The Lilam Zone

[Lilam]

Just a little place to call my own where I can post crap and snippets of random stuff I write for fun. Welcome to my cache of crappy crappiness.

~*~*~*~

Sam was a simple man.

He liked simple things, thought simple thoughts and led a simple life.

His simplicity was only superseded by his unique ability of knowing the exact moment when shutting up would be the only thing saving him from someone leaving the imprint of their knuckles on his kidneys. This, of course, was often accompanied by his uncanny knack for disregarding warnings and threats of bodily harm with all the survival instincts of a lemming.

And, despite being a simple man of questionable intelligence and poor judgment, there was a perfectly logical reason that Sam was swinging by a rope around his neck from a chin up bar attached to his bedroom doorframe.

He had been there a good twenty five minutes before a door down the hall slowly opened and the sound of shoeless footsteps stepping into the hallway. Shuffling feet paused outside Sam’s room. Sharon’s sleepy brown eyes slid over to Sam’s motionless form, her lips parting and gaze instantly misting over with a film of tears.

“Morning,” she yawned, wiping sleep and moisture from her eyes. “I’m making coffee. Don’t expect me to bring you any.”

Without a second glance in Sam’s direction, Sharon yawned obnoxiously once more and disappeared into the kitchen.

One of Sam’s eyes popped open. There was no way he was going to let Sharon hog all the sweet, sweet caffeine to herself. He needed that caffeine. It made his mouth happy and his brain feel all fuzzy and tingly.

Having had to hold his knees up the entire time, Sam was only more than happy to set his feet on solid ground again, grumbling about the inconvenient height of doorframes. How was an upstanding man of average height supposed to effectively hang himself from such a low elevation? He worked his way out of the noose and turned the corner into the kitchen, rubbing at his raw and reddened neck.

Sharon was already pouring herself coffee when he entered. She took an experimental sip, her eyes cresting over the rim and settling on Sam.

“Anything?” she inquired around the mug blocking her face.

“Well…” Sam rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. “Aside from the rope chafing my neck something awful and losing all feeling in my legs… nope. Still alive.”

“What a shame,” replied Sharon as Sam helped himself to some coffee and began to add enough sugar and cream to induce diabetic shock.

“Ah, coffee. The breakfast of winners,” he said, imbibing the tantalizing aroma straight out the air.

Sharon shook her head at the liquid diabetes in his hand before removing the mug from her face, giving him a full view of her stony expression. “I figured you had given up on the suicide attempts by now. At first, it was kind of amusing but now it’s just become pathetic, even for you. And cutting off all oxygen to your brain is not a good way to start the day.”

Gulping down a scalding mouthful of coffee, Sam leaned against the counter and frowned. “Don’t nag, especially when I don’t see you risking your brain to reach our goal. I don’t care if my drain gets so bamaged that I can’t not think good no more. My brain and I are more than willing to make that sacrifice.”

Sam drained the rest of his sugar sludge in irritation, speaking loudly in indignation. “You should respect all the pain and suffering I’ve had to go through. There are over a million ways to die and I’m pretty sure I’ve attempted about half of them. I’ve even tried the honorable way out with sudoku!”

Sharon, who had been quietly nursing her coffee, took a small sip and mumbled, “… You mean, seppuku?”

Sam waved his hand dismissingly. “Whatever, I don’t speak a lot of French. The point is it hurt like a bitch and there is nothing honorable about being able to clearly see the process of how the chili cheese dog you just ate ten minutes ago turns to poo.”

Slamming the now empty mug on the counter, he gave the skeptical woman an insurance salesman’s grin, insisting that she buy his unwavering confidence. “I am going to die dammit, even if it kills me! Just you watch!”

Sharon took another tiny sip of her coffee, clearly unfazed.

“You sure are excitable this morning… in more ways than one.”

Sam’s eyebrows bunched together in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your postmortem priapism is showing.” Detecting faint amounts of humor in her voice, Sam followed her gaze and instantly regretted choosing flannel pajama bottoms as his choice of attire that morning.

“I don’t think that autoerotic asphyxiation is considered a suicide attempt, Sam. I give you points for trying to kill two birds with one stone, though.”

This said, Sharon turned, mug still in hand, and began to walk back towards her room with Sam stammering after her, “I—this is… I wasn’t—Like you’ve never seen a dead guy with a hard on before!”

Covering his “condition” with his hands, he began the awkward trek to his own room. Sharon was loitering in her doorway. She wasn’t smiling, but he could hear the presence of one in her tone.

“You’re not dead.”

“No, but I’m not technically alive either. So what does that make me?”

To Sam’s surprise, the teasing retort he had been expecting was slow to come, the uncomfortable silence saying far more than Sharon was willing to.

“Sad,” she answered, slipping inside her room and shutting the door behind her.

Sam stood alone in the dark hallway, left to wonder if she was speaking in jest or sincerely.

He was a simple man.

He liked simple things, thought simple thoughts and led a simple life.

Someone had told him that once, long ago. And it was true; when he was just a normal man, things had been simple. Even dying had been relatively easy.

Ironically, it was only after Sam had died that things got complicated.

And it was precisely because Sam had been a simple man, who liked simple things, with simple thoughts and wanted to live a simple afterlife that being an Angel of Death was anything but simple.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Gotta say, Lilam, this is not "crappy crappiness."

Only two faults I spotted (but I really wasn't looking too hard either!):
- The really long sentence near the beginning (probably easily fixed by some punctuation).
- I don’t care if my drain gets so bamaged that I can’t not think good no more. < "brain" and "bamaged" ... unless this was intended to show the brain-damage (which, upon rereading it, it might be!)

Loved the dark humor. Loved the story. Dialogue was good. You made me chuckle more than once. I'm interested to see more but this is probably a one-off, I'm guessing? I hope I am not right and that you do more with this character :]

[Lilam]

Yeah, I probably should fix that run-on sentence. Not sure how I missed it. I normally over-punctuate rather than leave punctuation out. At least I'm learning new ways to make mistakes!

But the "drain bamaged" thing was intentional... though I can see how that could be mistaken as me going all dyslexic (as it's happened before). Not sure if this is a one shot though. Could develop into something more. It's one of those ideas I just randomly came up with one day and worked out a rough plot but haven't found the time/will to actually crank out a story. But the characters are fun to write with so, more than likely, they'll turn up here again (or in their own thread) in some form or fashion. Glad you enjoyed the story!

And thanks for reading and commenting!

*mucho huggles*

[Sekot]

Ooooo ooooo ooooo want more.

Your trade mark humor shines through once again, enjoyable to the last.

[Lilam]

((Thankies, Sekky! *cuddle-puddle* ))

And everything she loved burned.

Smoldering, blackening.

Precious memories boiled and blistered before her eyes, but she could not turn away, even when it became too painful to watch. She had to look on. Sear and seal the memories into her mind, where the fire could not reach. The walls, now charred beyond repair, began to bleed black shadows that quickly inundated most of the room, save the spot where the girl lay prone on the floor.

The darkness lapped at her feet, trying to coax her into oblivion, but so long as she kept her eyes fixed on the bright flames just out of reach, it seemed unable to claim her. It was becoming difficult to breathe, her chest feeling hollowed out and on the verge of collapse. Blood and tears left pale, pink stains on the carpet beneath her head, though she was too numb to know for certain if she was still crying or not.

With every blink of her eyes, there was a flurry of incandescent spores that appeared to manifest out of thin air, drifting to the floor like weightless dandelion fluff and disappearing upon contact with the ground. The drops of stardust seemed impervious to fire, unaffected by flame and smoke. Suddenly, the all devouring inferno parted and bowed at an unnatural angle, allowing a lone figure to pass through. The listless ebb of light spheres came to a complete stop, as if frozen in space and time.

As the figure drew close, the spores nearest by broke free from their mid-air stasis, chasing him in a spinning, elliptical dance. Writhing strands of shadow clung to his impossibly thin frame in the form of a tuxedo, stray wisps floating in a lingering trail after every step. The black fedora atop his head was pulled low and slightly askew, dark tinted sunglasses revealing nothing beyond, only mirrored reflections. Any skin that was visible was sallow and pale, almost translucent. He seemed to be moving yet static all at once, closing the distance between him and the child in an eternity that lasted only a moment.

Gliding across the room on shoes that seemed not to touch the floor, the man garbed in smoke and midnight tilted his head down toward the girl. He did not speak nor did he stop. It was an acknowledgment, perhaps even a condolement, but nothing more or less than that.

“Lukus.”

The girl was positive that her lips had not moved at all despite her attempts, but her voice filled the entire room, rising above the dull roar of flames. The tuxedo man hesitated in his steps, sparkling orbs spiraling around him playfully.

“Give... him… back.”

Regardless if the girl was speaking with words, her mind or empathically, it was a strain on the motionless speaker, as if every word were barbed and covered in thorns, tearing away small pieces of her with every utterance. Her gaze fell upon the man’s shifting back, breaking the spell of the fire. Like creeping vines, tendrils of shadow began to inch up the length of her legs, spreading over her like some unholy blight. The man did not turn but spoke in a deep, rich baritone that reverberated through the room yet was hushed in a whispering echo.

“It’s a bit too late for that, child. He’s gone now, as you should be. There’s nothing left for you here so you might as well go on ahead.”

The shadows were climbing up her waist and flames were just barely licking fingertips, but the girl persisted, insisting, “No. Not… yet.”

There was no reply this time save an exhale of air that could have been a sigh as the man started to walk again, showing no interest in continuing the conversation. The girl’s vision began to flicker, like a roll of film reaching its conclusion, but she resisted against the void that threatened to smother her, struggling to thwart the inevitable eclipse that would end everything. She became possessed by poisonous, volatile emotions that had time to ferment and fester, to pervade and infect like a parasitic disease within her, crying out for the retribution that would put an end to her anguish.

“Bring. Him. Back.”

This time when the man paused a ripple seemed to pass over him from tip to toe. In a leisurely manner, he turned and made his way over to the girl, kneeling down beside her. The features on his face that were not obscured remained rigid and still, but the impression of a smile was there, in his words and presence.

“Obnoxious little brat, aren’t you? That sounded like a demand, not a request.”

Though she could not see them, the girl could feel the man’s eyes upon her, scrutinizing her.

“Do you know who you just addressed in such a rude manner?”

The reply came without hesitation or reserve, albeit with less intensity than before.

“Don’t care.”

Teeth like polished ivory were exposed in a devil may care grin, the tuxedo man reaching for his hat and sliding his fingers down the rim.

“Well, I suppose I can just skip past the pleasantries then.”

The black gloved hand was removed from his hat and was dramatically unfurled in the direction of the girl.

“Seeing as how you’re already ordering me around, why don’t we make it a little more worth my wild? I will bring Lukus back. I’ll even help you get your revenge. You can command of me anything you so choose, and, so long as you order me to do so, I shall obey.”

He dipped his fingers into a spatter of blood near the sole of his shoe, bringing it to his mouth and pressing it gently against his blanched lips.

“But in exchange, when Lukus has been returned to you and your vengeance complete, I will end your life with my own hands and your soul will belong to me from now until eternity.”

Although spoken rather nonchalantly, there was power in his words, sending a feverish heat into the girl’s ears as the air crackled violently.

“Those are the terms and the price. Know that whatever decision you make, there is no going back. So what do you say, girl? Your kind often is faced with a moment in their life where they must choose between hell and glory; few can say they have truly experienced both.”

He spoke no more after that. The girl kept her gaze fixated on the man kneeled beside her, searching for herself in the reflection of his sunglasses. From the neck down she was cocooned in pulsating shadows steadily rising to swallow what was left of her. Web-like strands lashed out and adhered to her chin, twisting and intertwining as they began to meld with her face. Only a few words managed to escape before her mouth was sealed by darkness.

“You better not let me die here… that’s an order.”

A smile with far too many teeth.

A gloved hand tightly squeezing one of her own.

Then, a pain she would never be able to forget.

But what the girl remembered most, what persisted in her mind like a deep set stain, was just how overpowering the stench of brimstone had been as she watched everything she once knew be cremated into sparkling gray ashes.

[Lilam]

((Something I was thinking of expanding into an RP but never quite got it off the ground ))

It was quite ironic that I was cursed by an angel’s blessing.

All I wanted to do was destroy the world.

Kill a few million people. Bring forth an era of chaos and terror that leads to mankind’s untimely demise. Retire to a nice little condo in the swankiest circle of Hell and take up soul tormenting to keep myself busy. You know, just really getting to know myself by doing what I love. And I would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for that meddling, winged, looks-like-he-could-be-on-a-damn-tampon-commercial-wearing-all-that-white bastard.

I don’t know how many humans my demon posse and I had murdered into Grade D ground meat plain as day in the middle of the streets before he showed up. He arrived via the rather outdated flash of blinding light trick, sporting a very unflattering white track suit. His sandaled feet dared not to touch the ground, hovering just above the human gumbo slip and slide below. Us unholies kind of just stopped and stared a bit. Sure we were expecting some opposition, but something more along the lines of a full blown holy crusade. Instead, we got one feathered freak that only seemed to be passing through the earthly realm during his pre-dawn jog.

It was a kick to the shin kind of insult; the type that was infuriating just based on principle alone. Physically incapable of shrugging off insults, it immediately rubbed me the wrong way to the point where I could feel my insides beginning to chafe. Generating near visible waves of skin blistering rage, it was inevitable that the angel’s gaze passed over a hundred demon eyes and yet somehow connected with mine. A tumor, black and vile, took root in the pit of my stomach. We didn’t move or speak, simply sizing the other up with only a look. But it was like a thousand invisible devils dragging ragged claws on the walls of every stretch of my skin. I hated his wispy confusion of curls perfectly bleached the color of a harsh winter. I hated his metallic eyes, those unfathomable drops of liquid mercury. But what I hated most of all was how he looked at me.

The kindness in his eyes.

The compassion on his face.

Pitying me as I stood unwavering before him, drenched in innocent blood and fucking loving every minute of it.

The angel popped out the earbuds of his pearly white Ipod from his ears and every demon tensed expectantly. Except for me. I didn’t flinch a muscle. Even blinking didn’t seem necessary. Now I had sent an angel or twelve to a slow roasting death in Hell back in my younger days. I’ll admit, for peace loving, fluffy cloud skipping bastards, they throw down like professional MMA trained wolverines on cocaine. Most would consider themselves lucky to go at it with one of Earth’s mighty cub scouts and live to greatly exaggerate the badass tale.

Admittedly, I was cocky. Damn cocky, actually. I had taken down others of his kind. His ass was already postmarked and ready to be delivered to him the moment we locked eyes. I knew that shit was going to go down exactly how I wanted it. I could smell a punk ass bitch a mile away and he was wearing the scent like expensive cologne. We let our eyes do all of the talking, speaking briefly at a distance. His quicksilver stare greeted me warmly while mine were already halfway through farewell. With a flutter of feathered wings made of white fire, he extended his right hand to me. I did not decline the bold invitation.

I devoured the space between us at a ravenous pace, a span of time I measured in blinks and heartbeats. My hands formed a vice around his neck with the strength of a maddened monster. Giddiness bubbled beneath the cool expression fixed on my face; I had been too fast for him and I was going to make damn sure it was his last regret. His body was an intricate map beneath my fingertips, so clear in my mind’s eye that I decided to appoint myself its new master. The veins in the angel’s neck tensed and twitched against my palms as blood began to seep from his eyes, ears, mouth, nose, anywhere I could squeeze that shit out of.

It was a thick, translucent liquid the color of melted diamonds, the scent of his life essence like snorting a line of every pleasant scent in existence all at once. Surprisingly, his blood was very cold, coating my hands like a layer of ice. A near invisible tear split his left side like a rip in a pair of cheap pantyhose, strained to burst open by the churning rapids within him. Despite this, there was nothing on his face to indicate he was in any pain and his heroic attempt at defiance was almost adorable. I wondered how long he could keep it up as the top of his skull ruptured into a shallow fissure beneath his skin while his cranium swelled with blood.

It was at that time that I noticed his touch on my face. Exactly when he had reached out to me, I can’t say. I was far too absorbed in trying to make him pop like a bloated water balloon. His hand, though dappled with pinpricks of blood oozing from his pores, was hot against the chill of my skin, his fingers leaving tingling phantom trails across my cheek. I expected the worst. A desperate, last ditch attack to thwart me long enough to spare his life.

That is what I prepared myself for.

What he chose to do, however, was far worse.

For all the tender caressing of my face, it sure didn’t deter him from thrusting his damn fingers into my throat. It hurt of course, what with being able to feel his fingernails practically tickling my spinal column. But it wasn’t nearly enough to kill me. I attempted to laugh. However, I only managed some rather gross sounding gagging croaks which were abruptly cut short when his blood mixed with mine and my body instantly reacted as if I were being boiled in acid. Pain exploded in an atomic shock wave, lighting fuses that darted up my nerve endings and fueling napalm fireworks that seared bone and melted marrow. I felt the thumping bundle of flesh in my chest start to turn to charcoal, perhaps to crumble into dust. My agony was immeasurable, but truthfully it was fear that had me shaking down to that abyss where my soul should have been.

This had to be what dying felt like.

I felt myself die, inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat. Every wicked sin was purged from my flesh for seconds that lasted eons and eternities. Yet still, I had no prayers to spare on Death’s mercy. I was more inspired to live than I had ever been and the emotion was as foreign as it was potent. While Death and I were in the same business, my own death was a laughable thought on most occasions and not a frequent thought at that. But I knew, in that moment as I wavered closer to death than I had ever been that I wanted to live. And every bit of essence that constituted me as a living being was telling me so.

I want to live.

I don’t want to die.

Sadly, I believed those to be my final thoughts.

Not an overwhelming rush of guilt and regret. Not an accomplished sense of fulfillment at all the crazy shit I’ve done in the past. Just a wretched admittance of panic and fear. Perhaps this is what my victims felt before I sent them plunging into that nice little black pit timeshare in Hell I own. I can’t really muster up any feelings of remorse or sorrow though. I’m a demon. Killing shit is kind of what I do. In the very least, I can now share in humanity’s general consensus that realizing one’s own mortality is basically a black hole of infinite suck.

Denying my descent the entire way, I wilted to my knees, forcing the angel down with me. How my neck was still attached to my body and holding my head upright was a downright mystery to me by that point. Lucky break or not, I was grateful for it. At least I could still leave a damn sexy corpse. The silvery eyed angel rested a hand on my head, as if to encourage me to make peace with the world before leaving me as nothing more than a bloody shadow on the pavement. I swear something in me snapped and it snapped hard. Probably all the damn vertebrae in my neck. It was faint at first, but underneath explosive pangs of white hot lightning flashing in a violent storm down the length of my body, pride and indignation welled up within me, steadily increasing in ferocity the more I became aware of it.

I might have been forced to my knees by a half-dead angel and no doubt I already had one foot kicked through Death’s door, but I wasn’t about to roll over and drop dead with forced prayers in my final breath. I may have been the scum licker of the scum of the earth, but I had dignity. Not much at the moment, but enough to keep my head held high… figuratively. And that got me thinking. Wasn’t death just as much of a choice as living? I chose how I wanted to live my life and I’d be damned a thousand times and a half if I was going to let some sky fairy decide how I die my own death!

Fuck that. I’m not dead until I fucking say I’m dead.

And my eyes told him that. It was the glare equivalent of flipping him the bird with the righteous hand of God. The angel simply smiled. I say simply, but dammit if it wasn’t one of the few things I could actually say that I truly found beautiful beyond words. His smile was a natural miracle, something that could only be experienced and appreciated. Even I, a demon in the throes of death felt some sense of reverence at the effortless gesture that embodied grace in all sense of the word. So shook up by his smile, I hardly registered him drawing his fingers from the gaping punctures in my neck.

The riptide of lava within me cooled all in a moment, every trace of pain receding to nothingness. My neck wounds began to cinch shut, leaving only an odd, buzzing sensation as a lasting reminder. I couldn’t have cared less about that though. All I knew was that the angelic bastard didn’t finish me off when he had the chance and boy did I ever so very much want him to regret it.

His hand shifted off of my head, releasing me. I jerked forward. He had healed completely in the time it took to try and kill me. I was going to change that quickly enough. My hand clamped down upon his face like a beastly maw with all intentions of swallowing his own fucking head. I was going to launch his face clear out the back of his skull. I would snicker as his final thoughts exploded in a brightly colored burst like a New Year’s party favor. It would have been awesome. It would have been glorious.

It’s a damn shame that reality is hardly ever awesome or glorious when it counts. I could clearly sense the waves of black thunder surging down the length of my arm. Feverish and roaring with dark fury. However, it seemed to be… stuck. Or blocked, as if by some invisible barrier pushing back at me with equal force. The angel smiled against my palm. Without seeing it, I was certain that while it was just as unsettlingly beautiful as before –if not more so- that it was somehow damning all the same.

I knew then that I could not kill him.

So, so very slowly, my free hand moved to my throat which I had ignored entirely until just then. It hummed with energy much too pure, pulsating nauseating waves of raw, divine power. My fingertips met with hard resistance encircling my neck like a collar. I tugged at it. There was not even the slightest bit of give. And then my newfound friend Panic dropped in for another unwanted visit. Frantic, I snatched my hand off the angel’s smug face and clawed at the thing around my neck. The more I tried to yank the damn thing off, however, the more pain it caused me. In the midst of freaking the fuck out, my mind strayed back to when the angel’s blood entered my body. I could only assume that this restraint had something to do with it. Knowing that, however, was no consolation I was quick to note, as I now was convinced that the only way to remove it was to rip my head right the fuck off and hope that if I put it on ice fast enough and didn’t die from the self-decapitation that everything would be okay.

I was Azura, demon killer of everything except what hadn’t been killed by me yet.

I can’t just suddenly be unable to kill, crazy angelic magic collar or not. That was ridiculous. Unheard of. Seriously fucked all the way up and back down again! I wasn’t sure if there was a proper definition for honestly willing to subject oneself to a chainsaw tracheotomy just so they can once again enjoy the simple pleasure of killing others, but I believe that denial was pretty close to what I was going through.

So… that was the magical story of how Azura the Bloodqueen was cursed by an angel to never kill a living thing ever again.

The angel, who had been silently laughing his ass off at me with his damn sparkly eyes rose to his feet. He then patted me on the head patronizingly, secured his earbuds back into his ears and strolled away literally walking on sunshine. And not a demon in the vicinity dared to stop him. Not even me. I just let him go. Watched him disappear. Sat on my ass in the middle of the street frozen in complete and utter stupid-face.

I had always thought that my first decisive defeat would result in a violent demise. You live a violent life, you die a violent death. That was just how the world worked. But he broke the world with a smile on his face. Put it back together half-assed, all jumbled up and awkward. Though I had damned a thousand souls to die a thousand deaths with these hands of mine, to this day I believe that angel was by far the crueler of us.

He had let me live yet took away the only thing I lived for.

But unfortunately for him, my involuntary life makeover had, for the first time, also given me something I was willing to die for.

[James]

Just got around to reading that last one, Lilam. It felt a bit choppy at times as Azura's thoughts churned but that actually kind of worked. It gave an impression of a choppy and chaotic mind, which I think is definitely an effect you would hope for? The juxtaposition between old and new really added a pleasure to the imagery. An angel with an iPod is just a description that has taken too long to be written by the world. It really helped to push the reader into the setting of a mass murdering demon and give a sense of the time. That name-dropping of familiar things just comforted the reader as they were confronted with the inner thoughts of a killer demon.

Obviously the narrative was the most striking thing. Definitely the sense of vulnerability came through perfectly and yet in a way that still felt casual. It really was quite a pleasure to read if a bit chaotic and quick. You still definitely got your touch, Lilam.

I'm interested though in how you planned to branch this out as an RP? What were you planning as the general thrust of the storyline? Would be a setting and cast filled with demons as Azura struggled to break free of the collar or would she have to go into hiding because effectively she lost her power in the eyes of her allies?

[Lilam]

Thanks for the critique, Agro! Kinda' forgot I posted that actually, lol. The choppiness wasn't intentional at first. I don't have much practice writing in first person so it came out sort of disjointed. I realized it when I was rereading and editing it but I thought it worked well enough with Azura's state of mind so I didn't try to fix it.

Still getting the hang of first person perspective so I'm glad it wasn't a complete visual torture to read. The RP I had in mind was going to center on Azura teaming up with some unique allies (other RPers) to try and find a way to free herself of the collar and take her revenge. I hadn't fully formed the idea, but ultimately Azura wants to kill the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse because she believes that only they have powers potent enough to counteract the collar.

Only thing is, she can't kill and so she needs help to attain this power. Hadn't really thought it out past that nor was I really in love with the idea so I scrapped it as a potential RP and just posted what I had written here. Thanks for popping in and giving me some much needed feedback though. ;D

[Lilam]

Just a snippet of something I wrote awhile ago...

***

RETURN

No one had spoken. No one had even moved. But it was there, that word, dangerously thrust into the void between them. It did not come across as a command, though it was hardly a suggestion either. It simply was, requiring no answer except for his acknowledgement and compliance. The cigarette rolled between his lips as his mouth drew back into a sharp edged smile.

“Oh, I will return,” he assured softly, practically purring. “But not with you and not back there.”

Sam stood then, slowly, letting the oppressive buzz of hostility and aggression from the silent group feed the swell of bloodlust just barely restrained behind the cold smile on his face. One Authority stepped forward. He stepped forward so fast that the man’s afterimage chased after him in a blurred streak and stopped just short of the flame from Sam’s cigarette. He didn’t flinch but a small puff of hazy smoke began to leak from one corner of his mouth in a soft exhale. His gaze traveled down in a deliberate manner, casually taking note of the sword blade skewering his entrails like a fancy hors d'oeuvres.

It would have been easy enough to dodge the attack and probably would have been the smart thing to do considering getting stabbed through the midsection always left him with a killer upset stomach. But right now, it wasn’t so much the kill he wanted as the fight. Being rejected by the Gate yet again had pushed him to the precipice of that dark, deep rage that would not hesitate to consume him should he give it the chance.

These would not be clean, quiet deaths. The Angel of Death, perhaps, might have shown some mercy. But he was all too happy to temporarily strip himself of that title. Right then, he was simply Sam. And he was pissed.

[Lilam]

A little blurb I started for the February Assignment but never quite got it off the ground.

***

Swayne had never believed in monsters.

Even as a child, he had quickly deduced that the exaggerated tales of lurking bogeymen as pure adult manipulation to get him to behave. And he had fervently held onto that belief well into his adulthood. That is, until he found one such monster, living and breathing, lying next to him in bed. To his credit, Swayne kept the shrill gurgle of horror locked tightly behind his clenched jaw despite every instinct and nerve in his body demanding instant limb-flailing hysteria.

Fortuitous luck was on his side, however, as the beast nestled up against him did not stir from its slumber. Frantically, he attempted to dredge up memories of the night before that would hopefully explain why some netherworldly fiend was comfortably nuzzled in his chest hair, but this proved to be too arduous a task on the account that about ninety percent of his blood was currently pure, undiluted absinthe.

Only years of honing and mastering the skill allowed Swayne to maneuver himself out of the rumpled bed without leaving so much as a wrinkle out of place. He landed on the floor like a cat (albeit a very hungover one), crouched and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. The beast continued to snore throatily and did not stir otherwise. Ignoring the pulsating throb of what felt like anvils spinning in a centrifuge within his skull and the feeling of his stomach lining crawling its way up his throat, Swayne swiftly and uncoordinatedly began the process of silently dressing himself.

The art of getting dressed without a sound was just one of his many talents. And normally it would have been no problem sneaking away like a bandit in the night. Except for the fact that Swayne was not at all expecting to find a rat snuggled all warm and cozy in his discarded breeches. And it wasn’t just any rat. The creature was almost big enough to put a saddle on and ride. Already on edge from the fright he had awoken to, his frayed nerves violently snapped. His foot shot out in a reflexive jerk and punted the feral critter across the room where it smacked against the wall.

After hissing something about his mother and pounding his furry chest in indignation a few times, the rat scurried off out of sight. Swayne was already reaching for his pants when he heard it awaken.

“What are you doing?”

Swayne froze at the husky voice, knowing he shouldn’t acknowledge it and that he should immediately flee the musty, old inn like the devil himself was on his heels. But he was a man and men always faced their demons with honor and courage. His only wish was that his demons weren’t always so damn ugly.

The thing now sitting upright in bed appeared to be female or at least had been female at some point in its life. She had a square face, all hard lines and sharp angles, with a wide, flat chin. Dull, brown eyes and a crooked nose framed by a scraggly disarray of black hair did little to flatter her unprepossessing appearance. Although she had a rather generous chest, her build was on the stocky side and much too frumpy in all the wrong places.

“What are you doing?” the prostitute asked again with growing irritation as Swayne remained as still as petrified wood.

Swayne did the only honorable thing a man could do in that situation. He hauled ass. Literally taking a flying leap into his breeches, he started to make a mad dash for the door, only to realize that the she-beast was closer. She was on her feet and already lurching forward to thwart his escape when Swayne spun and proceeded to carry out the next logical plan of action. He defenestrated himself.

It was then he realized that he was on the second story. Probably something he should have checked out before swan diving out of the window. Had the majority of his wits not been entirely soaked in alcohol, he might have been able to at least land with an inkling of finesse. Instead, he landed with all the feline grace of a slab of stone, nothing but his brittle bones and his equally brittle face to cushion the fall.

It was early morning, with dawn just shyly peeking over the horizon, leaving only a few privileged souls to witness his daring leap of stupidity. The blunt force trauma was just enough to expedite Swayne into instant sobriety and a dark humor befitting of a grumpy child rather than the wytch-hexed, demon blighted Soulmancer. Swayne, infamous Demon Master of the Infernal Abyss surged to his hands and knees with a powerful pulse of magic, spitting cobblestone chips out of his teeth.