I’ve given you three distinct story openings featuring male leads with three distinct problems.

Djinn - Khalid. A story set in the modern middle east, with roots deeply embedded in the Muslim faith. Who is Nadira? Do you know the roots of Jinn, how can those kind of differences be overcome?

Kolbe - Is the lead character named Kolbe, or is it someone else who simply encountered Kolbe? Catholic, at least for anyone who knows the reference for the title. Drug use is there, freedom to change around scenery. Gritty, dirty, but not every hero rides the white horse.

Sehnsucht - Much closer to home for me. Unnamed lead. Catholic, with a nod to immortality of the spirit.

Can any of you take them from there? Give me the next step. Give me the idea, or write it yourself and I’ll post it (with due credit, of course) for you. The email, for those that want it, is sadistic.excess -[[[[at]]]]- gmail.com

He turned and regarded me with his black eyes, in such a way that I wasn’t sure if he saw me, or saw into me. I knew him to be unforgiving of failure, but not cruel, not in the way he’d been painted by the faithful and faithless alike. He was much like my father had been before I walked into the underworld, the sort of person you wanted to please, but always unable to be pleased.

I wasn’t afraid, but felt the weight of failure on my shoulders. The man had answered correctly, in spite of what tortures I’d put him through, in spite of the agony he faced, his answers were as they should have been. And so, he had been taken from me, melted into the Earth at my feet, returning to the source, the mud that served as their creator.

I could see the black flames beginning to swirl around him, but held still as his hot wind began to whip around me. I felt my own answering disquiet building and reigned it in. I wondered what fate had brought me to stand before him those many centuries ago, rather than walking into the light as we were always told would happen to the faithful. Had I, myself, not answered the questions correctly? Had I a moment of hesitation?

Those answers were never forthcoming from the man before me, nor could I remember those moments as I lay dying, the blood staining the Earth below my fallen body. What had happened in those moments that weight crushed down upon me, sucking the air from my body? I could ask him, had asked him, but he only stared at me, into me, as he did now.

He never spoke, but I always knew his mind somehow, as if we were made of one cloth, one flesh. I knew that he expected better of me. He finally turned his gaze from me and showed me my next Witness. A woman. I looked away from the screen and began to voice my objection when pain lashed across my body. His body was almost transparent, black flames swirled keeping, and not keeping, his form upon that throne where he always sat.

I scowled and again the pain lashed through my body. Fire raced across my back, through the shell of my body. I felt myself choke on that same flame. Heat and pressure forced me to my knees, tried to make my palms strike the floor. I refused it and it grew until I cried out, the shock and agony torn violently from my throat.

And then it was gone. The flame began to take his shape again. His eyes were once again clear, and staring at me puzzled, before even that was hidden behind the same blank stare. My chest heaved, I felt the lingering ache of his punishment like an echo in canyon. I pondered it briefly wondering why, now, he had decided to try and break me.

He turned and the images flashed of that woman. I would be able to find her wherever she went. I felt the memory of my previous Witness fade until I could no longer remember what he’d looked like.

It was torture, not being able to remember the faces, but he always wiped them before sending me out. It kept me focused, I think. Each time I tried to remember anything during an assignment, only the face of my current Witness would come to me. I wondered at his reasoning for giving me a woman when he’d stopped doing so over 500 years ago. I could ask, but he would not answer me.

I watched him fade before me and closed my eyes as the wind pushed me through the coldness of the gate. I tried to think of a time when it wasn’t like this. I tried to think of anything but her face came to me each time.

Nadira.

The crowds were mindless, unseeing. I didn’t bother to cloak my presence, most of them were blind to the supernatural just as I had been when Iblis had come for me.

Her named repeated in my head over and over, and would until I laid my hand upon her. The scent I knew to be hers wafted to me from a closed tent. It wasn’t hard to pass the guard outside, nor to summon the wind that masked my entry. Once inside, I turned and looked upon her, sleeping amid a pile of pillows and blankets. The voice quieted in my head. I walked silently to the corner of her tent and waited. Her death would not be long in coming if I had been sent with this haste.

And I waited, watching her sleep for hours, all the while anticipating the final blow. Would it be an assassin? A car bomb placed just outside the tent? Time trickled past and still she slept undisturbed by any interruption, any life-ending event.

When she opened her eyes, I was found myself excited, eager to get her death finished so that I could do my job and move onto the next, hopefully male, face. I wanted to leave this tent, get this one done and finished. I never liked spending any time with my Witnesses. It was a simple matter of wanting what you could never have — Their life, maybe, their friendship.. In the case of women, their love. That was the reason he’d not given me a female Witness in so long, I’d loved my last one.

I’d spent the first silent hours I’d had in a eternity with this woman, and already I felt a protectiveness I didn’t want to have. I knew upon my return I would ask him about this time, even knowing that he would not answer me. I would ask.

I did not move from my corner as she rose and walked over to the basin of water and splashed her face with water. She was pretty, my witness, and I badly wanted to have her turn and look upon me. See me. I was suddenly tired of vacant stares and silence. I ached to be more than just smokeless flame and death’s hand.

I wanted, and even that concept was so foreign to me. I wanted, and still, when she turned to look at me, I was surprised.

‘Khalid?’

My mouth parted. Yes, that had been my name.

I don’t know what burr has spawned this latest burst of creative energy, but it’s fed by music, and that music is what spawns the piece you get. Yesterday’s post was fed by a song by Evanescence called Anywhere. If you listen to it on repeat… maybe you can find the source of that post. I repeated it approximately 8 times during the course of that writing burst, whose fruit waited ever so patiently for you when you logged into read it.

Today’s is in production, but it isn’t sadistic, it isn’t romantic… it’s simply what was produced, and for this one you can thank Metallica’s ‘Turn the Page.’

(more…)

I knelt in front of the altar, my hands fisted, one over the other, in front of me. My mouth and nose rested against them and instead of closing my eyes, I stared with blood-shot eyes openly at the red cloth leading to the altar, and beyond to the large stained glass window which held the image of Christ. It was hours past midnight, but the image was clear, illuminated by clever lights hidden behind it.

The church had been my home for several hours, the altar my resting place for more than a few of them. The guests had long since left, my family departing two hours behind them. My priest, the last of them, eventually retired to his offices, and later, onto bed. It was only through trust that I was given access to this sanctuary, he had known me, helped raise me, as a child.

I heard their arguments clearly in my head, repeated over and over in the dark hours following their abandonment. I, for my part, listened and still did what I did. I walked calmly over to the altar and knelt down, my fingers clasped and prayed. Eventually, in the face of my stubbornness, they left.

She wasn’t coming. I knew that, but couldn’t find it in me to walk out, even hours later, behind them. It wasn’t that I was praying now, no, I had figured out that God didn’t listen to me decades ago. I simply sought an understanding. Knowledge.

When my knees began to ache, I would sit back against the rail and look back over the pews, still decorated with white ribbons and lilies, hundreds of lilies. Their smell was haunting and I knew, without saying anything out loud, or even in my head, that I would always associate the smell with her. I wondered if I would ever forget any detail of the church as it was then, with its silent and quiet beauty, and the smell of her mingled with wood polish and ash.

Tears welled and then later, streaked down my cheeks. I did this to myself. I had not called the florist, nor the guests, nor the priest to tell them what had happened. I couldn’t bring myself to make the phone calls and I couldn’t give anyone else the knowledge without it breaking me in two. I was so fragile yesterday when the doctor had told me and even the simple movement of sharing the burden was too much for me to handle. Her mother was no stronger, nor her father then, but they managed to start. Somehow.

I walked into the church not dressed for a wedding, not as a happy groom, but faithless, God-less. What guests there were then, said nothing to me and only saw me collapse in the same place where I was to swear my undying love and loyalty only an hour later. If she had been able to appear.

I sobbed and it echoed loudly. My hands covered my face, and my palms were soaked in the hot wetness of my tears. I struggled to find some scrap of calm, but it was useless. Raging hate for him filled my body. I pushed from the floor and my fingers tore at my shirt, ripping it open, buttons clattering somewhere in the distance, the nails on my hands leaving blood red trails on my skin.

‘I HATE YOU!’ I screamed at the mocking image of him, peaceful, illuminated. ‘I HATE YOU! YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME!’ I raced up the steps and tore the red cloth off the altar, toppling the heavy brass crucifix above it. It scored the wood and cut my arm as it fell over with a thud. I flung the cloth to the floor. Blood ran down my arm, wet the carpet on the floor.

‘I hate you.’ I said flatly then, and reached for and snapped the chain around my neck that held, ironically, the gift she’d given me days before she died; Before she died, the day before our wedding. She loved my faith, she told me when she had pressed the cross into my palm. She loved how I knew how to make everything right.

I watched beads of blood snake down the chain and finally drip from the cross itself before I tossed it onto the pile of cloth and cross. I didn’t care. Everything was gone. Taken. Ruined.

Those steps, removing me from the light of that colored glass image, removing me from the scent of lilies, wood polish and ash, were the last I’d ever take inside a church, I’d sworn then. A century later, in the shadow of St. Catherine’s, I saw her again.