jay

Plastic bags and empty cans hover just below the water's surface, caught between sinking and floating in the dark, opaque water that reflects a sky the colour of dead televisions. It is always worse after a heavy rain washes the worst of the crap into the canals. Jay stands inside the yellow tape, oblivious to the activity of the officers around him and the small crowd, a mixture of the homeless and the going home, as he watches the body floating, upside down while caught in a slow invisible spin of current. Except that the man is dead he cannot tell anything now. He turns himself slowly, the ball and heel of opposite feet keeping a measured friction while he examines the abbreviated landscape around him, removing everyone else from the scene. He sees the movement before he sees the thing itself. His focus pins it to the wall. A black scrawl against the brick, a symbol that forms a gateway. Jay shivers. He ducks under the tape and walks to the foot of the bridge where it was trying to escape. His fingers reach out to touch it. There is the smell of rotting plum and the movement of flies. The image still does not move but it begins to fade, falling through purple and blues like an old man's tattoo. The smell of tobacco tells him that that the DCI is standing behind him.

“What you looking at?” The DCI asks.

“Just thought I saw something.” Jay replies. “But there's nothing here now.”

The DCI lets out a slow stream of smoke.

“The recovery boys are here, they're going to get the body out for us now. Better go pay our respects, eh?”

Jay nods and follows the DCI back through the cordon.

Ripped off William Gibson for the first line.

nothing

no update this week :( double one next week.

in the meantime check out this awesome animation:
http://www.zefrank.com/zesblog/archives/2008/05/wall_animation.html

edge of embers tilts itself slowly in the darkness, turning its belly towards the distant sun. the exotic dance of particles across its quicksilver skin ripples against him like an ocean wave. the burst and fade of their energy is sucked inwards, a welcome feeling that offers scant blessing against the pain. the scars of the attack cut deep across its back, it is all it can do to counter the tumbling of its motion to keep itself orientated towards the sun, ignoring the frozen outpourings of gases and liquids that blemish its smooth shell.
they will be back to finish it once they realise that it is no longer a threat. it counts three of their ships dead and that has scared them away for now but it can feel them watching with the subtle ping of directed radio waves. it turns its attention inwards, towards its guest. she is conscious but seems strangely calm. she must know that it is dying and that she will die too yet she does not react the way it expects. she sits calmly.
"skatha bruin edge of embers." she says, quietly. "you fought bravely, and well. what is our situation."
it feels sorry for her and briefly keeps silent while it composes a report.
"if we have an hour, or two, it is possible that i can repair myself enough to push us on towards jupiter ring. i doubt that we will have that long before they return."
it feels her nod inside it, the shift of her weight against the seat.
"then we must find another way." she says.

landing

The building landed with a quiet thud. Dust fell gently from the window ledges as a few groans and twinges echoed from inside. Shortly there was only the usual sounds of the street; the coughing of old cars on the road, fragments of human voices caught amongst the brickwork. Then the doors opened and a crowd spilled out: Jaggermuffins twirled their bright weapons before hiding them back away with sly grins; darpas, dressed in black robes, chanted with delicate hands pushed together in prayer; moreauveans sang loudly as they shook their heads so that their golden hair became a halo in the new light. The flood of people continued while stern praefects towered over them, their slow, giant hands unable to grab or stop them.

consul

The consul climbed back up the parapet with a gratified swagger to announce the resuscitation of the talks. Beyond the city walls, amongst the hum and stutter of generators and conversations, a few interested people stood to listen, eyes shaded from the bright morning sun. The army was encamped and relaxed, the majority of soliders tired and worn out from the years of conflict but still belligerent. Amongst them sat Bel Tor, skinny and pale, tending a small fire which heated his platoon's morning coffee as they sat playing cards or maintaining their equipment with oils and polish.
-What's he saying? Darren suddnely shouted at Bel. -Anything worth knowing?
Bel just shrugs and pushes another stick into the flames that are only half-visible in the light.

dirty

The dirt climbs up the wall in layers of years. Cracks stretch through the plaster under a bubbling scar tissue of paint. The windows set in the wall are paradoxically clean, their transparency marred only by faded paper pasted against the glass to list special offers and the reflection of the facing street, bright in the spring sunlight. Except for the glass you would think that this shop had been closed for years, that the stacks of office furniture on sale inside had been abandoned, like the shuttered pawnbroker's next door.

wind and snow

The wind blows through the meditation hall. Haku shivers as it sneaks through his ragged cotton robe, finding the gaps and chinks that have become exposed since he last tightened and tucked it. In the fading light the figure of the Buddha seems to growl at him, making him feel guilty about nothing in particular, and he bends back to his task of shuffling the broom quickly across the floor. The old master will be returning soon, back from his visit to the town, hopefully carrying some scraps of food to supplement the small amount of rice they have left.

There is the scent of snow in the air. Haku had never considered snow to have much of a smell before moving to this temple. The old buildings seem to catch and amplify the weather as though the rotten timbers know what is coming and reflect it inwards.

Haku sighs with the wind and opens the door, brushing the assembled pile of dust out even as a gust catches it and drives much of it back inside. His stomach grumbles. He heaves the broom onto his shoulder and pulls the door tight. He walks to the cupboard and stows it away, bowing to it with a reflex gratitude that does not disturb his poor mood. Then he picks up his cushion and moves to the side of the room. He sits cross-legged, facing away from the Buddha but aware of his presence, and mumbles a short prayer before beginning his meditation.

The darkness grows deeper and the wind picks up its rattles and punches. Haku tightens his robe in an attempt to close off access for the cold but he does not dare start a fire or light a candle until the master is back. He tries to bring his focus back to his breathing and to ignore the thoughts that bubble up in complaint.

He wakes with a start. The numbness of sitting is compounded with the cold reaching into his limbs. The room is completely black and he can see nothing. The wind has died down to be replaced with the quiet shuffle of snow. He has no idea of the time but he knows that the master should be back by now. He unfolds his legs slowly, massaging blood and warmth back into them as he does, and it is a minute or two before he feels able to stand. He moves to the door, stamping his feet against the wooden floor. Outside thick leaves of snow flutter in the strange half-light of the storm. Haku slips his shoes on and crunches his way to the master's small room. Inside it is dark but there is a delicate warmth after being outside. Shivering, Haku lights a candle and inspects the sparse room. The master is not here and his bed is undisturbed. Frowning he looks around to the desk. There is a piece of paper there, neatly tied with a length of string and with Haku's name written along its length.

Shaking with more than cold Haku places the candle carefully on the desk and picks up the scroll. He slips the string from the end and carefully unwinds the paper. In the flickering light be reads the short message.

"I am dead. The temple is now under your care."

The message is signed and stamped by the master. He must have known before he left that he would not return. Haku slumps into the downwards to the stool. He reads the message again. Tears begin to form in his eyes. The old man had been fractious but he looked after Haku after his parents had died, sparing him the draft in the frequent local wars.

Haku stands up again, quickly, and resolves to head out to find his master's body. He tucks the scroll into his shirt and quickly heads back to the meditation hall. Overhead the flutter of an owl causes snow to tumble from a branch. Haku feels a flash of nervousness but he cannot stop now. Back in the hall he ties on his hat, finds a lantern and, lighting it, hooks it onto a walking staff. Contained by a snow globe of light, chanting the sutra for the dead, he heads out along the path to the town.