Ficly: Nathaniel Payne's Recent Stories

The Nerd

2010-02-27T16:18:52-05:00

Steve stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, a splitting headache tearing his focus away from a pleasant conversation with his girlfriend, Gloria. He could feel it. A pulling force, aching with need, nagging at his skull. Three simple letters floated to the surface of his clouded mind.

“What is it, Steven?” Gloria asked, concerned.

“Someone needs help setting up their virtual private network connection,” he said confidently.

He started down a side-street.

“Wait!” Gloria stopped him, grabbing him by the arm. “What if it’s a trap? What if there is,” her voice became a whisper, " a nerd wrangler?"

Steven looked back at his girlfriend with a look of fierce determination.

“It’s a risk that I am more than willing to take,” he said calmly. “If I’m not able to help others, then what good am I? What good is this world?”

He continued down the side-street, in the direction of a quaint little outdoor cafe.

The Nerd Wrangler

2010-02-27T16:13:15-05:00

The man definitely fit the profile. He was tall and lanky, his pasty white skin coated with a sickening sheen of uncleanliness. Hair unkempt, glasses slightly askew, buttoned-down shirt partially untucked. He looked the part, there was no doubt.

Jeremiah just needed to get a solid confirmation. He flagged the man down easily as he was strolling past the open-air cafe where Jeremiah was sitting. Jeremiah motioned to his laptop with frustration.

“S’cuse me,” he said agitatedly. “I can’t connect to my company VPN. You look like a smart fella. I don’t suppose you could help me?”

“Sure,” the stranger said kindly. He deftly and expertly tapped a couple of buttons on the keyboard and Jeremiah was connected instantly.

“Thank you!” Jeremiah said enthusiastically.

“It’s my pleasure,” the man said with a smile before walking away.

That was all the proof Jeremiah needed. The man was most definitely a nerd. Jeremiah cocked a pistol he held firmly under the table.

“Time to go huntin’,” he said with a quiet scowl.

From Liz to Ingrid

2010-02-22T23:19:38-05:00

Hey Burundukov, the note started. Liz knew that Ingrid liked her for some strange reason. Of all the people in this school, why was it the damned foreigner that had to attach to her? Liz had tried to stop herself wondering why and just try to use that flimsy connection to her advantage. She just needed to get something off her chest.

I know you probably don’t care or even understand what the hell these words are. Can you even read English? Fuck. Whatever. In any case, do you know what analgesics are? Well, I’ll be taking a shitload of them tonight. I’m telling you so you can let everyone know when they finally get around to realizing I’m not here.

She tossed the note onto her desk. And with that, she had told someone. Her inability to cope with this useless world had now been shared with someone who either wouldn’t give two shits, or couldn’t even read the damned note.

And later today, after school, she would raid her mother’s medicine cabinet. Again.

She just needed to get something off her chest.

The Doctor ..... of Love?

2010-02-22T22:53:44-05:00

Esther sat quietly in the waiting room, holding her husband’s hand. Every now and again she would pat it gently, a small token of reassurance. At this point, it was all she could provide. And though she knew it did little for John, she felt the need to do something more than nothing at all.

Finally, a doctor walked towards them holding a clipboard. He looked vaguely European, but at this point, Esther was less concerned about the doctor’s ethnicity so much as his quizzical swagger.

“I am ze doctor,” he said with a coy smile. He pulled away his clipboard to reveal a big pink paper heart pinned to his white jacket. There was also a novelty pen in his pocket with a giant red heart on it.

“What kind of doctor are you supposed to be?” Esther asked in astonishment. “The doctor of love?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I am ze doctor of cardiology. I am to be looking at his heart.”

As he went to make the preparations for John’s angiogram, Esther thought she heard the doctor mutter something about “old people.”

Fifty

2010-02-19T23:35:55-05:00

Jake gripped his stomach tightly again as a fresh wave of pain rushed through his abdomen. He allowed himself another cautioned glance down to see the extent of the damage the explosion had caused.

From his gut down past his legs he was coated in his thick blood. He had lost so much, Jake wasn’t quite sure how he was still alive. But he was alive, and now, amidst the cacophonous riot of ordinance blasts and the rhythmic percussion of machine gun fire, Jake needed to get some help, or he wouldn’t last much longer.

Far off down the dusty city street, Jake could see Lieutenant Hanson. He was slumped over, obviously dead. But he had the communication system still strapped to his back. Jake could call for support. All he had to do was get himself over to the equipment. He judged it to be about fifty yards away.

He tossed himself down to the ground and a fresh blast of pain shot through him. Clutching his gut, he ignored it and dug his fingers into the soil, dragging his wounded body inches.

Just fifty yards.

Fatherly Love

2010-02-19T19:28:29-05:00

“ENOUGH!” the order erupted through the air. Dao’s blade hung still in the air. Kae’s nerves burst and he collapsed to the grassy ground.

Their father, Lao Haising, stood at the crest of the hill watching his sons at their practice. He stepped forward and offered Kae a hand. As he pulled up his frail youngest, he gave Dao a reproachful look.

“I should like that you not kill each other,” he said sternly. “You, especially, Dao, should know better than to engage in such an attack on such a novice.”

“Of course, father,” Dao said, bowing in respect.

Lao turned to Kae.

“Your mother has need of you,” he said. “She requires your skills for decorating the palace for the coming festival.”

“Yes, father,” Kae said. He bowed quickly and more awkwardly than his brother, and ran off to join his mother.

When he was gone, Lao unsheathed his mighty Shinoku blade, holding it firmly.

“Dao,” he said quietly, inspecting the blade. “Be good to him. He is our future savior.”

“Yes, father,” Dao said, a chill in his voice.

Shattered Angels

2010-02-18T14:49:02-05:00

Glennen shuffled solemnly away from the throne room. The sun which had been so bright at mid-morning had now folded itself away behind clouds. It draped Glennen’s mood in a heavy blanket of sorrow. Sorrow for the doomed angels; both the princess, and his lovely clockwork creation.

Racing footsteps behind him caused Glennen to turn back. The princess approached him with the shattered remains of the angel poured into her hands, her face wet with tears.

“You can fix it!” she pleaded angrily. “Fix it! Please!”

“I cannot.”

The princess collapsed to the floor. She was every bit as broken as Glennen’s angel.

“It isn’t your fault,” Glennen said kindly, a hand on her shoulder. “Your parents failed to instill you with the knowledge of your birthright. Their failure is your doom.”

“That isn’t comforting!” the princess wailed.

“You destroyed something in seconds that I spent your entire lifetime building,” he said quietly, turning again to walk away. “I am afraid I am in no position to give you helpful advice.”

Elizabeth Jones in 25 Years

2010-02-16T09:39:53-05:00

My Life in 25 Years
by Liz Jones

Are you kidding? I’ll be dead well before then.

Seriously.

Of Dust and Gears

2010-02-15T23:54:40-05:00

Glennen knelt wearily over his demolished creation. There was nothing recognizable remaining of the perfect, beautiful angel he had crafted. Even its gossamer silk wings had shredded to nothingness.

“Next time, I expect better work,” the princess sneered. “This toy was obviously far too fragile.”

Glennen’s hands were shaking.

“You monster,” he said. He stood and pointed a quaking finger at her royal highness. “You inconsiderate and ungrateful monster!”

“How dare you speak to me in such a tone!” the incredulous princess retorted.

“I will speak to you in a manner befitting what you truly are — a child! A spoiled and irresponsible child!”

“It’s just a statue,” the princess said angrily. “You can make another.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” Glennen whispered. “I could never make an angel to match it, even given another seventeen years. That precious angel was imbued with magic bestowed from your saintly mother and father. It was meant to house your eternal soul. And without it, you will surely die.”

No Regrets

2010-02-14T18:10:32-05:00

It took all of Ginger’s strength to pull the blanket over Opal’s face. She had really only lived a few days longer than she had originally intended. Neither of them had known about the devastating disease that had been residing within Mrs. Brausch’s body, nor for how long it had lived there.

Through the grief of the moment, Ginger held tightly to the idea that Opal had lived her last hours in happiness. She had expressed to Ginger that she was glad she had stopped her from tossing her useless shell off the cliff. And while Ginger had greatly enjoyed the time they had spent together this last week, she regretted that when it counted most, she ultimately could not save Opal’s life.

But Opal had no regrets. She valued her last moments with her new fairy friend. It was as though she had already passed on, and found that afterlife inhabited by small magical creatures.

Ginger felt a tiny hand on her shoulder.

“It’s time to go,” the fairy said solemnly. “You already have a new assignment.”

The Princess

2010-02-12T17:29:14-05:00

Glennen’s footsteps echoed, clattering rhythmically about the cavernous throne room. He walked towards the throne, holding the delicate angel cupped within both hands. He had never been a coordinated individual, even in his youth. And so he exercised caution while traveling to see the princess.

She sat contentedly in an ornate throne. She was just turning sixteen, a precious commodity that would do the kingdom well if married into the right family. Glennen stopped before the princess, standing still and quiet at the bottom of the dais. She raised her chin, a signal that he was allowed to approach.

He stepped timidly up the stairs.

“Your highness,” he began, “your parents tasked me with crafting this clockwork angel for you before you were even born. It has taken seventeen long years, but —”

“Give it to me,” she demanded. He carefully handed her the statue. She turned it over in her hands.

“Garbage,” she said, letting it drop to the floor.

Glennen gasped as his creation shattered into gears and dust.

Explosions

2010-02-12T16:58:39-05:00

The first bomb never announced itself.

The second bomb didn’t need to.

Paul and Flint

2010-02-12T14:48:20-05:00

Paul lifted a dusty hand to block the midday sun as he scanned the nearby hillside. He had been kept waiting far too long. Flint should have been able to make it past the Oklahoma border by now. No doubt he had gotten himself into trouble. If Flint’s shooting skills didn’t border on the miraculous, he would have left an hour ago.

He caught a rustling sound behind him and twisted in his saddle. In a swift motion, he pulled out his revolver and aimed it at the nearest target. It just so happened that target was Flint.

“Yer slow, old timer,” the sharpshooter said with a smirk. He was aiming his own trusty rifle right at his partner’s head. Paul holstered his pistol.

“S’bout time you got here,” he said. “Where ya been?”

“S’not easy to sneak up b’hind ya in these hills,” Flint said. “Took an hour extra.” He sidled his horse next to Paul. “So, what’s the job?”

“S’important,” Paul said. “Matter’a national security.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Paul said quietly. “We been hired t’assassinate the president.”

A Quiet Start to a Quiet War

2010-02-11T16:57:24-05:00

Another young man walked into the cafe. This one was clean-cut, dressed in a crisp suit, looking for all the world like an entrepreneur or a Wall Street stock broker. It was his eyes that gave it all away. They were a shimmering blue that seemed to strike through one’s soul with just a glance.

He approached the elderly gentleman, keeping those merciless eyes fixed on Lucifer. He whispered into God’s ear.

God set down his teacup.

“You’re assembling an army,” he said flatly.

“When am I not?” Lucifer joked. “You’re a fool to think I wouldn’t be preparing myself.”

“Preparing yourself for what?”

“The Armageddon that you will no doubt unleash at any second!” Lucifer yelled, a coy smirk still gracing his face.

God glanced up and nodded at the young businessman, who quickly turned and exited the cafe.

“Is your boy-toy off to prepare your forces for an advance?” The fallen angel’s eyes danced with anticipation.

“Gabriel will prepare my angels to defend, not to conquer,” God corrected.

“Pity,” Lucifer sighed.

Destroying the World over Coffee

2010-02-11T00:16:47-05:00

“Just what are you suggesting?”

“You know very well what I am suggesting.”

“I want to hear you say it. So you can hear for yourself just how ridiculous you sound.”

To any casual observer, this was nothing more than two gentlemen sitting in a cafe having a polite conversation about the weather. Just one elderly man with a soft voice and a kind smile, and a younger man with a more electric personality. Nothing more.

“I’m suggesting you wipe out Earth,” the young man said under his breath, despite the fact that no one around could hear them.

“Armageddon,” said the elderly man, taking a tentative sip of his tea.

“Exactly.”

“Something I swore I would never do again.”

“For some reason,” the young man said, waving his hand.

“I happen to like Earth, you know,” the elderly man said. “It’s become quite nice.”

“It has become boring. And of course you like it, YHWH,” the young man sputtered. “Half this world utterly adores you.”

“And the other half adores you, Lucifer,” the elderly man replied with a smirk.

Escape!

2010-02-10T01:14:54-05:00

The ring hung in the air for what seemed like minutes, spinning in an arc just over the cat burglar’s head. She watched it float and rotate and shifted her weight to be able to make a leap of faith. The timing had to be perfect.

A crash echoed from the next room and the clatter of footsteps filled the stagnant air of the museum. The cops were finally moving in. She had only a split second. But that was all she needed.

She pulled a rope and hook from her belt and noted that the ring was just reaching the zenith of its arc. It paused briefly before beginning its decent.

The cat burglar swung her rope into a tight circle and tossed it up toward the ceiling. Using Gerard’s head as a step – an act he protested – she launched herself up into the air. She caught the ring in one hand as her other yanked hard on the rope, setting the hook into the skylight. She slipped the ring onto her finger and pulled herself up the rope quickly and deftly.

The cops burst into the room and found only Gerard and a slack rope.

Desk #3: Elizabeth Jones (Liz)

2010-02-09T23:50:25-05:00

Liz slumped into her seat and proceeded to disappear. This was how she spent her time in Mr. Dobbins’ class every day. In fact, this was how she intended to live her entire life.

Invisible. Complete and utter nothingness. Unnoticeable. Forgettable.

She couldn’t remember why she felt this way. Why she felt that participation in society was restrictive and unnecessary. It was simply a persistent presence, exacerbated by the fact that everyone in this god-forsaken school already treated her as though she were wallpaper. She was a pen holder. A paperweight. A wastebasket. An ordinary thing of no real consequence, interchangeable with any number of similar, mundane objects.

She felt something hit her neck. A crumpled wad of paper fell to her desk.

“Timothy Brooks!” Mr. Dobbins yelled.

Ingrid leaned over.

“Don’t boys just suck?” she whispered.

Fuck off, she wanted to say.

“Yeah, totally,” was what ended up coming out.

Maybe I’m not invisible, she said to herself. But I’m absolutely unnecessary.

A Clockwork Angel

2010-02-09T23:14:59-05:00

Glennen gave the screwdriver one final twist and felt a wave of satisfaction and relief wash over him. Seventeen long, arduous years of effort and toil. And here it was. He set his tools down and admired his masterpiece.

It wasn’t without its flaws, obviously. No creation ever is, unless crafted by God’s own two hands. But it was close enough to perfect for Glennen. In fact, it was absolutely breathtaking.

He held up the small angel statue, no larger than his fist, and turned it around in the sunlight streaming through his workshop window. Its brass fittings and silver surface gleamed with a remarkably powerful sheen. Its wings of silk and copper wire were meticulously detailed, and Glennen felt that the result was well worth the additional effort.

He sat the angel back down on his workshop bench and leaned down close.

“It is time,” he whispered gently.

The angel responded with a soft click, followed by a light hum as the intricate gears within engaged and spun.

It rotated and very nearly flew away.

Outsmarting the Competition

2010-02-08T22:46:20-05:00

Before Niall could even open his mouth, someone else opened his door. Abruptly, and with little regard for manners or courtesy, a small, round bon-bon of a man burst through the entrance, his breath nothing more than ragged gasps for air. His frame was not built nearly well enough for so much as a brisk walk, and yet he had just sprinted a quarter-mile.

“Niall!” the man spurted, “I just received word! It’s awful! Truly awful!”

The rotund little man had grasped the attention of the intrigued Mr Cavendish like a freshly unwrapped caramel does the attention of a portly child. Niall was silently signalling to his associate that he should cease any and all conversations of this nature around this particular individual. His efforts were, unfortunately, unsuccessful.

“It’s truly, truly awful, Niall!” he continued to bellow. “They’ve done it! They’ve done the impossible!”

“Who? What?” Niall asked, suddenly concerned.

“They have!” he repeated. “They’ve discovered the ninth candy!”

“Flaming hecate!”

Battle of the Sexes

2010-02-06T14:30:03-05:00

“You’ve returned?” Gerard asked without turning around.

“I was curious what you were looking for,” the cat burglar said. “You said something about ‘richer game’. I thought it might be worth investigating.”

The two were dallying at their own risk. The alarms continued to screech, and the police would be on them in mere seconds. Gerard had already managed to pull the ring from its perch within the case. He wasn’t expecting to stay much longer.

“We haven’t time to discuss this further,” he said, “I really should be off.”

Gerard turned around. Once again, the cat burglar’s top was unzipped.

“Madam,” Gerard sighed, “while I’m sure your plentiful talents can arouse the spirit of those of lesser fortitude, you will find that I am not so easily stirred.”

“Can’t be ‘stirred’, huh?” the cat burglar said. “Well, can you be shaken?”

She reached quickly to the floor and pulled hard on the rug laying underneath Gerard’s feet. Gerard crashed against the ring’s empty case, and the sapphire ring flew up into the air.

A Gentleman's Game

2010-02-04T23:42:08-05:00

“Now that is a woman,” Gerard commented under his breath as he stepped into the Egyptian artifacts room of the museum. The klaxon of the security alarms was only a slight irritation as his gaze swept the open space, searching for his prize.

There, in the far case. Shimmering with a gentle blue glow, the hue of an evening sky lit by a marvelous full moon. It was magical. Or so he had been told.

He glanced briefly at his watch. With the guard incapacitated he would be offered just a few extra seconds of relief in his escape, but not much more. He still had to act quickly.

He approached the case and peered inside. Contained within the glass encasement was a very small, yet intricately ornate sapphire ring.

“Midrala,” he whispered, “beloved ornament of my people. You will soon be returned.”

He pulled out a cutting tool and began the delicate work of slicing a hole through the casing.

“You know, the alarm’s been tripped,” a soft female voice behind him said. “You can just break the glass.”

Gerard smiled.

Gaining Entry

2010-02-03T23:51:06-05:00

She was nothing more than a shadow on the museum walls. She was a quick-moving creature built of air and mist, darting in and out amongst the assorted artifacts and ancient accoutrements, slinking her svelte form around the assembled heirlooms of antiquity. She was a ghost.

Growing up, she showed a natural talent for stealth. Her father used to joke that she was as quiet as a mouse.

Mice squeaked. She, most decidedly, did not.

She slid into a room and listened as the security guard was loudly making his rounds. She waited, catching her breath behind her teeth, quietly daring herself to go through with her plan. As the guard neared her hiding place, she stepped out and deftly unzipped her top.

He paused. Eyes transfixed, mouth agape. She leaned forward, and kissed him. He practically melted in her arms. He grew limp and slumped with a sickening crack to the concrete floor. She pulled the syringe out of his arm and continued on, a slight skip of exuberance in her step.

The next room held her trophy.

The Emerald Cat Burglar

2010-02-02T23:03:27-05:00

She was perspiring. Heavily. Great slick beads of sweat that slid down the subtle curves of her face and neck. This wasn’t like her at all. It was distracting. Unprofessional. But she didn’t have the luxury of time to worry about it at the moment.

She crouched quietly before the pedestal, going through a mental checklist of everything she actually did need to worry about. The alarms were disabled. Backup generator taken offline. Security guard: incapacitated. She allowed herself a small smile. That last one was easily the best part of the whole night.

And now, here she was. Just scant inches away from her mistress. Her beautiful and breathtaking Patricia. It was as remarkable an emerald as she had always been led to believe. Uncut. Rough. Raw. And in every way, absolutely perfect.

Her fingertips hovered in the air, glowing slightly with a green hue as they neared the gorgeous gemstone. She felt an electric tingling of anticipation as she drew closer to the stone.

She never even noticed the footsteps.

Inspiration Doesn't Come Easily

2010-02-01T20:56:12-05:00

Dan tossed another crumpled sheet of note paper into the wastebasket.

“This is getting us nowhere,” he said, exasperation in his voice. “None of these ideas are any good.”

Ginger sat on a small pad of Post-It notes, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, a dour look on her face.

“This isn’t how this is supposed to work,” she said.

“Well then, how is it supposed to work?” Dan asked. “Because I don’t feel very inspired.”

“I don’t know!” Ginger admitted. “This is all kinda new to me.”

“Get me some more coffee,” Dan said. He pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. He ran a sweaty palm through his hair as Ginger waved her hand and filled Dan’s cup with some of the finest Columbian roast her magic could acquire.

“I used to be a life fairy,” she said quietly. “I used to protect people.”

“You’re still doing that,” Dan shot back. “You’re protecting my job and our company’s profits.”

He leaned in close. His breath was an unhealthy mix of tar and caffeine.

“Get me an idea. Now.”

Ginger Goes to Hollywood

2010-01-31T16:59:36-05:00

“Okay, here’s the idea.”

It was obvious to Dan that Robinson was planning once again to attempt to pitch him a lame concept. That’s all Robinson ever had. But Dan always appreciated his enthusiasm, and so he let him get it out of his system.

“Cufford, the giant blue cat.”

“That’s original,” Dan said, walking away. “That’s absolutely nothing like any other property we currently control and whore out on a daily basis in every medium imaginable.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Robinson asked.

“No, not at all!” Dan yelled over his shoulder as he stepped into his office. “I like it. Go with it.” He slammed the door behind him. He then sat at his desk and rubbed his furrowed brow.

“Why are good ideas so hard to come by anymore?” he asked no one in particular.

“Maybe you just need some inspiration,” a tiny quiet voice called out.

Dan glanced around the room.

“Who’s there?”

“I am,” the quiet voice said. A tiny, sparkling fairy flitted out from behind a coffee cup. “I’m Ginger. And I’m an inspiration fairy.”

Grandpa Tells Billy about the L.O.E.M.A.T.T.L.O.A.

2010-01-30T23:24:30-05:00

“Grandpa?” the young boy said hopefully. “Can you tell me the story?”

“Which story, Billy?” the wizened old man said kindly.

“You know the one,” Billy replied. “The one about the founding of the League of Even More Awesome than the League of Awesomeness.”

“Oh, that one!” the grandfather said with a smirk. “Well, it all started one day, with a man. A great man. A man by the name of Andy.”

“Like those tiny mints?”

“No! Not Andies. Andy. Like Andy Rooney.”

“Who’s Andy Rooney?”

“He’s an old man like me who likes to complain about things.”

“Why does he do that?”

“Because, that’s really the only thing old people can do.”

“Oh. So Andy formed the League of Even More Awesome than the League of Awesomeness so he could complain about things?”

“No! That was the Great Andy! I’m talking about Andy Rooney!”

“Why are you talking about him? I asked you to tell me the story about the League of Even More Awesome than the League of Awesomeness!”

“I’m trying to!”

“Not very well, grandpa.”

“GO TO YOUR ROOM!”

The March of the Dead

2010-01-30T23:01:26-05:00

It was midnight, and the moon was a pale disc in the clear night sky. From the edge of the forest a funeral procession appeared, led by an ashen-faced cleric of some long-forgotten order of faith.

Iwata crouched behind a stump on the top of a nearby hill and watched in silence. He had heard stories of the ghostly march of the Tsushiku spirits; nothing more than fairy tales meant to frighten and entertain children. He had never imagined he might have the opportunity to see them in person.

The footsteps of the pallbearers were a quiet, rhythmic shuffling as the procession made its way through the ancient graveyard. Between them, a low-slung coffin was carried with thick strands of fabric that swept underneath the sarcophagus. Shadows danced playfully around the funeral marchers as the moonlight filtered between the granite tombstones of Japanese citizens. The entire scene was eerie and chilling, and entirely mesmerizing to Iwata.

That is, until one of the spirits turned and noticed him watching.

Attention

2010-01-28T22:59:30-05:00

He cried out for attention, and was rebuffed. He was told that his voice wasn’t important, that he should just give it up. It wasn’t like he could ever hope to accomplish anything anyways.

He cried out for attention, and was immediately and forcefully denied. He was told to sit down, shut up, play nice, or play dead. There was a sense of freedom in the rejection. He could walk away, and no one could possibly blame him. It wasn’t like it was ever his fault.

He cried out for attention, and was ignored. They decided that he never really mattered in the first place, so why even try to convince him of his folly and error. With ignorance, regret becomes harder to prove.

He cried out for attention, and was instantly and purposely forgotten. He was nothing more than a scattering of dust, blowing away on an ill north wind. He was a collection of disjointed thoughts, splayed painfully across years and decades. In the end, it really didn’t matter at all.

He cried out for attention, and received echoes in return.

A Sweet Confection Investigation

2010-01-27T22:51:48-05:00

“Dear Mr Cavendish,” Niall said, his words coated in the same sort of sugary sweet veneer as the confections for which he was so well renowned. “How nice of you to —”

“Do not speak, you pernicious freak,” Cavendish said loudly and forcefully. He took a couple of steps around, his eyes floating up and down the store shelves, inspecting the inventory. It was just for show, really. Niall knew that. It was Mr Cavendish’s hands that were doing all of the real work. Folded neatly behind the back of his ancient tweed suit, his fingers made nearly imperceptible movements. They were working. Hunting, snooping, exploring. Mr Cavendish stopped, and sniffed again.

“Roseweed,” he whispered, glancing up to make eye contact with Niall. “An evil deed.”

“Now, good sir,” Niall replied in an impetuous tone. “It is well documented that Roseweed is perfectly harmless in small amounts.”

“Small amounts,” Mr Cavendish repeated, “That’s what counts.”

Mr Cavendish held out a hand, palm up.

“A sample, if it please you.”

Unfixable Logan

2010-01-26T22:38:33-05:00

Logan heard the heavy breathing and the pounding of the metal grating and knew that someone was racing up behind him. He surmised easily that it would be Jean.

“Wait, Logan!” the familiar voice called out. Logan turned. Jean stopped, and when their eyes met, she instinctively shot her gaze downward to her beat-up baby blue sneakers.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said sheepishly. “For pulling you into that.”

“I am also sorry,” Logan lied. “That I could not help your mother.”

It was quiet. In the distance, the synchronized shuffling of Garans aimlessly wandering the corridors made a rhythmic sound. Logan looked longingly towards the door.

“I must go now,” he said.

Jean finally looked up.

“Can I come with you?” she asked.

“Humans are not allowed in the Garan sector,” Logan said.

“What?” Jean was surprised to hear this. “That’s absurd. Garans are allowed in the human sectors.”

“No, we are not,” Logan said plainly, and walked determinedly towards the large metal door, answering the call of his people’s footsteps.