candle in the dark.

Here is my latest work, a story entitled "Candle in the Dark." It IS a bit verbose, as it is supposed to reflect the time period that it represents, but for those of you who like action: it is well worth the wait. Those who get somewhat queasy at death might not want to read ahead, even though I don't find it to be TOO bloody. Anyways, enjoy!


Candle in the Dark

By Adam Gonzales

The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot that Lucien patiently watched.

Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.

An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier, lackluster, encounters but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true none-the-less, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.

He wore a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him, and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman to the Ambassador’s right.

“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”

Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. Not that the news surprised him; it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.

The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.

“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”

The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife was the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting. Lucien was to kill the Good Ambassador.

The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.

“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”

If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”

Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.

Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched his hand towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearly white, double-edged, basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into violent spasms.

Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him, but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. Armor meant nothing to a trained assassin; it was their trade to know how to deal lethal blows even in the face of metal protection. He walked forward slowly, keeping his dagger hand pressed against his thigh. The first man rushed towards him, holding his sword in the backhanded fashion. And as he swung his weapon at his target, Lucien dropped swiftly to the ground and hacked the bare opening in the man’s crotch, where the armor failed to protect. There was a piercing cry as the man collapsed to the floor, clutching the burning wound that would kill him within ten minutes time. Lucien stepped over his writhing body and nodded his head at the second man. There was a pause in his stance as he contemplated whether or not he should do as he was supposed but he decided against faltering and raised his falchion over his shoulder, crying a fierce battle cry as he did so. The sword crashed to the ground, missing Lucien as he speedily side-stepped the attack. There was a fleeting moment of fear in the man’s eyes as he realized his fate; however it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed shock as Lucien slashed the bare side of the man’s neck just underneath his helmet. Blood spewed out of the precise gash in his skin and a red rash, a side-effect of the poison, began to spread around the wound. Not that it mattered—unlike the previous victim, this man was instantly dead. His body lurched forward and buckled down to the stone ground below.

Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. Pushing the wooden door that the men had been guarding open he stepped out into the cold chill of the night, his feet meshing into the wet earth as he spied a carriage some two hundred meters in the distance—his avenue of escape. An alarm rang out in the sound of a gong as the panic within the elegant hall finally reached the gates of the Ambassador’s magnificent stone manor. Lucien knew that a dash to the carriage was almost futile, as there were at least five armed men (albeit protected only by thick leather plating) between him and it, but he tried it none-the-less. Slapping mud up off of the ground as he bolted forward, he pulled a small misericorde dagger out from his pants pocket with his free hand and flung it at the closest armed sentry. It stuck firmly under the man’s mandible and he slipped to the ground. Knowing that he would not make it if he tried to fight them all off, he passed by the following two bemused sentinels without a second thought. By the time he reached the third patrol they were all aware and ready for a fight. Lucien was caught off guard as the man smashed the broad side of his rebated against his right shoulder, causing him to lose his grip on his dagger and fall to the ground. Thinking rapidly, he kicked the man’s shins with as much force as he could muster so as to send the man to the earth. Then, pushing himself back on his feet, Lucien bashed in the man’s teeth with his heel. There was a loud crack as the shattered bones snapped out of place, but Lucien was used to such noises in his exertion. He did not bother searching for his venomous blade as the fifth guard rushed at him with a double-handed battle ax. Instead he swept forward beneath the heavy weapon and smashed his fist into the man’s gut. And as the man lurched forward to gasp for air, Lucien wrapped his arms around his neck and looked into his face as his olive eyes flashed in the dark of the evening. In one fluid motion that was only possible for one as deft as Lucien, the man’s head was forced at an angle that was not possible to achieve in the natural world. A splitting crack filled the air as Lucien released the man’s body from his arms, a delightful and satisfying sound—even if there was no time to actually enjoy it.

There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.

looming.

Everything on ink-link is being put on hold for right now. The founders of ink-link (Adam Gonzales, Chris Avila, and Nick Vera) have come up with something far grander than we ever imagined. It is coming, and it is coming soon. The proportionate size of its epic-ness cannot be even described through words. Keep checking back to see more!

new ink-link members found.

Congratulations to Jacqui and Alan, the two newest members of ink-link! Check back soon to see their profiles and biographies!

new ink-link members wanted.

We at ink-link have decided to add two new members to our team to create an even wider sense of diversity. At the moment we have all decided that a female author would add something to the group that we could not otherwise achieve. We are also looking for another male author as well. You can be a poet, a short-story writer, a novelist; it does not matter. The only requirements we ask are availability to meet at least twice a week to talk over projects and ideas, and residency in the Arizona Chandler/Gilbert area. Please notify us if you are at all interested and send us an excerpt of one of your works so that we can see if you are what we are looking for. We will be notifying our new members as soon as possible! Keep checking back. Thanks! -ink-link inkorporated

steampunk project (project #2).

Our Sci-Fi project has officially ended and we have all been pleased with what we have come up with. As our next project, we have decided to do a Short-Story in the genre of Steampunk. Steampunk is classified as ANY genre with the added ingredient of industrial presence. For example, the movie Wild Wild West is a Western in the genre of Steampunk. Our project will be single space 12 font up to five pages long, and we will not share our exact stories with each other in order to secure originality. Who knows? We may get a fantasy, alternate history, and western from tyhe three of us but all in the genre of Steampunk. So! Have fun and check back from us. We will be posting our stories as soon as Nick gets back from Chicago, so it'll be a few weeks. Keep checking back though! Thanks! -Adam

faustian bargain.

"What a hideous ship!" scowled Ong.

Through the viewport the hulking alien vessel approached in silence, led by the Faust. The new craft would not engage in the docking procedure, as its airlocks were incompatible with the station's moorings. Shuttles would be needed to bring the delegation aboard, unless, as I suspected, Captain Palmer had already moved them to the Faust in transit. Even in the glow of the planet below, the alien ship was almost impossible to discern against the frustrating sameness of space. It appeared as little more than a massive obsidian knot of metal now snuggling up against the installation.

Ong smacked me hard against the shoulder. "Always exciting, first contacts, yes?"

I grimaced. "Yes, I love my first contact procedures."

This was a bit of a misnomer, of course, "first" contact. By the time any delegation was brought to a starbase of the Imperium for their formal introduction they had already met our people on their own end and undergone the application of several security precautions to ensure the biological and, sometimes, cultural compatibility of their kind with our society. Officers like myself had no illusions about the safety measures, however. They were clearly geared more toward the preservation of humans and the most favored member species rather than astral newcomers.

The greeting aboard the stations for these delegations was a huge formality, really, particularly if they were interested in gaining membership to the Imperium, which would require another delegation to be sent to Earth. Why not just cut the middleman? More red tape from the men in the red trim.

The ship was close now, which meant the Faust would be--

Ong and I reflexively grabbed the railing below the viewport. A familiar tremble rocked the station perceptibly as the Faust's helmsman brought her to dock with as much effrontery as technology would permit.

The most spectacular vessel in the sector, commanded by the most useless and morally bankrupt man in the same.

"After you, Commander," hissed Ong, gesturing away with clawed hands.

I straightened my uniform, exhaled against the glass, and pivoted into a march for the ceremony.

Both military and civilian personnel, mostly human and Shless, stood gawking at the airlock on the promenade. The chamber reeked of Burger King, the kiosk of which was overpowering the other sensations blaring from the food court. The Shless were particularly fond of mainstream human food offerings, and they never seemed to have negative comments regarding our fare, even when other member races did.

Lieutenant Ong and I jockeyed for position in the throng growing around the access hatch. In truth, Ong did much of the jockeying, I merely trudged behind him while others scuttled out of the way.

The room was alive with conversation loud enough to wash out the steady hum of the station's passive background systems and most other ambient noise. A first contact ceremony was a welcome punctuation to an otherwise tepid workaday schedule for the staff. I was long-since over these affairs, though. They struck me as too arrogant, to devoid of the magical quality that ought to be associated with such an event. Indeed, in this new age of the Imperium, routine first contact with fledgling races in podunk space was tantamount to having your name inserted into the template birthday song at a sit-down restaurant. But at least then you got ice cream.

The buzz on the promenade escalated as the airlock whined open. Captain Palmer strutted though first, of course. He was followed shortly by his bridge officers and a few too-cheery technicians. Then came the only real highlight of any such affair, the alien delegation. A group about ten strong walked coolly into the promenade. I was surprised to see what looked like two distinct species, one short, mammalian and goat like, the other tall and perhaps reptilian. About three of the first variety and seven of the latter showed themselves, all clad in simple orange or purple robes and tunics.

The throng clapped and cheered as Palmer soaked in the atmosphere. This part always made me sick. It wasn’t so much Palmer’s gloating, which was lightyears beyond intolerable. It was the damned applause. The Imperium now stood so bloated and insensitive it could get away with such behavior.

Something in the way the group of aliens carried itself roused my interest, not to mention the interesting fact of a two-for-one in terms of species. A goat-like one in the front seemed to be in charge, and it looked around with a look I interpreted as dismay, arms out to its sides. My heart sank. This was exactly the kind of nonsense I loathed in the human regime.

While the alien commander retreated slightly, I took notice of two of the tall reptilian people who were standing closest to him, and even closer to each other. They spoke in a chatty, gabby language with boisterous-sounding words, interlarded with what seemed to me a deep, breathy laughter. They’re not impressed, I thought. The commander’s dismay only grew, but these tall ones were positively aloof, as they had every right to be in the face of Imperial hospitality.

Then the tiny commander’s wandering eyes, which had been scanning the crowd with increasing urgency, locked with mine. I heard a featureless tone and was startled. Ong looked at me curiously. I shook my head and gazed back at the alien commander. Again, a tone. It was unmistakably coming from him, yet no one else appeared to register the chirping sound. Telepathy?

A few more tones, and the alien commander seemed to grow frustrated. He turned to the two tall ones, who locked eyes in a similar fashion. After brief silences from the commander they would respond in their gabby tongue, occasionally craning up to glance at me and gesture. These were not full telepaths, I gathered, but they were able to at least interpret incoming messages from their goat-like companions, who in turn could understand the spoken word with facility.

Whatever the tall ones implied, it seemed to placate their commander, who looked on me once more, this time with approval. Captain Palmer had been making the rounds in the promenade high-fiving and thumbs-upping various personnel. The alien commander, seeing this gaudy behavior, processed its essence enough to rudely approximate the thumbs-up sign with an outstretched paw… in my direction. I stood dumbfounded for what felt like a solid minute until Ong graciously elbowed me and grunted, clearing my daze and giving me the good sense to return the commander his thumbs-up. Another mental tone, and a nod.

“I cannot understand you,” I mouthed, head wagging negative. “I… can’t quite—“

“You! Chapel! Now!” Palmer was on top of me like a satellite in a decaying orbit.

In the chapel Palmer did his Imperial duty, uttering a Latin prayer. He wrapped up the token by touching the shrine across the candle-lit room and then pulled me aside.

“I have outstanding news, for you, Commander. You’ve been given a commission aboard the Faust.”

I nearly gagged on my sacramental wine. “Pardon, sir?”

“I saw to it myself. There’s no need to thank me.”

“But, sir, I still have an important capacity to fill aboard—“

“My ship. Your belongings are being collected for transfer as we speak.”

“When was this decided?”

“A few cycles ago, really. In fact, if you check the duty roster, you’ll find that as of two hours ago you’re already a member of my crew.”

“Impossible.”

“Go ahead.” Palmer grinned his knowing, douchey smile from our academy days. “Check.”

I slapped the computer terminal against the wall and brought up the aforementioned documentation. There it was. I was in tactical aboard the Faust.

The thought made me shudder. I turned to Palmer. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me this was Admiral Street’s idea.”

A clamoring surge of violence rattled the station and sent the chapel’s candles scattering, many of them landing on the fabric sheets on the altar, activating the sprinklers, dowsing both of us.

“What the hell!” shouted Palmer.

The captain and I ran into the corridor to find the station on alert.

“Resistance rats!” exclaimed a security officer as he sprinted by. “You need to get to a weapons cache.”

Palmer and I reached a nearby security console and took one sidearm a piece before making our way to the promenade, which was now full of a different kind of din. Hooded resistance fighters, probably the only people more fed up with the Imperium than me, were advancing from the airlock adjacent to the one hosting the Faust.

Security personnel were holding their ground when we arrived, and I took a position behind an overturned dining table.

“Bastards knew we’d be off guard during a first contact ceremony,” barked a guard. He indicated toward a few members of the alien procession idling strangely placid in a hallway leading away from the promenade. “Doubt these jerks had a hand in this, though. Can’t even talk, half the lot.”

The guard advanced to another toppled table further along, closer to the breach, firing off shots as he went, but I couldn’t avert my gaze from the aliens. The reptilians were just as aloof as when they had arrived, and looked subtly amused by the human exchange unfolding. Their commander looked away, as if to recall something, then beckoned for me with a paw. I wondered if perhaps I was just misreading an alien culture’s version of sheer terror. That had to be it. They were looking for me to help them get away, further into the station.

I ducked back and darted into the hallway.

The tall ones immediately put me into arm locks and dashed my pistol aside. No breathy laughter. This must be serious business, I thought. Their commander stared into my eyes again, but this time the tone he induced was continuous, a sustained note of inexplicable quality. I cringed. It was not pain I felt, just overwhelming intensity. I saw the ceremony again, from the eyes of the commander. I went back further, aboard the Faust, hearing Palmer boast. Even through alien ears, the man’s voice was gut-churning. Then I was at the actual first contact, the true initiation. Throaty laughter. The goofy disapproval of the reptilians. I was staring at everything I regarded as excessive and unwholesome about the Imperium Humanum, through goat-like and reptilian eyes.

The same reptilians who then let me go. Now there were resistance fighters with us, guns drawn, pensive, unsure of me. The tall ones gabbed in their language, and the resistance members backed down.

One spoke up from under his ragged hood. “Fine, we take him then. As a prisoner.”

The gravity of the predicament did not set in immediately, possibly because of what I had just experienced through the alien commander. The reptilians guided me toward the airlock wrenched open by the resistance craft’s compliment.

“I guess you guys did have a hand in this,” I remarked.

The prisoner-happy resister from before shot me a hateful look, but a returned glare from one of the reptilians set him straight. He shuffled toward the open airlock and was about to duck inside when I noticed a certain glow around the edge of the doorway.

“Wait!” I yelled.

The resister plunged forward and was zapped by the force field now erected in the entry. He howled and rolled back into the promenade.

“If this force field isn’t brought down,” chimed another resister, “we’re as good as done. We can’t reach our ship.” He nodded toward the aliens. “We can’t even reach your ship.”

It was then that I noticed most of the security personnel were dead or escaping, and the promenade was full of dozens of resistance agents. My navy blue, red-trimmed uniform was the only one of its kind in sight. Palmer was not amongst the dead. Doubtlessly he had fled with the Faust.

“If we are really stuck here,” said the first resister, now picking himself up off the floor and limping, “then I guess we don’t need a prisoner anymore.”

The chatty aliens stepped forward and berated the man. I could catch only clips of the heated exchange: talk of how the alien ship was rendered derelict and useless, how the station's self-destruct sequence would be activated in a few minutes if the security had any brains at all, or, failing that, the Imperium’s planetary defenses below would either blow the station out of the sky or return with enough reinforcements to render the resistance’s meager compliment moot.

Then I noticed a flashing icon on the console of the next airlock. The Faust is still here.

I snapped toward the apparent leader of the resistance. “I think I can get us out of here.”

“But you’re station personnel,” replied the gunman.

“Not as of two hours ago.”

I tapped the display on the console. No one on board. My clearance checked out. Just one more operation to process…

The airlock whooshed open, then the second doorway within gaped wide, revealing the pristine interior of the Faust beyond.

“Whaddya say?” I said. “My life in exchange for an Imperial ship of the line, plus my services. Deal?”

For the first time since arriving, the reptilians looked like they approved.

-@chrisavila

multiply.

The clouded skies reflected upon the aviators swerved like a gelatin in the tinted glass, and the leather glove tightened around Dimitri’s hand as his fingers curled around the handlebar. Gravel and dust from the New Mexico desert blemished the empty freeway and traveled along with the force of the storm’s wind. Dimitri studied the long straightforward road from behind his aviators. His short black hair tousled with the rushing breezes; his brown jacket waved as well, and as the Harley ’94 peaked 120 mph the storm began to pick up momentum.
A gust of cool wind from South of the desert had begun to travel towards Dimitri, picking up grains of dirt and pollen, and neared closer and closer until it struck a significant blow. Dimitri struggled with the motorcycle. He clenched the handlebars amid his gloved hands, and maneuvered the vehicle back on path. With careful thought, he anticipated more impact from the storm’s wind, and was more cautious to the handling of his drive.
He turned his head to the right where most of the dark clouds had formatted. The motorcycle’s engine continued to purr as it journeyed passed more and more road, but suddenly the noise began to rupture. Brief moments of failure began to interrupt the consistent engine.
“Perfect.” Dimitri shifted his head back towards the road, and glanced over at the gauges in the dash. Nothing of alert was being noticed by the car.
Then, the stalling began to take its course. The pauses took longer; the engine made effort to continue the steady path, but to no prevail. Gently the vehicle began to decelerate, and the orange indicator on the speedometer declined. 120...110...105…
“Thanks, Grandpa,” Dimitri said to himself, “you sure have a way with bikes.”
Dimitri pulled to the right shoulder of the long deserted road, and coiled his fingers upon the brakes. The rugged black motorcycle came to an easy halt, and Dimitri mounted off.
“Least it’s rainin’,” he looked up at the gray sky. Raindrops landed on his tinted lenses. As he wiped his aviators clean, Dimitri ambled to the item compartment on the back of the motorcycle. He unlocked the tiny stainless steel box–sprinkled with rain–and opened the compartment. Inside, spare pistol bullets, an August issue of Maxim, a folded miniature atlas, and a picture displaying a young girl with black hair was placed.
He took the tiny picture and gazed at it. A nostalgic wind gusted through the desert highway now, yet it remains a mystery what emotion was felt behind Dimitri's aviators. Soon enough, the storm’s rain began to land on the photo, and, as a cue, Dimitri pocketed the picture, picked up the tiny atlas, and unfolded it.
“Come on, little map,” whispered Dimitri; a violent bolt of lightning crackled in the background, “find me a Texaco.”
As he searched down the highway lines in the map, the rain began to fall harder. A sudden urgency filled the atmosphere, and the raindrops grew heavy. They parachuted down from the skies on Dimitri, falling and picking up speed. They began to freeze and crystallize in the sky. Hail. Suddenly, Dimitri was bombarded by a fleet of descending ice. He used the atlas to shield his head from the plaguing hail, but another torrential gust swept it away. The atlas now traveled through the air, manipulated by the behemoth winds, and was sent zig-zagging across the emptiness and dull dirt of the desert land.
Dimitri, realizing that the atlas was his only aid of direction, chased after the escaping map. His leather shoes imprinted the ground with the pattern on the soles. Shocks of pain from the hail hindered his balance, and Dimitri fell to the hard, damp ground, but stumbled back quickly to his feet. In pursuit–and in pain–he was cautious of what occupied the floor to prevent tripping again. Then, a cataclysmic, intimating boom that ravaged all noise with such amplitude bewildered Dimitri, and he fell once more. This time, leaving the atlas to lose itself amongst the wind.
Dimitri's energy was almost completely gone. It took effort to raise his face from the rough desert dirt. Veins in his neck pulsated as he raised his head, and he began to scan the clouded sky–with great difficulty due to the hail–for the map. Through his aviators, he frantically searched for his atlas, but aborted when his eyes constricted to the sight of the marvelous blue glow. A thick, jurassic, glowing obelisk of blue light fell from parted gray clouds seeming to land a few miles in front of Dimitri.
That must have been what caused the boom, Dimitri thought. The hail seemed to have calmed now, and the storm seemed less violent since the glowing rod surged from the sky. Nothing was left but the silence of awe and wonder.
As he laid there, galvanized by the unearthly marvel, aggression was evoked in the winds once more. This time with a more vicious strength. The winds began to pillage the once-tousled hair, and ransack the brown jacket. Then, the unscrupulous force physically began to violently drag Dimitri towards the beam. He skidded across the rough ground trampling dead cacti and empty carcasses. The bare skin behind his clothes were scraping against the irregular surface of the desert; pieces of skin dislodged and left open, painful, bleeding wounds.
He was being pushed closer and closer to the obscuring beam. Every now and then, he would skid on the heels of his shoes in an attempt to brace himself from the forcing motion with no use. Dimitri was closing in on the root of the beam. The aviators helped him see through the bright mystic azure glow, and as he was so close to the mysterious gargantuan light that he could almost touch it the wind halted, and he plummeted to a stop.
Once again, he stumbled back on to his feet, and was just arms-length away to the radiance. Curious to how the light must feel, Dimitri raised his finger and neared it towards the light.
“I would not touch that,” a booming voice commanded from behind Dimitri.
He turned in fright, focusing his eyes through the lenses, and searched for the voice.
“Where are you?” Dimitri yelled towards the emptiness.
“Behind you,” the voice sounded closer to Dimitri’s ear now.
Dimitri turned again quickly, and came face-to-face with a blue-eyed man.
“Who are you!” Dimitri shouted.
“There is no need for exclamations,” the man said, calmly, “I promise you. We–”
“We?” Dimitri interrupted as he gathered his breathe. “There’s more of you?”
“Yes,” he smiled, and his blue eyes lit up, “And we come in peace.”
Dimitri gathered his speeding thoughts, “Talk about cliche.”
A wrinkled smile formed on the mysterious man face. He held up a feeble hand towards Dimitri, “I can explain more, human. Please, take my hand.”
Dimitri’s irregular breathing grew hotter with frustration. He glared at the man’s hand, “What?”
“My boy, take my hand so I may show you.”
“Get the heck away from me,” his voice melted with spite, “I don’t know who you are.”
“I can explain all in due time–”
“I don’t know where you’re from, I don’t know what this whole blue-light thing is.”
“My boy–”
“And I’m sure as hell not holding your hand, old man!”
“Son,” the man with the blue eyes put his hand on his shoulder, “you’re delusional.”
“I said get the he–”
Suddenly, a bright blue, blinding flash of light filled the entire setting. A rush of motion passed through Dimitri's finger tips. His stomach rose to his throat and churned with the feeling. The ground from underneath his feet was gone, and Demitri felt as though he was falling and standing simultaneously. Then, abruptly, a wave of black darkness flooded Dimitri's eyes. He felt gone.
* * *
“Man, Stanley, this storm is crazy. Sure would hate to be the guy caught in this rain,” a regular said within his stool. He grasped his cold mug of foaming beer in his hand, and sipped the cold alcohol. “Anything on the news ‘bout it?”
“Let’s check.” The bartender turned the dial on a dusty television set on a shelf. The screen lit up, and the local news casting program was on.
“That’s right, Robert. A class-five state of emergency has been called here at New Mexico,” the woman on the television reported.
“Hah, state of emergency! I laugh at the silly folk who are afraid of a lil’ rain,” the bartender smiled.
“Now hold on there, Stan, I have kids at home,” the regular’s eyes widened with fright, “Has New Mexico ever gotten hit by a hurricane?”
“No, stupid, we live in a desert! There’s no water here!”
“What about tornadoes? What about earthquakes!”
“Sush it, Kevin!” the two looked back up at the television. Footage of a massive crafts hovering above the sky had been playing since. The grainy amateur capture caused the colors of the clouded sky and the crafts to blend in, making it hard to differentiate. Towards the end of the footage, the cameraman points the camera straight up to see a craft incredibly close to the ground. He scans the craft with the camera, and focuses in on a hole aligned to where he’s standing. Suddenly, the hole lights up with the ominous blue glow, and the camera is dropped.
“Once again, that was disturbing footage from earlier today in Cancun, Mexico,” the television announced.
Suddenly the television interrupted the news broadcast. A strange blue logo that looked like skull was displayed for a brief two seconds. Then, an elderly looking man with glowing blue eyes was facing the screen.
“Wow, he sure does look strange, Stan,” said Kevin.
“Must be the Japanese again…” said the bartender.
“We mean no harm, Earth,” the voice boomed from the television, “and on behalf on the Velascian race, we apologize for interrupting your inferior human activities. My name is Threon, I am chief linguistic of my people. We have studied your planet’s language, culture, and weaknesses in order to save it.”
“I don’t think these are the Japanese, Stanley…”
“Reoccurring trends in the galaxies ionic patterns suggest that your planet is conflicting its very existence with another paralleling planet. To put it bluntly, your all going to die.”
“This guy’s serious…”
“Worry is unnecessary. We have already taken precautions to preserve the human race.”
“Drink up, we’re gonna need it.”
“We have chosen two members of your race that inhibit all the traits of high-quality reproduction systems to multiply. One male by the name of Dimitri Escon, and a female by the name of Veronica Esquet. The two are with us. You have three minutes to live. Goodbye.”
The television fell silent. The entire bar fell silent. Only the two men inhabited the restaurant, and they each silently took the news in. After a few seconds, the bartender took the mugs, refilled them, and handed one to Kevin.
“To us,” Stanley raised his mug for a toast.
“To us.”

-@lawlnick

xetragade.

So this is my first Sci-Fi type short story that I have ever written. It is not your stereotypical Sci-Fi in the sense that the only real Sci-Fi feel you get is the fact that it's in the future and there is a mention of robotic technology. Everything else is what it is like today. This project did not take me as long as I thought it would and I had a TON of fun working on it. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Xetragade
By Adam Gonzales

The deep movements beneath the murky water sent soft ripples across the glassy pool. The Dutch spectators leaned forward in their seats trying to get a better view of what was held in the slick fiberglass-enforced tank, clutching the bottom of their seats until their knuckles throbbed white. The churning bubbles that flitted across the top of the almost black water were eyed by the many rows of families and business men that filled the cold white bleachers. A sudden loud beep rang through the air and continued at a steady pattern of exactly thirty beeps per minute, but the spectators did not even so much as bat an eyelid. Probably they were too engrossed in what lay at the bottom of the pool, but it was shocking still that they seemed so unfazed by the abruptness of the strident noise. The sky was orange and dusty, and despite the hollow rushing of the wind and the precise pattern of the beeping, the crowd remained absolutely silent. Time put itself on hold as the half-eaten bags of popcorn and hot dog wrappers fluttered slowly beneath the feet of the seemingly lifeless audience. Even the children, usually restless and bursting with uncontrollable energy, had been tamed by the moment; their eyes dark and wide, locking onto the calm surface of the glossy water, waiting for Xetragade to show itself.
* * *
The scientists at Muiden Harbour had been busily piecing together the mystery that was Xetragade for years. Hidden under the tourists’ noses within the walls of a small warehouse near one of the docks, the scientists had poised secrecy with productivity. Although the government had established the testing to last only three years, the Xetragade Initiative proved to be difficult to assemble correctly and was thus granted an extended ten year development plan. It was not long before the rusty warehouse walls were replaced by the slick white of the plexi-steel, and that the testing facilities were moved under the new ocean theme park that was being erected. Not that the scientists objected; it was quite fitting. For Xetragade to be accumulated under an ocean park was nothing short of ironic. The scientists knew that they would be able to experiment on the tourists above without their knowledge by placing slight traces of various serums within their purchased drinks, and without any harm. So when the park was erected, they made sure to attract as many tourists as possible. Everything in Muiden was perfect. Everything in Holland was perfect. And nothing could hinder the progress of Xetragade.
Then there was the announcement of Holland’s resignation from the U.N. At first it came as a shock that could barely be compared to anything that had happened before to the Dutch people. But when the rest of the U.N. slowly followed suit, the people of Holland quickly shifted their emotions from astonishment to fear. There had been rumor of an international epidemic, but mostly it was thought to be gossip and propaganda. The U.N., acknowledging some sort of viral scare, had apparently decided that due to the evident chaos that was going to flood the world, it was only right for each country to focus on their individual survival. Media buzzed, people yelled, but still there was no answer to the question that rang in everyone’s mind: what was the epidemic? Government officials had mentioned little about what was suspected to be the threat, but many had whispered something about the fish. To the people of Muiden, Holland, fishing was a way of life. So when word spread that the cause had been aquatic, there became a steady decline in the market. Not that it mattered; the decline in the market simply reflected the decline in government stability. Confined trepidation was soon shifted into uncontrollable bedlam as more and more of the Dutch people found themselves wondering if they would make it through the night alive.
It was not long before world officials declared the Viral Rotsje Epidermal Piscus Virus, or VREPV, the cause of the mass panic. Although the origins of the virus were not detrimental to humans, it had been discovered that the German authorities had been developing viral weapons using different viruses ten years prior, including VREPV. Originating from a fusion between the non-lethal Viral Hemorrhagic Septicemia Virus and the deadly Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis, VREPV was incurable and impossible to destroy. At first it had been confined to the workspace of the German scientists, but after the government’s disbandment of the test facilities, it had been discovered that the viral experimentations had been tossed into the North Sea, where both Holland and the U.K. received their main supply of the fish market. Trade between the U.K. and the rest of the world ensured that the infected fish in the North Sea were globally expanded. Smaller landlocked countries that did not necessarily find themselves in the fish market, such as Hungary, Botswana, Nepal, and Paraguay were more or less safe until the Spread of 2026. At first only the countries that bordered the ocean had been affected—it was not until later when the virus was discovered to be transferable by touch that landlocked countries had been receiving massive breakouts via human hosts. It was spreading, and it was spreading fast.

Skin rotted throughout the world, no one was safe. Controlled news broadcasts stated that the rotted skin flakes in the air could dissolve and travel on the air currents from place to place. At night government trucks would sweep the streets, spraying disinfectant into the air. It was a futile attempt, as everyone knew it was, but the presence of the government kept families from giving up entirely. Time went on and slowly the population began to dwindle. Soon every door remained locked, every window chained. The brave could be seen making fast trips to general stores in search of clean food and clothes. But, as it always does, the inevitable stuck loud and hard. Every family, every businessman, every government official of Holland found themselves slowly shedding their skin. The point of fear and panic had faded into grim acceptance, and the streets were soon filled with a silent huddled mass of a dying people. No one talked—no one saw the point. There would be an occasional gurgle of laughter from a small adolescent on the street, but it would quickly fade away when the child peered into the lifeless eyes of his elders. The only sense of life came from the caw of the birds in the sky and the desperation for clothes. Clothes were they only comfort that the people had; it was thought that it could be possible that if one was protected by clothes that their skin would stay intact longer—failed attempts at menial security, definitely, but it was all that the people of Holland had.
The people began to become more and more lethargic, until they were so lackluster that they did not even notice the government’s disintegration. Everyone was still human, but there was no life left in their eyes. Quiet spread across the world and the only thing keeping the human race from becoming extinct was the sole fact that the disease took months to completely devour a human host. The pain had become so customary that the only acknowledgment that the people showed of it was their habitual scratching and peeling of the skin. Many of the people of Holland had retained normal cerebral activities, but because of VREPV’s rapid deteriorating properties, there were some who had lost major amounts of brain tissue, rendering them almost mindless. But it was those who still understood the world around them that finally came upon the secret that was Xetragade. It had been widely known that there had been strange goings-on within the high white walls of the aquatic amusement park at Muiden. Noises could be heard nightly, quiet thumps, beeps, and screeches barely audible to the human ear. Almost two months had passed since the government’s fall when the people finally had the mind to investigate. It was not a raid; no it was something far less than that. Just a simple inquiry into what was supposedly a vacant theme park. So a slow procession of businessmen, tired adults, and small children trudged into the brilliantly white gates of what was known simply as Whale World.
Dressed to the teeth in the finest clothes, the people searched for the hushed sounds of a persistent beeping while their skinned gradually peeled away. It was when they came upon the large tank that once bore host to the Harbour’s famous killer whale, that the people pinpointed the source of the sound. Towards the back of the arena was a heavy steel hatch ingrained into the cement ground. Every two seconds a beep could be heard resonating from beneath the door. But the people dared not open it. For standing over the door were three men dressed in white, rubber, radiation suits. Their faces were obstructed by a glossy silver visor, and there only sign that was given of their humanity was the loud breathing that could be heard coming from their respirators. The people were too drained and languid to even consider running, but the fear on their faces showed their desires. The men in the suits stepped forward, and one pointed directly to the large tank of water. He spoke in a deep and airy voice that frightened the people; they had not heard any form of speech since the government had sprayed the streets.
“There is Xetragade. There is your savior.”
That was all he said. He spoke, and then he directed them with a gesture of his hand to the bleachers. Nothing more, nothing less.
And so the people waited. They clung to the edge of their seats and watched intently as the bubbles in the black water rose slowly to the surface, as the sky turned a dusty orange, and as the popcorn bags scattered beneath their feet. The men in the white suits stood just outside the hatch with their arms neatly crossed. The door flung open and the muffled beeping beneath became suddenly loud and clear. Thirty beeps per minute, one beep every two seconds. A fourth man rose out of the hatch, and looked to the other three. Although his face could not be seen behind the slick silver visor, his posture said enough. It was time. They all walk slowly and deliberately down the hatch and closed it tightly behind them with a loud click. They had known the time would come, for after all that was why Xetragade had been fashioned; that was its purpose.
All throughout the rest of the world, similar actions were being taken. Aquatic theme parks that had been constructed ten years prior to the Spread of 2026 were luring in remaining sentient infected via soft and soothing noises. They would find a hatch. There would be men in white suits. And always there was promise of a savior.
“There is Terragade. There is your savior.”
“There is Celtagade. There is your savior.”
“There is Aussigade. There is your savior.”
Always the same. Three men greeted, one man led them down into an airtight hatch. It was not something that had been planned by any means, not in the normal sense at least. The Gades had been a precaution, a simple means to stop such an epidemic. They were not planned on being used, but the time had undeniably come. Arenas around the world were filled with people who felt promise in the air. Arenas around the world were filled with people who watched dark pools of water with intense deliberation. Arenas around the world were filled with people who saw the bubbles rise. And arenas around the world were filled with people who were going to die.
The teams of scientists had kept themselves globally connected with remote radio locators, and had carefully kept their spaces beneath the aquatic parks clean and sterile. None of them had been diagnosed with VREPV, and none of them had let loose the secret of the Gades. They had busily filled their labs with food, clothes, and all the necessary products to last them until VREPV had ebbed away with time as soon as the epidemic had been confirmed. Everything was sanitary, everything was usable. Nothing was sullied. And so they had, together, planned the rebirth of the human race with precise calculation. After doing tests on flakes of dead skin they had discovered that VREPV receded after completely destroying the epidermis; cells in the air were only able to spread the virus because they were still clinging to living skin. So the scientists had planned their wait so that they could live after the virus had vanished. But their supplies were beginning to wane, and the people were still not dying fast enough. So the Gade Initiative was called into effect. The purpose of the Gades was to destroy viruses that harbored no host, not humans. But with resolute ambition they had been reprogrammed to terminate hosts of virus so as to further the process of VREPV’s dissolution. With the infected gone, there would once again be promise and hope upon the face of the earth.
At approximately 3:42pm Central European Summer Time, the Gades rose out of the water. They had been built in the image of fish with arms. Making them aquatic ensured to protect them from the harshness of weather and cruel human eyes. Their sleek and dark texture was frightening to behold, but still the people in the arena in Muiden, Holland did not move. Maybe the virus had taken its toll, or maybe the people were contented in knowing that their pain was about to end. Whatever the reason, the Gades found no resistance against their programmed objective. They were ready. It was time.
Dust rose into the orange sky as the clock moved its hands to 3:45pm CEST. That was how long it took. No struggle, no crying, no pain. The Gades had slumped quietly back into the water where their optical intakes flashed red just before they shut down. A still quiet spread across the planet and for the next fifteen months not a single human form walked its surface. The Gades had done what they had been made to do. The Gades had saved mankind.

-@alsenoth

bleeding sun preview.

This is a preview to the fifth book in my book series, The Tarterrior Series. The book, called Bleeding Sun
is probably my personal favorite because of the interactions bewtween the two characters of Kala Roote and Alsenoth Ongeller. This scene is one of the first in the book, so please enjoy!

Bleeding Sun Excerpt
By Adam Gonzales

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Alsenoth was trying to convince Kala otherwise.
“Yes, Alsey.”
“And are you sure that your room filled with light after you woke up from your nightmare?”
Kala gave him a look. The look, rather. It was funny how she was able to unexpectedly demand control with her eyes. She was two years younger than Alsenoth—thirty-three—and yet she was still able to make him feel smaller than her in every way. He knew he was fighting in an argument that he could not win.
“I just want to make sure, Kala. Stimdärt abilities are difficult to control. It’s tiring and you’re going to have to be under extreme agitation while you train. So….” He paused.
Kala gave him a curious look. “So, what?”
Alsenoth looked distractedly to his side. “So I’m going to have to hit you.”
Kala’s eyes widened. “What!?”
“Yes, err…. See? I told you this wasn’t a great idea!”
“Right. To agitate me you have to hit me? You can’t yell at me or something?”
“That’s not how it works, Kala. And I’m not going to yell at you.”
“But you’ll hit me.”
Alsenoth growled in irritation. “Kala, we can do this another time. I mean you can even just wait until we do your regular sword training, if you want.”
Kala smile. “Ugh! Fine! Hit me, then!” She bent her knees, folded her wings across her back, and stuck her neck forward. A big grin on her face, she tapped her cheek with her left hand. “Come on, Alsey! Right here!”
Alsenoth shook his head, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to hit you now, Kala. I’m not dumb enough to just—”
“No, come on! Seriously, hit me!”
“Kala if this is some sort of joke—”
“Hit me!”
Alsenoth threw his fist against Kala’s cheek. She flipped around and snarled, placing her claw against her face. When she turned back around to face Alsenoth, her eyes and pupils were a deep shade of ruby; a clear sign of Stimdärt power. Her cheek was cut from the impact of the punch and blood was trickling down her face.
“What did you do that for?”
Alsenoth was flustered, taken completely off-guard. He widened his eyes in fear—horrified that he had actually hurt his best friend. “But you asked me to hit you! Insisted, if I rightly recollect! Are you okay? I mean, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard!”
He bent down and knelt at her side. She had an angry look on her face. “I know I told you to, but I didn’t think that you’d actually do it; I was trying to prove a point!”
“I’m sorry Kala. I was just trying to help you tap into your Stimdärt abilities.”
Kala sighed. “I know. I’m not mad. I’m just…shocked at how much it hurt.”
Alsenoth raised his brow. “Oh, is that all? I thought you were mad at me?”
“I can be if you’d like,” she pouted with her face and gave Alsenoth the look.
Alsenoth just chuckled. “I’m sorry Kala, but it was either that or cutting you.”
Kala lifted her claw off of her face to reveal her bleeding cheek. She flashed him a sarcastic smile. “Oh we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
Alsenoth grinned. “No, of course not. But either way it still worked.”
“What do you mean?”
Alsenoth stood up and looked at her. “Well for one thing, your eyes are all ruby—which, might I add, makes you look very pretty,” Kala shifted at this remark, “And secondly, if you look at your claws you’ll see that they’re shining.”
Kala looked down. Alsenoth was right: bright yellow light was swimming lazily around her claws, twinkling in the sun’s rays. She looked up happily to Alsenoth, a giant grin on her face—the same smile that had always reminded him of the sun. “See, Alsey? I told you I wasn’t joking! Now do you believe me?”
Alsenoth smiled; more to himself than to Kala. “I never said that I didn’t believe you, Kala. There’s no way that I could never believe you.”

-@alsenoth

rocky paper scissor show.

This is a piece from way back in my high school newspaper days. Its caption as a pic in one of my online albums was:

This was a student life piece pulled together at the last possible second when Demy's page found itself short one story in the December 2004 issue of The Howler. I had originally rejected the assignment because of my close ties to the RPS movement at Chino Hills High*, but in the end I decided it would be better to keep the issue afloat than to turn a blind eye. This remains one of my favorite pieces, largely because of its quirky quotations. Note the variant spelling of Brendan's name.



*I started the movement.

-@chrisavila