Goodbye, Part 2

 Hey! Jack has agreed to let Goodbye become a recurring post on this blog, kind of a series of short stories that tell the larger story. I’m thinking it’ll be once every two weeks or something, so the others get a chance to post.

Goodbye, Part 2

Detective Hunter stared at me, his eyes hard and cold. 

“Please,” I said. “You have to let me go. I can find the man who caused this.”

Max turned to his supervisor, the man still hiding in the shadows. “May I tell him, sir?” 

The other man nodded, the simple exchange making my heart sink with dread. 

Meleya’s brother leaned forward across the table, the one strewn with pictures of destruction and evidence of my crimes. They were sure to put me in prison for the rest of my life. I’d bet money on it.

“You will never be free again,” Max told me, his voice low and dangerous, like it was a secret. “But you will find the man who did this.”

“Can’t do that if I’m not free, can I?”

“Trust me, James, there are ways. Painful ways. Watch.” He raised his arm and a projection started playing. 

A man in a white coat with a mask that hid his face walked to another man, this one strapped to a chair. This wasn’t a normal chair, though. It was very much like the one that I currently sat in, actually.

The doctor pushed a few buttons on his holoscreen, and the chair began to move. First it tipped back so the second man was lying flat, then tendrils of the material wrapped around his arms and legs, holding him securely.

“A long time ago, an experiment was conducted that discovered bodies lose weight when they die. A small amount, almost inconsequential. There was debate about whether or not this information was credible, and we’ve recently proved that it is. The 21 grams of body weight lost at the moment of death is, in fact, the person’s soul leaving the body.” The man in the shadows stepped forward as he narrated. “Obviously, if the body is dead, there’s nowhere for the soul to go except the afterlife. But if the body was alive? Many more possibilities.”

In the projection, the doctor injected the prisoner with a strangely glowing substance. 

“That injection is what will make the soul visible, upon separation. Obviously an important aspect of capture.”

“What are you talking about?” I whispered, staring as the man in the chair began to scream. The footage had no sound, but I flinched at the expression on the man’s face.

As I watched, the doctor pushed a different sequence of buttons. It was hard to see exactly what was going on, but the man in the chair began to vibrate, fast enough that the footage of him became fuzzy. Before my eyes, something not solid and glowing the same colour as the injection floated away from his body, to be captured in a metal tube by the doctor. For a few moments, while the prisoner panted and gasped for breath, the doctor stared at the vial, seemingly unable to believe what he’d done.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “What was that?” I asked as the footage went black. “What was the glowing thing?”

“That, dear boy, was his soul. Removing the soul from a living being allows for the modification of the mind without risking the person's life. After this footage, the man was reprogrammed to obey every command given him by a panel of seven people. We discovered that, unfortunately, a person cannot survive nearly as long as we’d hoped without a soul, only approximately a year.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“That is what is going to happen to you, Mr. Alastair. That way we can make use of the implants that were programmed to your brainwaves, using them for something other than destruction. You want that, don’t you?”

“You’re going to take away my soul? That’s a death sentence.”

Detective Hunter stood up. “Face it, James. You’re going to die anyway. At least this way you can be more than some murderer.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, James. When you were found, bent over Miss Hunter’s broken body, you lost all rights to be treated as a human. We merely thought it would be better if you knew what was going on.”

“You thought I’d agree to let you experiment on me?”

“It’s not experimental anymore, Mr. Alistair. The procedure has a success rate of 80%, unheard of numbers for this type of thing.”

“What happens to the 20% it doesn’t work for?”

“Generally, they don’t survive the initial injection. They quietly fall asleep and don’t wake. Comparatively painless.”

“Max, I loved your sister,” I said. “Please. For her. Don’t let them do this.” I appealed to the last hope for help that I had.

But he offered none, merely staring at me as though he couldn’t believe the request.

“Please! Don’t do this!” Even though I couldn’t fully comprehend what they were going to do, or how it worked, I knew they were taking away any last hope I had for revenge.

“Detective, call the surgeons. Let them know that they’ll be replacing Mr. Alistair’s implants first thing tomorrow.” Max’s supervisor turned to me, his expression cold. “And you will undergo the procedure, because you have no choice in the matter. Sleep well, boy.”

They left, turning off the light and leaving me to my fears and memories.

****

Not surprisingly, I didn't sleep at all that night. The prospect of losing one's soul should do that to you.

Something else occurred to me, though. Maybe it was better that they did this. Whoever had created me had brought out some sort of dark side to me, a dark side that reveled in destruction and death. Maybe if the procedure went well, it would keep that part at bay.

The door opened and closed again, quietly. Blinking in the sudden light, I stared at Meleya. 

"You can't be here," I said, after long moments of silence. "You're dead. I killed you." The words sounded flat and emotionless, hanging in the air between us.

"But I am here, James. Apparently, you aren't as good at killing as you think."

"They showed me pictures of you, Meleya. Your head was almost separated from your body. There is no way you aren't dead."

"Photo editing. Have you considered that, James? Have you considered that they have the resources to make something look like something else?" 

That shut me up. I had no response to that. "But why?" I asked finally. "Why would Max do that?"

"I don't know, James. But we found something we weren't supposed to." She tipped her head, like she'd heard something in the hall. "I have to go, but I will come back. Stay strong, James."

Just like that, she was out the door and gone.

The End

See you next week! Hope you enjoyed this week's installment of Goodbye, Jack should have Part 3 ready a couple weeks from now.

Writing Tip #13 - Sometimes advice is bad

 All right. I'm going here. I'm opening this can of apocalypse worms, because that's what I like to do.

Very often, I see writing advice that goes something like this: here's a word you should avoid because it's common, but here are a bunch of 'synonyms' you can use instead. No. Just no. This is rather bad advice, for a few simple reasons. 

You can end up with  sentences that don't flow and seem rather stilted and hard to understand. For example: (I found this in a writing prompt that I can't post here because I don't have permission from the original creator. Nothing against them, a lot of their prompts are marvelous and useful. However, not everyone is perfect all the time) His eyes were hard and narrowed, the blood staining his visage only adding to the intensity of his gaze. "Give her back to me," he growled, his voice an unnerving timbre. "Now." Don't get me wrong, this is a fantastic prompt for some heated action plot with a male protagonist blah blah blah. But uncommon words like 'visage' and 'timbre' can hinder readers from understanding what you are talking about. Common words are used for a reason.

It can also change the meaning of what you say, because quite often these 'synonyms' have different connotations than the original word. For example, the word 'transformation' has 'mutation' listed as a synonym. And if you look at the meanings of the words, they are quite similar. But each word has a different meaning that has been assigned to it, almost by common agreement. A transformation is often seen as a bit of a good thing, like the transformation we can see in redemption arcs. A mutation, on the other hand, is often associated with things like genetic diseases and two-headed snakes.

Also, common words are common for a reason. Most people know what something like 'face' means, or 'tone', while they might not understand something like 'visage' or 'timbre.' Honestly, if I didn't read and write as much as I did, I wouldn't know either.

Once upon a time, I did try my best to follow this advice, but my writing suffered. If you are so busy looking up obscure words to use rather than words your readers probably will understand, you should be writing dictionaries, not novels. 

Cinderella

 Hey hey hey! Welcome back! I'd just like to quickly thank everyone who reads this blog, especially because I've had over 80 views this month. Granted, part of the credit goes to Jillian and the rest of the Scribblers, but that's not important. So thanks for reading this, I guess.

Anyway, I've got a story from one of the so-far silent Scribblers, Fawn Barker. 

It's called Cinderella.

You all know the story. A servant girl goes to a ball, falls in love with the prince, her life changes forever and she lives happily ever after. That's the one you grew up with, the one you love. 

What if I told you it was wrong? Completely wrong? Perhaps you'd call  me crazy, a maniac, a rabble-rouser or something of the sort. But it's true. The original Cinderella story is a far cry from the fluffy version of today, or even the slightly more disturbing tale written by the Grimm brothers. Both are not a true accounting of the facts of that fateful night.

In the rest of this story, I will explain to you the real circumstances, as they were passed down through my family by the original Cinderella, the focus of the stories. It is not a pretty tale, as the world is not a pretty place. It is, however, something that should be known. Those who fail to remember their history are bound to repeat it. 

If the truth is not something you are interested in, or perhaps if you still value and cling to that childhood version, do not keep reading. Walk away now, and you will not have your values challenged. 

But maybe a little challenge is good.

****

I walked quickly down the road, the slippers chafing my feet. By the end of the night, I was sure to have blisters. The fit was perfect, even perhaps a little too perfect. A little discomfort was worth the mission I had come to do. 

Ahead of me, I could see the lights from the opulent palace. There were so many torches, it almost looked like the night had become day, at least for a while. 

A carriage rumbled slowly past, then another. Apparently I was just late enough for it to be fashionable. 

Chatter from the ball reached me, a cacophony of noise that rivalled the squawking of Molly's chickens. The image of her chickens, dressed in finery for the ball, made me smile to myself, just a little. Of course, the moment of entertainment was quickly over. I was not attending for the food, nor the company. There was something I had to do.

One of the coaches slowed to a stop next to me. The woman inside was more radiant than the stars in the sky. She leaned out the window. "You poor soul," she said, "Surely you don't intend to walk to the ball."

"I'm already mostly there," I replied, glad of the mask that covered my features. This woman wore one as well, though it was less elaborate than mine. It was a mask that left her recognizable. That was something most of the women here would want to accomplish, as this masked ball was hosted with the intention of finding our esteemed prince a bride.

"Yes," the woman was saying, "but every woman deserves to arrive in style. After all, you could be meeting your future husband tonight."

That almost made me laugh out loud as I climbed into the carriage. I'd already met my future husband, though we would never marry. Not if I had anything to say about it.

After I was seated on the soft cushions, I slipped off my shoes and discreetly rubbed my aching feet. Of course, the woman across from me noticed and laughed, the sound like a pig scuffling for truffles.

"Seems it's a good thing we stopped," she said. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Morana," I replied, the lie rolling easily off my tongue. After all, I'd practiced it endlessly. "And yours?"

"Ruth. It's nice to meet you, Morana."

We rode the rest of the short distance in silence, and then I slipped my shoes back on.

"Morana," Ruth said as the carriage slowed. "Tell me, why does your mask hide your face? How will His Highness know who you are, should he chance to fall in love with you?"

"If he were to fall in love, I would prefer it was for my charming manner, rather than my looks."

She nodded. "I'd expected as much from a woman who would walk to the ball."

Her driver opened the door and I clambered out, wanting to get as far away from her as I possibly could. I had a mission tonight, and some kind noblewoman would not distract me from it.

To reassure myself, and to harden my resolve, I touched the dagger strapped to my arm, the one that would easily slip into my hand in the moment I needed it. Because unlike the other women here, I was not hunting a husband tonight. I was hunting a man, but not with the same end in mind. If I was successful, there would be one less cruel guard in the world.

And you'll be completely alone, a small voice, the rebellious part of me, whispered. It was barely audible in the back of my mind.

Besides, I wasn't alone. I had Molly, and all the other servants who had essentially raised me while I was exiled.

The chatter and music of the ball tore me out of my thoughts. There was much to do before my plan could be set in motion. 

****

After my preparations were finished, I waited, staying on the outskirts of the crowd, watching the enormous clock tower outside the window. I knew where he would be, but only for approximately five minutes at half past ten. It would have to do.

Time moved agonizingly slowly, as I avoided potential dancing partners and the gossips of the crowd. Perhaps in doing so I started more than a few rumors about the nameless girl who apparently wouldn't show her face to anyone. I would, but when it mattered.

Finally, I slipped into the hall to wait. His patrol would take him right to me in a matter of moments. If he didn't recognize me, all the better.

The act was as smooth as I could've hoped. My brother came around the corner, unaware of his impending doom. He spotted me, but was convinced I couldn't cause any harm. The dress I wore made me rather conspicuous. 

He was convinced until he felt the cold steel of my knife sinking into his flesh. His wound would be fatal, but not immediately.

That gave me time to remove the mask. Below me, the dying eyes widened in recognition, as he remembered the scars he himself had inflicted.

"Ella?" he gasped out, his dying breath sacrificed to my name, as what beauty I had once possessed was sacrificed to his cruel sadism.

"Yes, brother," I replied, not wanting to even taste his name on my tongue. "It's me. As I said before you left, running scared like the coward you were, I found you, and now I've killed you."

He might've said more, but blood bubbled between his lips, choking out any attempt at speech. Just like that, my brother was gone. Gently, for he was still family, I reached down and closed his eyes.

Then I straightened, replacing my mask. Tears were streaming down my face, dampening the channels left by my brother's knife all those years ago. It was the same knife that was now embedded in his chest, just below where his heart would be if he had one.

There was blood on my hands, so much blood. In all my careful preparation, I had not considered the blood. A bit of an oversight, but thankfully gloves were in style. 

Grimacing, for I was ruining my mother's best pair of silk gloves, I slipped them on. Just like the slippers, they fit perfectly.

Done that, I made my way back to the ball, barely aware of how I was shaking. All I had to do was get out, and that would be the end of this life. I could start over, somewhere new. Somewhere I didn't have cinders staining my name and the blood of traitors.

I was halfway across the wide dance floor when Ruth spotted me. She grabbed my arm, making me jump. 

"Boy, you sure are jumpy," she laughed again, the sound bringing a bit of a smile to my face. "Come on, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

Not stopping to give me a choice, she pulled me across the dance floor, pushing her way through a swarm of young women to a young man who was waving his arms in the midst of a story. It took a moment, but I recognized him. This was the crown prince.

"Enough of your stories, cousin," Ruth said, pushing me toward him. "Here. I've found you a dancing partner."

"Oh, no," I said, finding my tongue at last. "I really am a terrible dancer."

The prince winked, taking my gloved hand. "That's all right. I can't dance either. We'll make fools of ourselves together."

Any other night, I would've laughed. I would've been immediately swept off my feet by his charming nature. Of course, I did banter with him, matching my wits to his, but thoughts of the body cooling in the hall and the blood under my gloves kept my heart from getting involved. 

We danced and danced, through songs I don't remember. He was a superb dancer, but covered my missteps and mistakes with his own, saving me from any embarrassment. 

Finally, I heard the enormous clock begin to strike the hour. A glance out the window told me that it was time for the evening to end, for me to disappear. 

Making my excuses to the prince, I turned and ran. One of my servant girls was waiting near the door, wearing a cloak that hid the fact that she wore an identical dress to mine. I passed her the mask and my shoes, then took her cloak, disappearing into the servant halls. 

Commotion followed as the prince gave chase. All I could do was lean against the secret door, trying desperately to catch my breath. Once that was accomplished, I ripped my gorgeous dress down the back. Molly had sewn a bit of a looser seam there, with a strip of weaker cloth that would tear. A pity, sure, but if I was to get away, sacrifices would need to be made. 

I removed my elaborate wig, revealing my shorter hair, hair that Molly had shorn off a month ago, in preparation for my conversion from noblewoman to servant girl.

A brown dress, one that I'd worn under the ball gown, completed the disguise. As long as I kept my head down, no one would recognize me.

Perhaps on another occasion, I would've revealed myself to the prince, would've thrown myself at his mercy and trusted that the hint of love I saw forming in his eyes would protect me. But not this night. This night was not a night to be trusting others. 

Fighting tears again, I hurried through the halls and disappeared into the night.

The End.

I'll just let that sit. Have a good day!

Writing tip # 12 - Use what you’ve got

 Hey! Alice again. I’m making my first writing tip today, so we’ll see how that goes.

Anyway, here’s tip number 12: Use what you’ve got. 

Let’s face it. Writing is HARD. That was a tip from before, and I’ll repeat it. Sometimes the words just come like magic and sometimes they don’t. It’s hard to tell what will happen when you sit down with that laptop or notebook or slate or whatever.

So. Here’s something that’s kind of a no-brainer, but never occurs to most people. Use what you’ve already written. I’m sure you have loads of stories that you wrote before your current one, or if you’re like me, that you wrote while working on your current one. Whichever. The point is, those old or quick stories are often good, or useful at least. Because you used time creating those stories, why shouldn’t they give something back to you?

Every single one of your stories should be working for you, either making you money or promoting your brand or driving traffic to your books and your site. Lots of authors write short stories as practice, but they also publish these stories, as compilations or even novellas. An example is James Patterson’s Bookshots, which are shorter stories that he publishes as separate books. He is spending the time writing the stories, and now the stories are making him money.

So, any piece of writing has the potential to make you money, either directly or by driving traffic to your site and books. Don’t let it just sit on your hard drive gathering digital dust.

On a similar note, I’ve noticed that the stories that I post here are rather popular. Therefore, I’ve decided to compile and publish them as an Ebook, free of course, with some stories that have not appeared on the blog and from Scribblers that have not contributed yet. The book will be titled ScreenShot, and I’ll give you more information once I have a cover and more definite word count for it.

Have a good week!

Goodbye

 Hey! Alice again! Jillian has relinquished all control over this blog, which was her mistake. It's to focus on creating the podcast and Scribbler website, but still. 

Jack has a story for you this week, one that he promised to Jillian before I took over the blog.

He calls it 'Goodbye.' 

Meleya stared into my eyes, her face completely serious. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I'm leaving. I can't bear the reminder of you being swept away, but I'll never forget what we had and I promise to visit."

I tried to reach for her, but my wrists were chained to the hospital bed. "Meleya," I begged, reaching for her with my mind. "Please. Don't leave me."

She shook her head, turning away. "I'm really sorry, James. But I can't stay. It hurts too much."

If I'd had even a shred of my former abilities, I would've stopped her. I could've broken her neck with a nod. But the doctors had removed my implants, leaving me weak as any human. Tears gathered at my helplessness. "Did I ever matter to you?"

My best friend sighed, turning back. "Of course you did, James. But the old you. Not the one who was selected for implants, who destroyed his own life. And until you find that person back, I can't be around you. I'm sorry."

The doctor came into the room before she could say anything else, before I could reply. "Mr. Alastair. There are some people who'd like to have a word with you."

"I don't want to talk to them," I replied, straining against the handcuffs. "Please. I need to talk to Meleya."

"Who?" the doctor asked. 

She was gone.

"No!" I screamed. "Where is she? What did you do with her?"

"With who, James? Who are you looking for?"

"My best friend, Meleya. She was here a moment ago."

"James, you are the only one here. There wasn't anyone else."

My tired brain couldn't quite figure out what was going on. I leaned back in the bed, giving up. "Who wants to talk to me?"

"I think you know that. But first..." He pressed a few buttons on his tablet, and the needle in my arm shivered. Sedative. I knew even before the effects hit. 

"Please," I whispered, before the world went completely black. Just the one word. Not even a glimmer of a sentence to go with it.

****

When I came to, I was in a different room. Still strapped to the chair, but it was a different chair. A harder, colder chair. The light was harsher, bright. Almost too bright. It was like waking up on an operating table.

"Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Alistair."

I knew that voice. There was no memory for how I knew, but it was familiar. "Who are you?" I asked.

"You don't remember me? We've never met, true, but have certainly spoken enough that you should at least know my voice."

I managed to shake my head. 

The man leaned over me, pulling at the restraints. Testing them. "Well, seeing as you don't have the decency to remember my voice, I guess that gives me the advantage of a second chance at a first impression. That's really something that everyone wishes for, at some point or another."

Uncomprehending, I stared at him. 

His fist slammed into my stomach hard enough to make me double over, gasping and coughing. My lungs burned with the effort. It wasn't recommended to strain them this soon after they were regrown.

"Detective!" Someone else snapped at the man, someone I couldn't see.

"Sorry sir," the first man, the detective, replied. "Won't happen again."

"Are you going to actually interrogate the boy, or just beat him up for no reason?"

"Heaven forbid I beat this one for no reason," the detective muttered, but composed himself. "All right. Seeing as you don't remember me, I'll introduce myself again. My name is Detective Max Hunter. I'm Meleya's..."

"You're Meleya's brother," I whispered, recognizing him in a moment. 

"Give the man a prize!" Max leaned back, smiling.

"Where is she?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where is Meleya?"

He stared at me. It was nice to feel the tables turn, to surprise him. "You are asking me where my sister is?"

"Yes?" Now I wasn't so sure.

"That's funny, James, considering that we both know exactly where my sister is."

"We do?"

"Yes. Think back. What is the last thing you remember before your capture?"

As I concentrated, flashes of memory went through my head. Debris, flying, nearly crushing me. Meleya saved my life. Then I was turning to her, hating her. And then... "No, it's not true," I whispered, my eyes squeezed shut.

"Ah, you remember. It is true. You are the last person who saw my sister alive, and you are the reason she's lying on a slab of plastic downstairs, getting scanned for anything that would explain why she turned on us. Of course, we both know that won't be found in her body."

"No," I said again. "No, it can't be. I would never hurt her."

"Empty words, James."

"She's not dead," I replied, opening my eyes. "She's not. I spoke to her, in the hospital. Just before the doctor brought me here."

"You're delusional."

"No! She said that she had to leave, but that she would visit! She is coming back!"

His face darkened, and he leaned forward. There were cybernetic enhancements in his arms, one of which was a holoscreen projector. "Look," Max ordered. A few touches on his arm, and a picture appeared. Meleya. But something was wrong. Her skin was white, too white. Her eyes were missing the sparkle of joy that made me love her. Most importantly, her head was almost completely torn from her body.

"No," I whispered. "No! This isn't her!"

"You did this!" Max shouted. "You destroyed my sister! At least own up to your actions!"

"Detective." It was that other man again, a hint of warning in his voice. "Remember why this boy is here. Yes, he murdered your sister, and he will pay for that crime. But he has some information that we need."

"Sorry, sir," Max said, leaning back and covering the projector. "All right, James. Time for some honesty. Who created the implants that we found in your head?"

"What do you mean?"

He stared at me, then said again, slower, "Who created the implants we found in your head? Where did they come from, and who put them in you?"

"I don't know." 

Max jumped to his feet, sending the chair crashing to the floor. "Wrong answer! Who made them?"

"I don't know!"

"How? You were with them for three months. We estimate the surgeries took at least that long, probably longer. Are you saying that you never saw a guy who experimented on you for months?"

"I didn't. His assistants would sedate me before he came close, and they wore masks."

Max looked like he wanted to hit me again, but his boss stepped forward. "What do you remember about the room you were kept in, Mr. Alistair?"

It took me a moment to remember. Even then, it wasn't much. "The room was white. Like a hospital room, I guess. Monitors and stuff. After the first surgery, they kept my eyes covered. I think there was someone else in the room, though. I'd hear crying after the third meal of the day, sometimes arguing and begging."

The two men glanced at each other. They knew something, something that I didn't. "What?" I finally asked. "Who was in the room?"

"We think Miss Hunter was held with you, Mr. Alistair. That she was threatened in some way to make you cooperate. A message that you sent to Detective Hunter before you disappeared hints at that."

"I sent a message?"

"Yes. Detective?"

Max touched his arm a few times, then read, "Detective, I know you don't know who I am, but I care deeply about your sister. She is my best friend. My name is James Alistair, and Meleya is in trouble. If you don't hear from her soon, launch an investigation."

"That was five months before you appeared on B-3160 and almost destroyed a city."

All I could do was stare. I couldn't remember sending the message. More importantly, I couldn't remember destroying a city. "H-how many did I hurt?" I whispered, not wanting the answer.

"You killed seventeen, including Meleya. Injuries from each of your attacks numbers close to one thousand."

"How many attacks?"

"Seven."

Seven. Seven times, I'd lost control of the power that consumed me, of the power he had given me. I still didn't know who he was, but I would find out. And when I did, I would use the power that I still felt in my veins to keep him from doing this to anyone else. To end him.

The End.

I think this might be an origin story for one of Jack's characters. Not sure, though, because he likes to play things close to his chest. This would make a good novel, though. 

Have a good week and see you next Friday!