The Fallen

Greetings Inkers! Another week another batch of lovely pieces to read. I'm a little late and haven't read half as many of the entries as I should have by now, so I'll remedy that later.
I challenged Kerry who wrote the awesome: The Universe Isn't Evil. I was challenged by Cedar the prompt is at the end of this piece. Before you read this I want you to know that it was a colleague at work who helped balance my creativity with a comment, and an amazing Indie Inker who said a few choice words (that Inker will remain nameless but they did also say: "I'm always happy to give my opinion but my disclaimer is that I have no credentials to make me any type of resource!"). I thank them both for making this piece what it is as I ran the risk of being completely stumped and not writing anything at all! 

I SALUTE YOU BOTH, ABUNDANTLY!

It’s thought that gods choose not to dream, why would they? They blessed the world with such a privilege in order to keep hope alive, balance fears and keep progress at a steady pace.
What the gods didn't account for were other gods making ungodly decisions.

 -~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Since he was a boy he'd chosen to remember the day of his birth, this meant dreaming of falling for an entire day and an entire night knowing that in spite of his lineage he'd survive, broken, weathered, and eternally scarred. Falling was the result of being thrown, he hadn't forgotten that either.

"Tell me about your parents?" The little boy asked.

He shrugged the question off with a grunt and continued hammering the heated metal into shape. He didn't know his mother and father in the traditional sense. He knew where he'd come from, how he'd been tossed to the mortals thousands of years ago, but stories about being held, tucked into bed at night or sitting on his father’s shoulders; never actually happened so they’d be no stories for the boy tonight.
The man wasn’t sure if it was his mother or father who had done it in the end. Seeing their child's disfigured features angered them. How could Gods produce offspring so tainted? The only option was to cast out the child immediately.

The piece of metal cooled as he hammered harder. The anvil had sunk into the floor a few inches under the weight of each blow and the boy continued his barrage of annoying questions. If it wasn’t the boy disturbing him it was an ominous black cat that had taken a sudden interest in his work. Where it had come from he had several ideas but no real proof. It did enough to distract him over the last few weeks by perching on freshly made shields or rubbing itself against the blunt edge of a sword, it even tried to take a peek at a bolt of lightning he had stashed in a lead lined box.

"Why do you spend so much time in here mister?"

Feeling a bit guilty - an ungodly trait - he thought of a rhetorical answer. "Your mother prefers me to do my work in the barn away from you children. My work is dangerous and little boys like you could get hurt for just being nearby.”

Unhindered in his pursuit, the notion of danger failed to send the boy back to the house. "What you making mister?"

"My name is V or Mister V to you."

"Sorry V, I mean Mister V. Erm, what is it?"

"The last piece of a very large puzzle, child."

"Well ... my name is-."

"Not my concern,” he said, cutting the boy off. “Fetch me that skillet of water over there and shut the door before that darn cat comes back. The boy did as he was told.

“Why aren’t you out fishing with your father?”

 “He isn’t well and my uncle has already left the harbour with his boat and won’t be back for weeks.” 

“So I’m stuck with you?” V rubbed his jaw more thoughtfully than frustrated. “Well, make yourself useful and help me move this.” 

The boy followed V’s gaze that fell upon a large half finished golden throne. “I need that over here young man, think you’ve got the muscle to move it?” 

The boy grinned flexing his pea-sized biceps and jumped down off the bundle of hay he was sitting on, ran over and pushed the throne easily into the spot Mister V was referring to.

A very useful young man. V thought to himself. “Tough little lad aren’t you?” 

The boy nodded, no words or questions this time, which made V happy and he patted him on the head before the boy jumped back onto the bundle of hay.  

“What does a boy like you do with secrets eh?” 

The child gave V a smile that turned into a very devious grin a moment later, and served the facial expressions as his answer. 

“Good! Knowing when to listen will serve you well later, never forget that,” V was slowly beginning to like this child. Out of the nine orphans that lived in the main house, this one was by far the quickest study of the lot ... “I’m building a trap of sorts. The idea came to me a while back, the irony of it rang like that large bell above Jago’s Well.

“How do you catch something that can’t be caught and keep it there?” V asked.

The boy thought on in puzzlement at Mister V’s question. He couldn’t answer because he couldn’t figure it out. This played up to V’s vanity and he began explaining. “Well, what you have to do is make the prey catch itself and then design a trap that holds it as securely as the very strength that prey has; to break free. The more they struggle the more effective the trap. Brilliant, I know!”

V wondered why the boy hadn’t asked an annoying question yet and turned his attention from the throne to the boy, the bundle of hay he was sitting on and, the cat he was now stroking.

“I told you to shut the door!”

“I did, I have no idea how it managed to get in.”

“Arrggh, strange how it just seems to turn up. Well it’s here now, keep it out of my way. What was I saying?”

“Trap/brilliant/ego.” The boy replied.

“What was that?!”

“Oh nothing Mister V, carry on ... secret?”

“Yes ... I’m going to hold my mother hostage and in time educate the gods themselves.”

“But how?! The gods will never let that happen.”

“I’ve made many thrones over the years for those arrogant immortals, each with its own little surprise for its owner."

The cat nimbly jumped onto the stacks of hay behind the boy and scaled the wooden beams leading to the roof. The smell of a good home cooked meal wafted in through an opening and the cat squeezed its body out and fell to ground below; minus a life. It looked around as though making sure it wasn’t being watched and when satisfied it didn’t have an audience, it jumped high into the air, transformed into an eagle and flew toward the heavens.  

In the barn the proverbial cogs and bolts in the boy’s brain began aligning. “You’re going to kill the gods aren’t you?” he asked.

“No, just give them the chance to think like mortals for a little while.”

“Sounds like dangerous fun, can I help?”

V laughed, the red patch of bloated skin on his face went an even deeper shade. “I’m sure your father will have something to say about all this.”

“He’s laid up in bed; he doesn’t have to know does he Mister V?”

“I’m sure if he knows the nature of his son he already suspects you to get up to mischief. Pass me those springs by the pig pen,” V watched the boy collect the springs. “I must tell you a story that will help you to understand the truth. You orphans call that man father but soon you’ll have to accept where you all really came from.”

“What do you mean, Mister V?”

“Sit down, and don’t interrupt, you’ll want to hear every word of what I have to say.”

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

The eagle landed on the outstretched hand of the most feared immortal and the immortal immediately felt the presence of his half-breed son. Unable to get up from his throne or send word of what danger the bird had delivered, the wielder of lightning, the bringer of life and death could only sit petrified in place and wonder how as gods they’d managed to get it all so wrong.

-------------------------------------------------

The Indie Ink Challege prompt for this piece was: The god Vulcan, a barn cat, and a child

Chapter 2: Here there be Dragons

Hi all! Another week of Inking eh?! I've read a few pieces and the Indie gets better and better each week. So much talent in one place is a beautiful thing. 
This week I challenged Michael Webb who blew me away with: How Do You Sleep. If you haven't checked out his work please do, the man is an AWESOME writer!


On the flip side the one who adorns a red cape swooped onto the 'Final List' and challenged me with what made for the title of my story which is a continuation of last week's 'short', if you prefer to do things chronologically, you can find the first instalment here. Thanks SuperMaren! ;-)

It was true ... it had already begun.
The night was too young for the sun to be rising. Something about the distant glow looked artificial.

Two moons ago Ilya's grandfather had felt the bitter cold of the smooth trinket, a change from its natural state and an early warning that they were in danger. Fortunately the enemy had touched down far, far away. Their carnage evidenced by a burning line of destruction along the outer territories, a wide unyielding strip of fire and pain.

Ilya, along with a scout team had travelled half a day to get a rough estimate as to what they were up against. Though fearless and ready, each scout halted when the first plume of fire and smoke that followed a deafening 'BOOM' rose up to the skies and scorched the clouds.
It was still early morning, but as dark as the deepest night.

Though cautious, they needed to get a better look and the closer they ventured the louder the screams of those left alive could be heard. At a crawl they ascended a hill looking out onto the Gild Plains where the Hune Tribe reside.

The earth below was shattered. Crops and fields, beautiful, rich and fertile; were gone, replaced with blood and bodies. Off in the distance heading east Ilya could see their machines, so many of them rolling away, crushing the very breath from the land. Men walked alongside the rolling beasts holding weapons that spat hot needles of fire that cut down those that tried to fight. For every one human that went down; ten tribesmen fell. Their forces were overwhelmed by the superior and unrelenting force upon them.

Ilya and the others backed away on their stomachs staying low, hoping that their movement was slow enough to go unseen. Once a little ways down the slope Ilya rolled on his back and let out a long deep breath.
The scout team’s oldest member had seen several more winters than Ilya and was shocked by what he'd witnessed too. Both boys looked at each other dreading the report they would have to deliver to the village council.

---------------------------

"If what the scouts say is true, we must head south to the Darhcro Lands. We have good relations with the people there!" Chancellor Hodo shouted over the raucous assembly in the Speakers Hall. His suggestion was met with mixed emotions from the other council leaders.

"We have lived in these lands from the time of the first Great War, to leave would shame our ancestors who fought and died for our right to be here." Said Bahad, captain of the guard.

Delivering the news didn’t change the fact that scouts were forbidden to enter Speakers Hall. They climbed quietly onto the roof, although, against the noise from inside; being light footed wasn't a necessity. Through a door they'd fashioned some time ago when they were very young they all poured in, spreading themselves silently across the beams and supports in the darkness above.

Ilya's grandfather had heard enough. "No! We are made up of warriors. Every man woman and child of age knows how to fight, even you Chancellor; whether or not you've grown weak from wasting your breath. We must send for help if we are to succeed against such an army."

The hall fell silent.

"Help from whom, a myth?!" Chancellor Hodo demanded.

"Hodo, don't act the fool. Even you were told the stories, and once, you believed them to be true."

The Chancellor glared at the old man with more contempt than disbelief that he still had any say in council matters. Though he'd once been a reliable warrior, he was not and never was on the council or qualified to advise on their politics, but the people listened to him and Hodo despised him for that. "So, old man, who will be our emissary to carry this message of 'help', surely a mission so important is worthy of only a brave select few? You understand old man that if there is any truth to those misguided stories, then this is a suicide mission?"

Chancellor Hodo's sarcastic and irreverent attitude was so tangible Ilya could've shot arrows into them. The other boys in the rafters were communicating using hand signals but Ilya didn't find the joke funny. He shifted position for a better view.

"That is the decision of the council," the old man addressed the assembly. "That is unless such a mission is deemed fruitless?"

Seated either side of a wide stage were rows and rows of men and women, among them warriors and council leaders, scribes and runners. Each looked around the room as a murmur rose like a tide carrying the question of who should be the chosen ones.

"They should go." The old man said looking up into the shadows.

"Show yourselves!" Shouted Tanu; a fierce and uncompromising warrior with a reputation for impatience.

The shadows above stirred and several boys made their way to the stage in a show of stealth and acrobatic brilliance. Ilya was the first to land, bowed in humbled shame for being discovered.

Placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, Ilya's grandfather regarded the rest of the boys solemnly and addressed them as one.
"By accepting this task you forfeit your very lives for this is not a mission we expect you all to return from. Do you understand?"

As one, the scouts looked up for the first time, their faces giving no trace of emotion, and placed their daggers on the floor as a sign of their acceptance.

"Ha! You see!" Said Chancellor Hodo; gesticulating to the rest of the council. "These boys are ready to die on a whim, is this who we have become? A people who blindly follow an old storyteller?!"

Ilya's grandfather shifted uneasily but only because he was fishing something from his robes.

"Look, what is this bumbling old fool doing now?" The words had barely left the chancellors lips when the oversized razor sharp tooth landed by his feet making a heavy thudding sound that betrayed the old man’s real strength for a fleeting moment.

This time the room fell into a much deeper silence than before, as if the very life had been sucked out of the space they occupied.

Though no one had seen one, they all knew what it was and what it was once attached to.

Somewhere, over the rainbow ...

Greetings 'Inkers'! This week I was given the opportunity to challenge K. Syrah, who totally destroyed the prompt I gave her with her piece: Toes in the Sand
I was challenged by, Sunshine who just happens to be an important element that binds my story together. Her prompt is actually the title of this piece. Hopefully I stepped outside the box a little on this one, I hope ...?

"Long before the chaos and killing began there was peace, tradition and harmony. The world - though not perfect - was beautiful, fertile and full of possibility. Squabbling and fighting was unavoidable and other than battling for love or power, wars were raged for pride, against tyranny and dictatorship and soon, wars became distant memories and once again peace reigned for hundreds of years. There was balance ... for a while."

The story that Ilya's grandfather told him always began the same way: "Long before the chaos ..." The old man told tales of battles and wars, fought only a stumble from where they lay their heads at night. He always told the boy of the beautiful land he had no memory of, for the boy was born into the turmoil that began much more than fifteen winters past.

On the fourth winter the boy began his training with his uncle and father and by the eighth winter he was strong, fast and as clever as any of the warriors bred before him.

When the fourteenth winter came, the boy was ready.

---------------------

Ilya flipped the knife by its hilt, caught and sheathed it in his belt in one continuous motion that ended with pulling another knife from his belt with his idle hand, throwing it dead centre into the human’s heart. The blade went in, right to the hilt. It was a move his father had taught him: 'appear to disarm yourself while attacking' his father had called it, Ilya preferred to call it 'the whisper'.

Before the man fell he tried to speak, what he said came out in a painful gasp of air, and all Ilya could make out was a partial of a word; beginning with the letters - LEP.

The other boys on watch had slain the rest of the men almost as quietly, and had already begun dragging them away through the forest.

There had been more this time. Only last week several humans had tried to attack the village and steal more younglings, something they had been doing so long that it felt almost normal. And like most other warriors Ilya kept watch during most of his waking hours, only resting to train with the elders in the barracks before heading back to guard duty or a hunt.
Ilya and the other boys took the bodies to the cliffs and tossed them to the waters below. Even after the rest of the boys had left, Ilya stood at the edge of the sheer drop listening for sounds and smells in the wind. The village was never safe as far as he was concerned.

On this particular night Ilya's grandfather took him aside from the rest of the family leaving them to talk, eat and keep warm around the fire. He brought Ilya up to Teachers Hill and sat next to the boy under the stars, and they stayed for some time, not saying a word just looking down on the flickering fire-lights of the village below. Ilya, as always, kept an eye on the village perimeter.

"Ilya, there is something I must tell you, something I think you are ready to know."

"What is it grandfather?" Ilya asked, gently sharpening his favourite throwing knife on a piece of smooth sandstone, still watching the village below.

"We are not what we seem."

"What does that mean?" Ilya asked pausing his work as if to ponder what his grandfather just said before continuing with the blade.

"It means that we were once a peaceful race of people, playful even! We had magic a long, long time ago."

"Magic! Really grandfather?! Have you been eating Deena's squirrel tail soup again? You know how that makes you get after a bowl or two."

"Listen boy!" The old man scowled, rummaging in his robes, pulling out an egg shaped object that reflected the starlight and moon-shine from above.

"This was made by magic, our magic." He gave it to Ilya.

"What is it?" Ilya asked reluctantly looking at it.

"It was your great-great-great-great-great grandfathers, he made it with magic. It gets cold to the touch when humans enter our world."

"How grandfather?!" Ilya asked putting down the stone and knife. The thing was heavier than it looked and smoother than anything he'd touched before.

"If I knew how; I'd make one of my own, boy! In order to survive we had to adapt and over time our magic grew weaker, no one knows why but our powers began to fade a few hundred years ago. That's when the wars began and warriors were needed, warriors like you, Ilya." The old man picked up the knife and balanced it by the blades point on his index finger. "We have been making warriors so long," the old man continued, "we have forgotten how to fully harness our powers, this may have proved useful many years ago but as the power faded so did any hopes of getting it back. The humans found a way to get to our lands, all they have are the stories of our ancestors told by their own storytellers, they believe we still have magic and this is why they target our young."

"I was fortunate then, grandfather?" Ilya asked, placing the object on the ground by his grandfathers feet.

The knife had been balancing on the old man’s index finger the entire time. He flicked the knife in the air and with surprising speed for such an old man, hit the bottom end of the hilt. Ilya watched the blade impale into a thick tree maybe fifty metres away. "They did try to take you," his grandfather said looking up at the full moon, "but I was babysitting you that night."

"So what were their stories?"

"They believed and still believe we are very powerful, clever, playful, and quite small. They're correct on two counts but we've always been the same size as the humans, I suppose they made us small in their minds to make us appear inferior and give themselves confidence.

"They also believed that we had money and gold, lots of it too. This was only true if we decided to create the stuff, but in those days we preferred to invent things and always used a tiny bit of magic when our creations were too difficult to figure out."

"You talk as if you’ve used magic before, grandfather!"

"No, but I did have an excellent storyteller when I was boy, your great-great grandmother. She would talk until I fell asleep at night and leave me to dream about how we used to be. I often dreamt I had powers beyond comprehension, ahh ... the things I could do in a dream."

Ilya's grandfather picked up the sandstone and threw it without looking into the back of the blade, burying some of the hilt into the tree.

"Grandfather! It'll take me forever to get that out; I may have to cut down the tree!"

"Sorry boy, I was just thinking aloud."

Ilya sighed and flicked a few pieces of dirt off his sandals. The old man looked at him, his long white hair and beard, the frown lines on his forehead and wrinkles around his lips, and the scars on his neck; were in contrast to the intensity and youth in his eyes. Even though his grandfather was old, very old, the man hid his speed and strength well. To a stranger he looked frail and non-threatening but Ilya knew better.

"They, the humans that is; come from a far away land, hard to get to for us but for them it's relatively easy to cross over. Do you know how they do this, boy?"

"Yes, grandfather."

"Tell me."

"In their lands, when it rains followed by sunshine; a bridge is formed. All they have to do is locate the beginning of the bridge and cross before it disappears."

"And they attempt this dangerous journey because they want to harness our magic, and believe when we are still very young we have the potential to give them what they seek."

"I've heard father say such things, is it all true then?"

"Yes, when we are very young we possess a tiny amount of power, our training to be warriors begins early too and we are forbidden to cultivate magic in case it falls into the wrong hands."

"I like things the way they are."

"Because that is all you know, boy. What you need to know is that their world; where the humans are from is dying and a great storm is upon them. That storm will submerge their world under water and anyone left will use any bridges that will inevitably form once the storm clears. We expect an army like none we have seen before, and it will come, mark my words. We must be prepared!"

"But when!" Ilya asked anxiously.

The old man looked out beyond the village and far off into the distance where he knew the sun would rise the next day, and prayed for the night, this night, to never end. The object by his feet was no longer warm to the touch. "Boy ... it has already begun."

Indie Ink Challenge ...

Hiya K. Syrah,

I thought I'd format your writing prompt in a different way than I'm used to, and figured it best to do it this way.

I find that music often inspires my writing. Your challenge is to listen to the song below and write whatever and wherever the song takes you. This can be fiction or otherwise, the choice is yours, I have a feeling you're going to totally rock this challenge, so instead of 'good luck' I'll simple say; be inspired.

25 miles there, 25 miles back ...

A few months ago, my son's mum asked me to accompany my son and a bunch of his school friends on a trip. I said: “HELL YEAH!” and let the school know I’d be tagging along, to which they asked that I supply a copy of a current CRB (Criminal Records Bureau – form) for them to photocopy.

Because I’ve been doing a range of community work as well as basketball coaching in various areas across London I have about three or four CRBs, so I shuffled through them all and found the most up-to-date copy, got that to the school which meant shrugging off work early one day.

The confirmation letter went to my ex’s house with an attached covering note on what to expect from the trip.

Turns out we were riding 25 miles to a location, sleeping there and then riding the 25 miles back. Erm ... SHIT-SNACKS! 

Okay, surprise aside, I needed to get my bike out the cupboard underneath a mountain of junk and give it a good service. The main things were the brakes and chain as well as all the dirt, grime and dust – this was a job for some Muc-Off!

Fast-forward a few more weeks and the trip is upon us. The previous day I bought my son a new bike and didn’t tell him. Went to his house, knocked the door and casually gave it to him. He thought it was my bike (a newer one) and if I could have taken a picture of his face when he realised it was his I would have posted it at the top of this blog. For now, you’ll have to imagine an 11yr old kid with a look on his face like Christmas has been sanctioned to happen three times in six days!

The journey up to the centre was taken via canals, toe paths, and some of the most picturesque places between south east and east London. It was a beautiful Friday morning, afternoon and evening. Every so often we’d stop restock water reserves and get a history lesson on a specific area from the leader of our group who was a teacher at the kid’s school. In total, eleven kids and four adults took on the challenge and by the time we all got to the end destination, our butts were sore. Mental note: buy a new saddle!

 

I completely forgot to sign up to the ‘Indie Ink’ because I was unashamedly too excited to be riding my bike so far after such a long gap of doing not much exercise, so I’ll have to jump on the ‘challenge’ next week I guess.

Below are some of the pictures taken on the way up and back from Lee Valley YMCA:

Master Jeffrey pondering the 20 miles left to ride ...

 

 

Somewhere on the Greenwich Peninsular.

My beautiful mule.

The helmet was meant to be there!

Making friends on the dusty roads.

I'm the geek that recorded this chopper taking off.

A 'must go' venue!

The quest for the BEST SALAD EVER!

I'm on the bus writing this and the guy next to me decides to read over my shoulder, so hopefully he's not pretending and can understand I'm writing about him - yes YOU!
Anyhoooo, I've given him a deadly side-look now and turned my back on him for some privacy ...

Now that's out the way I can talk about salad. Yeeeeuup, SALAD!

It all started last week when I opened a previously delivered package containing Zumba DVDs and extras. After reading the book that accompanies the workout DVDs I decided to enhance my diet. And thus the hunt for the Best Salad Ever began.

By the time I got to work one day last week I'd eaten cereal and had a bottle of water. If you know me you'd know this isn't my ideal breakfast but I'm trying to reach a fitness goal so, sacrifices have to be made.

11am and I was HUNGRY! My body - a consummate fan of food - kept sending me direct food-related messages, the odd stomach rumble, the desire to kill a complete stranger, ya know? The usual stuff you experience when you're hungry.

My heart was set on getting a salad and I was going to get one even if it meant dying of starvation first.
12pm, and I'd left the office and tried two supermarkets within 10 minutes only to discover they didn't do salads with olives and feta cheese (two important ingredients in the Best Salad Ever).

It was 12.15pm when I laid eyes on the first person I could murder, a tall man who almost shoulder barged past me just outside the second supermarket. I had to eat soon! I kept my cool, doing anything to him would prolong lunch. I wish he knew how close he came to seeing that brilliant white light.  

A brainwave hit me and I thought: NANDOS. The nearest one was the Camberwell branch. Minutes later I was there ordering their new Mediterranean Salad. Its description on the menu was gorgeous; lettuce, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, feta cheese, grilled chicken with the option to hold the meat. Heaven on a plate or shallow bowl (whicheevr way it comes when you order).

I was so hungry by now; if I was salivating I wouldn’t have noticed, it turns out I was a little, but no one saw.

No sooner had I ordered, the guy behind the till told me to “hold on” and went out back to do something. Turns out he wasn’t sure if they had any of the salad I wanted. Turns out they didn’t!

SHIT-SNACKS! Was what I wanted to say, instead I killed him several times over in my head and politely backed away from the counter. 

Armed with the knowledge that my quest for the Best Salad Ever would come to an abrupt end I got another brainwave: THE OTHER NANDOS. This branch was a bus ride away in Elephant and Castle and I was running low on ‘lunch break’. I made the right and completely professional choice – and jumped on the first bus smoking in that direction.

Once at the other Nandos I queried the salad and by the power of Castle Grey-skull they had it.

This is what’s in a Mediterranean Salad:

• Mixed leaves
• Tomatoes
• Peppers
• Cucumber
• Celery
• Olives

All topped with feta cheese & splashed with olive oil, garlic and lemon juice. Yeeeeeeup, things that make you say: Mmmmmm!

I ate all of it as the following picture will evidence.

Since, I have been making my own salads, and just the other day I had one with; grilled prawn and bacon, feta cheese, olives, mixed leaves, lettuce, cucumber and tomatoes ... it was EPIC!