.

"I still can't believe you came by tonight. Shouldn't you be burning night hours with a brain surgeon or something?" He had asked her if she wanted to come by and study together, just for some company while I go over some boring notes. That she said yes seems to have surprised him more than if she had sprouted wings and taken flight straight from this rooftop.

"Jaren, I chose to come over tonight because I wanted to. I spend the majority of my waking hours in the company of people who are all studying the same material. It is not like your music class, where you are all working together to write lyrics or make a song. We are all competing for the best scores, the best chances at getting picked up by a big name company during finals, and we are all studying the same information. While I have some friends - we obviously have a lot in common - I cannot imagine dating any of them."

Jaren's cheeks flushed as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "Is that what we're doing, then? Are we dating?"

Amara rolled her eyes, sitting straight up so she was not leaning against him anymore. Letting go of his hand, she pulled her knees up to her chest. A quiet chuckle slipped out and was snatched away by a passing breeze, "You really are a bit hopeless, aren't you?" One eyebrow

The following silence started to stretch, tempting the line between comfortable and awkward. After a minute or so it was well into awkward territory, clearing a path through the jungle of social ineptitude with a very large machete. Unable to keep watching each other, they looked at the roof. At the next house over. Eventually they looked up at the sky, and the map of stars above them aided slightly in relieving the discomfort.

They were both watching the stars when suddenly a streak of light cut through the matte darkness of the night sky. Never too old to make a wish, they both murmured a quick prayer and then closed their eyes to cast their wish into the great beyond. After a few moments, Amara opened her eyes again, "So what did you wish f-" she was cutoff as Jaren leaned over and kissed her.

They were frozen for a moment; Amara was caught off guard, and Jaren had used all of his gumption to get to the point of kissing her. Now that he was here, he didn't have the strength to break away. The moment passed, and she smiled against his lips. She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, and they broke the kiss. Jaren met her gaze firmly, one eyebrow lifted slightly, and the faintest of cocksure smiles on his face, "My wish was that you would kiss me back."

Amara actually giggled. Giggled, if you would believe it, though she would later edit that detail out when she described the nights events to her friend Mila. She pushed him back and down so he was pressed against the roof. Then, slowly, she lowered her lips onto his.

Everything was perfect.


.....


"Hey, did you want to use my jacket? You look kind of cold."




[Author's Corner]

Watch your step people, this thing is dripping in teenage sappiness and stereotype. I think some of it got on the floor. Given the flak and criticism I normally dish out to teenage romance novels, I think I have spun plenty of rope with which to hang myself here. Still, it was kind of fun to write (which puts said romance novels into a terrifying new perspective), and I had been picturing this moment in Amara's youth for some time. I was listening to This Song by Explosions in the Sky, which was recommended to me this last weekend at a wedding I was attending. While I had been wanting to do a piece with Amara sneaking out to a boys house, this whole scene was inspired while listening to this song. I wrote most of it in one sitting listening to it on repeat, and then I wrapped it up the following day. Overall I'm satisfied with it; it's hardly a literary masterpiece, but I think it fits the moment. The writing is a little awkward, but so are they.

Enjoy, and feel free to share in the comments if this reminded any of you of a special moment in your past.

Origins III

"Hey, hot shot."

Zanli Ivano didn't look up. His gaze was fixed to the wall opposite him, as stubborn as the scowl on his face. When the guard rapped his stun stick across the bars, Zanli didn't flinch. He might not have even heard it.

"I'm gonna miss you kid," his guard was standard guard fare; broad chest, broader stomach. Too little time on the beat, chasing down young ruffians. Far too much time watching people sit behind bars. Wasn't much by way of high speed pursuits when you were in a five foot cell. The only thing this man had pursued in a while was the last slice of cake in the break room. The man he knew only as Guard banged against the bars again, a bit louder this time, "You were always a quiet bastard. Never whined like the others. Ya got a visitor, here to post bail."

The only sign of acknowledgement was his shoulders growing tense. Father? He knew word would have gotten home by now but didn't expect him to show up in person. When his custodian turned away from his cell, Zanli scrambled to his feet and stood before his door. Guard was standing at the front desk, further down the hall, speaking to a very tall man who was shaking the water from his umbrella. Zanli's shoulders slumped, all excitement fleeing his body like shadows at dawn. It was Len, his father's car driver and Zanli's first tutor. A tall man, too tall to be mistaken for Father, with a smooth shaved head with decorative tattoos adorning it, traditional symbols from a time long past.

The tall man spoke in hushed tones to Guard, but there wasn't much else to occupy the ears, so Zanli caught little pieces of their conversation. A few pieces from Guard, "...troubling to see such promising youth so misguided...took care of him quite well, yes I did..."

A few spare lines from Len, "...very hard to identify some of these kids from the streets...could surely use the Ivano name to try to hide from the law...I'm sure we understand each other...I'll be sure to mention your name..."

Guard stepped around the desk, shaking hands with Len. He approached Zanli's cell, one hand reaching for the key ring at his belt, the other tucking something into his breast pocket, "Well son, that was a clever ruse, trying to pass yerself as an Ivano. Thankfully, this man has cleared it all up. You'll be on yer way now."

It was all for show, they knew. For the rest of the occupants of the dozen holding cells in this wing. When Guard approached the cell, he winked as Zanli, and pretended to fumble with the lock and the door. Under his breath Zanli caught a few words, "See you again, Z. You'll be back soon."

Zanli's fists clenched and as the door slid open, he was sorely tempted to charge into the man and ram him into the cell behind him. A flutter of movement caught his eye, and to the side he saw Len staring at him, and just slightly shook his head.

Guard grinned, "And you'll be no more of a man then than you were today."

Zanli drew himself up to his full height, and his hot anger turned cold. He opened his mouth to speak when suddenly Len's voice cut in between them like a wall, "Outside, boy. Now."

He thought he could taste the acid in his mouth as he swallowed his words, halting them from passing his lips. He stepped past Guard, trying to get some participation points in the measure of manliness by stepping past him, roughly shoving him away with his shoulder. It was a noble effort but with little effect. Guard just laughed, and went back to his desk as Zanli was lead by an invisible leash out into the night.

Len stepped out first, raised the umbrella and held it over Zanli as he stepped through the door. For two full minutes, they just stood there. The rain pattered on the umbrella, trying desperately to dive through the resistant fabric and assault the unsuspecting victim it protected. It eagerly soaked Len, who had given up his own protection to keep his charge dry. After those few minutes, Zanli looked up at Len, and opened his mouth to talk. Then he stopped, and looked away again.

Len's stoic demeanor cracked, allowing some concern to peak through, "Help me here, young master. Why are you doing this? This is the sort of thing an attention-starved juvenile does to attract the affection of his parents. You have no reason to be unhappy at home; you have two wonderful parents who love and care for you. What is going on here?"

Finally, Zanli spoke, "Master Len Sarai, you are a credit to our household and family name. You have served the Ivano family most impeccably and I am sincerely grateful for your assistance in relieving me from this confinement. On such a dreary day as this and under such questionable conditions, it is an honor that you should come to my aid. You have been a stalwart companion and instructor for as long as I can recollect, and have always been there for me. In this last capacity, I ask only one thing of you this eve. Take me home, and don't question me further." He stepped out into the rain and made his way to the unmarked luxury car that was waiting for them; the more recognizable Ivano limousine would have given everything away.

Len watched him go, a slow sigh deflating the tall guardian. Closing the umbrella, he walked to the vehicle and got inside.

It was a quiet drive home.

[Reflections]

Funny, I meant to work on Kain's background, but Kain is undergoing a rather extensive rework, and I haven't gotten enough figured out to write his Origins yet.

So instead I started with Zanli. I don't know about the name yet. I love the surname Ivano, and I wanted his name to be exotic sounding, something that would sound foreign. Originally his name was Zansli, but the transition from an an- to -s sound was awkward. Its meant to have some kind of asian influence to it, but one of the problems with dealing with my own planet (remember this story doesn't take place on Earth, its my own made-up world) is there is no "China" but there would be an analog culture that would have some similar traits. Though if it were China I imagine his name might look like Xanli or Xan-li, or something of the sort, but I like having a Z name.

Zanli is very well educated, but constantly feels like he is living in the shadow of his family name, and a father who doesn't want him to get into any kind of trouble, at risk of damaging the family. The problem with all this is its all been done.. its very cliche, I know. And as far as prose go, this is a very rough draft. I'm debating how to give the whole setup more flavor. Perhaps the Ivano family isn't as legitimate as it appears, and Zanli's involvement with the law could bring some of the less favorable portions of their business to light? It would also provide a jumping off point for Zanli's criminal background - maybe he met with some of his father's business partners, and they tried to take advantage of him. Which, again, has been done, but hasn't everything? Everything is a cliche somewhere or at some time. There is too much raw material out in the world to have a new concept. Its not that the concept has to be entirely original - thats simply not possible - but I need to have the right characters and depth to make it feel real, or interesting.

I dunno, I'm still working on this whole thing.. Any thoughts? If nothing else I just needed to get something written. I've been behind on my schedule and even with this short piece it was already becoming more difficult to write than it was when I was writing regularly. Truly, practice and routine will be the key here..

Origins II: part 4 (Finale)

Department of the Army

Headquarters, Militia Army Support Command

2105.14.26

Ms. Sarah H. Gallagher,

I extend my most profound condolence to you on the loss of your daughter, Cadet Sergeant Emma G. Gallagher, 112th Conscription Division, who died as a result of a tragic airline accident on her way home for the holiday.

News of your daughter's death comes as a great shock to all who knew her, and her loss will be felt keenly in this organization. I sincerely hope the knowledge that Emma was an exemplary soldier and was the pride of this training camp will comfort you in this hour of great sorrow.

Personally and for the officers, men and women of this command please accept our deepest sympathy.

Sincerely yours,

Casey  G. O'Callahan

General of the People's Militia

Emma looked over the letter one last time, then nodded and started to hand it to the officer; but something stayed her hand. Like all the others, the officer wore black uniform with no insignia, no name tag. So did the woman. It made her skin look more pale, which in turn only made her features more striking. Brilliant green eyes, and red hair that could have been spun from fire.

A door opened behind her, and the blinding morning sun rushed into the room eagerly. Silhouetted in the doorway was a large man's frame, tall and imposing. When he spoke, his voice echoed into the room, each syllable a rumbling storm, "It's time, Emma. Or Megan, rather. Isn't that the new name they gave you?"

She examined the envelope again. She saw her mother's name, her address, and knew this was what she was leaving behind. If she handed over this letter, there was no turning back. She would be no one. A shadow's dream. She would be protecting more lives than she could count, saving more innocent people than she could hope to ever meet, and all she had to pay was her life. Slowly she handed the letter to the officer. As he reached out to take it, her hand flinched once. Only once. Then she let the letter go. She watched the letter, saw it get dropped without care into a bin full of various correspondence. Another officer walked by and took the cart away. Took Emma away.

"Megan. Now." The storm rumbled.

She wiped away the threat of tears, reciting a few lines of poetry her sister used to read her. It helped calm her. Once gathered, she turned to face the tempest, and started walking to meet her destiny. And if every word he spoke was a storm, every step she took was a thunderclap.

"Call me Meg."

Origins II: Part 3

"What's her progress?"

"Remarkable. In the last year she has tested in the top three percent in all areas. Demonstrates particular strength in strategy and tactics, leadership, and cooperation with teammates."

"Three percent? Hardly noteworthy. We don't have time for second bests. The last subject was top of his class. We can't settle for less."

"Not three percent of her class. Three percent of the entire Academy. That's including the senior recruits who have been here several years longer. She's been promoted or transferred at least three times."

"So she's a military genius."

"I'm not sure that's it. She has to learn like anyone else; but she can learn and adapt very quickly, and with a strong consistency. Teach her to shoot straight once and she'll never miss a target again."

"That makes a good soldier. I need more than that."


"A natural leader. She understands her objective and how far she needs to go to achieve it. She can work through complex problems very fast, and find the connection between a problem and its possible solutions. If she has to compromise her team or any part of the mission, its because it was the only possible way to succeed."


"How about emotionally? Can she handle it?"

"She is close to her sister. They have been writing letters to one another from the beginning, and we've been monitoring them closely. We'll be editing them at first sign of any trouble at home, we don't want her distracted at a time like this. She has demonstrated loyalty to her friends here and it will be hard to convince her to leave home. She'll need something even stronger than her family ties to fight for."

"Spare me your commentary. Does she have what it takes?"

"Sir, you'll have to raise the bar just to get her interested."

"...bring her in."

*                    *                    *

"Somethings wrong," Emma was pacing in the dorm, one of the few quiet places during lunch. Most of their comrades were at the mess hall, filling up on something they probably served yesterday and maybe the day before that. It meant a brief window of privacy in an otherwise exposed reality.

"Famine. Disease. Widespread poverty. Can you be more specific?" Ever the intrepid companion, Scott was laying on his bunk, legs crossed and his feet propped up against the wall. His chest was bare, his BDU tunic and shirt caked with mud in a heap by his bedside.

"Katrina. She's been lying to me," She rubbed at a spot of mud that had found purchase on her chin, and succeeded only in turning it into a larger smudge that ran across her jaw, "At least in the last few weeks and maybe longer. Maybe this whole time."

"Why would she lie to you?" On his back, Scott watched an inverted Emma walking back and forth across what looked like the ceiling to him, "And how do you know she's lying? I know its weird your mom is taking this so well, but its not outside the realm of possibility. Maybe losing one daughter for a while showed her how important you two are to her. I mean you're all she has in the world."

"Unlikely. I know my mother. Short-term solutions that always yield to long-term problems. Whatever benevolence my acceptance into a first class training camp would have drummed up, it wouldn't last more than half a year on the outside before things got bad again. In the last letter, Kat says she took out the old photo album and was looking at old pictures. She says her and Mom talked about the ones from the old fishing trip. The one with Dad."

"Ah, yes. The old photo album trick. She's definitely onto something," this time he didn't even try to sound sincere.

Emma's pacing came to a stop at her bunk, "Scott, you're a wonder of modern science. If we could isolate whatever it is in your gene's that makes you such a smart-ass every waking hour, and develop a solution for it, we'd make millions from weary mothers and sad wives."

"Ow," Scott clasped his chest in feigned agony, "That one hurt. Come on, Egg Head, every waking hour?" A beat, "You and I both know I dream in sarcasm." Scott was shortly thereafter displaced from his bed by a hefty bedroll being flung across the room and occupying his place on the bed.

Reaching into the breast pocket of a spare BDU tunic, and ignoring the sounds of offenses being taken, Emma walked back towards Scott's bunk, every boot step echoing in the (relatively) quiet dorm. She let a photo, worn on the edges but still in good condition, flutter down onto the pile that was Scott on the floor. Then she grabbed the packed bedroll off his bed and started for the door. Scott reached behind his back and grabbed the photo as he rolled over, and focused his eyes on the picture in front of him.

A man, tall and wide in the shoulders, hair a dignified shade of gray, stood with two young girls on either side of him. He was holding a chain with five or six fish hanging off, and the two girls had, laying over both their outstretched arms, what looked like a rather large fish or a very small whale. All three had the same smile, grinning ear to ear.

It was only then that Scott's tone became somber, "So she's been trying to make it sound like everything is alright. Which means it isn't. Still, we're stuck here until holiday leave, what are you planning on doing?" He was answered with the sound of the door opening, "Emma? You can't just leave camp, what do you think you're going to do? Where are you going?" He crawled out into the aisle between the beds.

Emma stood in the doorway, her face a mask. Shadowed with the afternoon sun starting to crawl behind her, every feature was hewn from stone, every angle sharp.

"I'm going home."

Without waiting to hear his reply, she shut the door and turned to leave. Her exit was stopped short, as she was greeted with the sight of an unadorned uniform. She immediately noticed that there was no insignia, no badges, no honors, no decorative bands and no chevrons on his sleeve. Not so much as a star.


"Ah, miss Gallagher. Just the woman I wanted to see."

[Afterword]

I don't want to take up much space this time, so let me just say that I don't think Gallagher was the name I intended for her. It's a placeholder for now. I had a German name in mind that I think was similar, but I can't remember it for the life of me. So for now, she is Emma Grace Gallagher.

Origins II: Part 2

Hey kid ~


Sorry it took so long to get back to you. They don't let you send outgoing mail for the first month. Something about cutting the umbilical cord, toughening us up. The whole 'turning boys to men' thing I guess.

Basic has been amazing, if a little routine, even to a fault. And very precise. They lock the doors to the classrooms when classes start, so if you're five seconds late, you aren't allowed in; but you're not allowed in the hallways outside of class either, so if you're found you get in trouble. Yesterday found Scott and I in a foot race to get to class on time. He's been trying to make the best of it, usually by distracting himself from the trials of training with the company of our female recruits.


I've been getting to know some of the other recruits here. You'd like Patrique, he is an artsy type like you. He doesn't get to paint here but he draws miniature army men battling across his homework assignments.

Otherwise, typical Basic stuff. The food is bad, could be worse. The instructors aren't as strict as they say. They know most people are here because of Conscription, not because they want a career out of it. And most of the rumors aren't true; if they were, Scott wouldn't have the fingers to type with, which would bring his dreams of a computer science career crashing down. A word to the wise, though, pack your own blanket. They give you something slightly less comfortable than steel wool and with about as much warmth.

I'm really, really happy to hear about Mom. Sounds like she is doing a lot better. Hopefully with me out of the way you two can reconnect, spend some quality time together. And tell me how you're doing - weren't you seeing that actor guy you met at the spring play? Send me some pictures of you both, I need something pretty to look at, it's all sweat and uniforms up here.

Write me back, I can't wait to hear more from you.

I'll be home soon.

Love,
Emma Grace

Slowly, Katrina folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope. They had originally tried email, but there was only one computer for every couple hundred recruits so they found old fashioned letters to be the most reliable method, if not as fast.

I'll be home soon.

Katrina felt that tingle from behind her eyes and started blinked rapidly, then reciting literature in her head, focusing her attention to half-remembered poems and plays until the threat of tears had passed. She leaned back against the headboard of her bed, taking long, measured breaths like Emma taught her. Even a month later, the wound of missing her sister was still fresh. It was silly, she knew, but Emma was her other half. A connection between sisters was one unmatched by all other ties, and even though she knew this time would come, she always imagined somehow it would work out better. As if Emma would get to Basic, realize it wasn't worth it without her, and turn right back around. Such a stupid thought.

Now, remembering her sister, she imagined Emma having to be awake at dawn. Sure, the first morning she would be alright, all full of adrenaline, but Emma didn't do mornings, and if she was able to avoid eye contact  until it turned into an afternoon, all the better. The thought brought her a smile, and soon she was laughing aloud. Remembering them playing together, or laughing, or spending all that time putting Emma's hair up only for it to return to its normal state of unmitigated disaster. Often before she could set the hairbrush down. Her laughter brought the tears back with renewed strength. She couldn't stop them this time, a mix of longing, sorrow, and bright memories, and they spilled onto the envelope, splotching and smearing the address on its cover.

Eventually she made her way downstairs, on the hunt for some stamps so she could start writing her next letter. From the bottom of the stairs, she passed the door to the living room, cracked enough that the light from the television squeezed out into the hallway. A glance inside was rewarded with a common sight: Mother, sleeping in the recliner, remote still in one hand folded on her chest. She wanted Emma to know about things at home. How their Mom was drinking again, that she and John weren't speaking. Again. How upset Mom was all the time, and when things got really bad, when she had a bad day at work, she came home and took it out on Katrina. Not that she ever laid a hand on her, of course. She didn't have to. Their family was well practised in the art of verbal discipline.

When it was her and Emma, they could weather it together, each helping the other and keeping their spirits up. Now alone, Katrina had to hold it upon her shoulders alone. She wanted to beg Emma to come back, or ask her for advice. Even as they shared their chores, punishments, and nights sneaking into the kitchen for food after being sent to bed without, she knew Emma had taken the worst of it herself.

But Katrina was a big girl now. She had to stand on her own two feet. No more running to Emma to solve her problems. So she put pen to paper, and started to craft her fiction.

Hey Sis,

Things are going great. All the teachers at school say they miss you, and Mom took out all those old pictures of us as kids...


[From the author]

I'm really unhappy with this one. Of course I don't expect everything I write to be solid gold before even one revision, but I'm inherently unsatisfied with how this played out. See, Katrina (and I'm terrible with names, let me own up to that before anyone makes a comment) is indeed supposed to be pining for her sister. Emma leaves, things at home become increasingly difficult, but wanting to prove she's all grown up and can take care of herself, she lies in her letters and has to find a way to make do on her own. Over time this hardens her, shapes her by brute force into a much stronger (and colder) adult than Emma remembers.

Still, something is just not quite right. I don't want to make a novel out of this little Retrospectives series itself, so I was okay with the rushed pacing, (again none of this is meant for publication, just for my own uses), but I don't know I just don't like it. After enough scrapping and trying and deleting and threatening Joshua (my computer), I decided to just say hell with it and put this up for now. If you have any thoughts, feel free to share them; and don't worry about hurting my feelings - I'm feeling rather malevolent towards this particular entry and I'll happily join you in any criticisms you want to share.

Origins II: Part 1

Twenty seconds. Emma Grace was standing in total darkness, waiting at the door to the cadet quarters, and waiting for the signal. Around her, sleeping recruits occasionally broke the silence with a muffled snore or dream-induced mutterings. She adjusted her weight to the other foot. Again. The floor creaked in protest to her restless shifting.

"Em? Are you already up?" That would be Scott, a classmate since childhood who, thankfully, would be accompanying her through Basic Training. Ten seconds. It will be nice to have the company. Even though her whole graduating class entered Basic together, the number of recruits entering every year meant you weren't likely to get put into a company with people you knew. Some thought they deliberately split you up so you were less like to rely on favors from friends. Three seconds.

"Seize the day." And the morning bell rang.

Ten minutes later, Emma was sitting at a table in the mess hall, surrounded by identical cadets, most with their head down and trying not to make eye contact with the older cadets. Despite the constant flood of students in and out of the hall, and the wall of uniforms constantly flowing like a living thing made entirely of fear, hope, and awe, she picked out Scott from across the hall, tracking his advance while focusing on her breakfast. He squeezed in between her and another student, setting down a plate that somehow contained three recruits worth of food. She glanced up from something closely resembling eggs and cocked an eyebrow, "I'm surprised you managed to find me. It's packed in here," She had to lean in and speak over the din of conversation and hundreds of pieces of silverware shoveling hundreds of plates of food into hundreds of mouths.

Scott grinned and rubbed her head, running his hands through what he could of her newly crew cut hair, "You're a splash of red among a sea of blue BDUs. You sorta stand out." He dropped a letter in front of her. Emma batted his hand away with one arm and picked up the envelope over in the other. He eyed the letter, "It was dropped off this morning, right after you left. Good thing I was diligently guarding the bunks an extra minute or two, or it might have gotten lost. Who's writing you on your first day?"

Once she saw the return address, her eyes lit up and she tore open the packaging, "It's Katrina!"

Hey Egg Head

I hope this gets to you on time, I tried to send it out in time for your first day. How was your trip? Did you get to sit next to any cute guys on the way up?

"Of course you did. Didn't she know we were shipping out together?"

"Shut up Scott."

Your graduation put Mom in a good mood, so I should thank you for that. Her and John were reminiscing about their time in training - she even brought out her old uniform! It was really nice, everyone getting along. It's too bad you didn't get to see it - I think its the longest Mom has been sober at one time. Now they can't wait until I graduate in a few years and get to go to Basic. Most of my classmates are excited, but no one will give us much information at school. Is it true they break a finger for every minute you're caught out after curfew?

I already miss you, sis. Two years feels like such a long time. Do you get vacations? Holidays? It's going to be the first time we've ever missed the other's birthday. I'll have to see what they will allow me to mail you for a present.

Well, I have to get this into the mail to get it to you in time for your big day. Good luck! Tell me all kinds of stories!


Tell Scott I said hi.


Love you sis,
Kat

Emma folded the envelope, tucked it into her breast pocket. Memories flooded her, and the sounds of two girls laughing was suddenly clearer than the din and ting of cheap silverware against plastic plates.

"Egg head? Is that meant to be a term of endearment?"

Scott's voice snapped Emma back to the present, and the echoing cacophony of too many voices in such a small proximity seemed deafening. As the momentary lapse faded like a forgotten dream, she returned her friend's lopsided grin, "My initials are E-G-G. It was her nickname for me as kids."

"Oh, good, at first I thought she was implying you were smart."

She stuck her tongue out at him, standing. Packing the rest of her eggs in a few over sized bites, she gathered her plate and cup and deposited them in the dirty dishes bin, which was picked up by whatever unlucky recruit had caused the most trouble lately and washed for the next meal. Scott called after her, shouting over the crowd, "I'll see you in first class then?"

Emma turned, taking a few backward steps, and though he was too far away to hear her, he could read her words. I'll beat you there. Exchanging a smile, she slipped out the door, walking outside and slipping on her hat that they were required to wear at all times while outside. The challenge meant that Scott would hurry and race to the classroom to beat her, so Emma would take her time. Besides, she needed to find a pen and paper.

Origins I

Foreword from the Writer

So here we are again. This time I thought I'd put my two cents at the beginning. Seems to make rather more sense that way. Below is the first iteration of Amara's story from the first attempt. I scrapped the second one entirely. I was in a bad place when I wrote that, please don't judge me for it. So I took the first one, filled in the gaps, wrote around it, and tweaked some wording here and there. It's still not perfect, but it actually has something resembling a structure and meaning. Now that it is more or less a complete thought, it opens up the floodgates for all the feedback, criticisms, and ideas on how I can improve this. I'm open to everything and anything you would like to share. I'm a big boy, I can take whatever you want to throw at me. The fact that I actually wrote something is a victory enough for me.

It's interesting, I had a much easier time rewriting than I did with the original draft. This is unusual because most of my early writing, such as for school assigments or my own little projects, rarely consisted of revisions or multiple drafts. My senior project was a 16 page report I wrote in one sitting and I didn't change before I submitted it. When absolutely required to submit multiple drafts I would write it up and delete pieces here and there to make it incomplete. Sorry, teachers.

So I thought it was interesting that writing the first time around was like pulling teeth with rusted pliers, but this time it felt much more like how I imagine writing should feel. Until I got to the end of the original material and had to start the conclusion - then it started feeling a little more difficult. I could feel a palpable heaviness to pushing past the end of my draft, a weight I had to be able to shift in order to continue.

Apparently, writing for me is, at this time in my career, like sculpting. Except that I have to extract the clay surgically from somewhere around my ribcage. Once I have the material I can work to shape it, but getting it in the first place is a little painful.

On the actual story below, a few disclaimers. It deals, even if only briefly, with parental dynamics. I don't want anything I write to give the impression that there is anything wrong with step-parents or 'split' households. I have no living memory of a time when my parents were still together, but they are both wonderful, amazing people that I love very much and whom have a healthy respect for one another. I have had 4 step-parents over the years, and I have loved each of them in turn. I often joke that I don't have a family tree - a shape with a strong origin, a central foundation upon which the branches sprout from - rather that I have a family shrubbery. It all just kind of goes every which way. Aunts, uncles, step-relatives and cousins I've rarely, if ever, met. It's a mess of a family, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

My actual writing 'voice' is still a work in progress, I'm still developing how I as a writer sound. So I encourage any feedback, especially having to do with how it sounds. If there are any pieces that work particularly well, or lines that could use a little more polish, please point them out.

On a sidenote, Amara's father's name is never mentioned. partly because I haven't been able to given him one yet (Though their surname is "Langward"). However, I also like to think it reflects how he is thought of as Dad or Father, not by his name. Gives him kind of a mystique.

Or something.

Well, without further delay, I humbly present some words precariously arranged into something I hope resembles meaning..

* * *

Amara

Outside, it was a gray afternoon with a broken sky. The rain fell at an angle, but uniformly so as if someone took the clouds and tilted them to one side. Inside the biodome park, however, it was high noon with clear skies. One of three basic settings for the park, those being morning, afternoon, and closed. Artificial sunlight filtered through artificial trees (branches waving in an artificial breeze), threw dancing shadows on artificial grass. Contained, sustainable, and completely fake. Not that the act fooled anyone, but when the alternative was walking in the rain across what would otherwise be a parking structure or office building, no one complained.

"How was school today, Amara?"

Amara had absolutely no complaints. She had an ice cream cone, which made today an exceptional day, and she was more focused on her treat than any academic inquiries. She scrutinized it carefully, quick to delicately lick up any errant drips of ice cream.

"Amara?" Sterner, this time. Her father glided alongside her, a towering figure even without the contrast of a small child. He was empty handed; after taking care of Amara's crippling list of school supplies an ice cream cone was almost a stretch.

"What?" The top of her cone was licked to a near perfect dome of dessert. A work of art. Adults couldn't appreciate this kind of fine detail.

"School? I assume you went to class, or how could you be complaining of having homework from a chemistry class you didn’t attend? That would be rather impressive." A thin hand fell on her shoulder, applying gentle pressure to hold Amara back as a man in a suit ran through the exact space she was about to enter. The man, jogging swiftly down a path to an exit, opened a door and momentarily the sound of the outside downpour raced inside the park, determined to get as far as it could before the door shut again, instantly cutting off any notion of rain.

“Of course I went to class, Daddy.” What a stupid question, and ultimately irrelevant compared to the question at hand: lick the dome down to a flat surface, or take a solid bite out of the cone? Her expression was one of a painter deciding where to put the brush next.

"And?"

"And what?" Her brow wrinkled in exasperation as she saw a line of ice cream had very nearly ran over the back of her hand. As she lifted the cone for a better angle to stop it in its tracks, her small blue eyes met the grey-blue orbs of her father’s. He lifted one eyebrow. Barely.

Amara sighed, with only a slight roll of her eyes that she didn't quite try to conceal. She straightened up, adjusted her backpack – standard for her class, white with a red cross – and gave him the most serious look a twelve year old could muster, “One Thing I Learned In School Today was the toxsticity levels of all pre-op medications used in a standard hospital environment.”

“Toxicity.”

That's what I said, she retorted. Or would have, except her mouth was full and her cone now had a mysteriously girl-shaped bite taken out of the side. Her attention had shifted immediately back to the cone as soon as she answered the question.

He laughed and ruffled her hair, earning himself a withering glare from the girl, "Always learning, my little genius. I think Carrie will be really good for you. She's a teacher."

It was partway through talking about what it was that Carrie taught when he realized that Amara was no longer beside him. He stopped, looking back down the path where she had stopped. She stared at the ground, as if intense concentration alone could teleport herself somewhere far away from the biodome. As he approached, each step with a cat's grace, she remained resolutely still, only speaking when his shadow eclipsed her. He knelt down in front of her so they were eye-level, or as close as was practical.

"I thought I didn't have to meet her." If the words were any heavier, they would have cracked the stones set in the path upon landing. A line of ice cream streaked down the side of her cone and over her hand, dripping down off her fingers.

"Not immediatly. I just thought you would eventually want-"

"I don't want to meet her! I didn't want to meet the last one. I still have Mom, even if you don't. So you can find yourself a new wife but I don't need another new mom!" She pushed past him and ran down the path, keeping her head low so he couldn't see her tears. Mom never cried in front of anyone.

Just like her mother. He stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and turned to follow her. She was waiting at the far exit to the park, not quite angry enough to storm out of the park entirely. When he reached her, neither spoke. The words of an apology began forming on his tongue but he held them back, unsure how or where to start. His daughter's thoughts were a mirror of his own.

He felt her hand slide into his, their fingers intertwining and squeezing briefly. His free hand conjured an umbrella as they walked through the short hallway from the shining midday sun to the torrential storm outside. He did his best to keep them both dry or, failing that, at least Amara. The rain, slanted as it was, made for a difficult task. So they braved the storm together, hand in hand, a silent truce.

Meanwhile, inside the park, beneath an unmoving sun, an ice cream cone melted on the path.