Tag Archives: yeahwrite speakeasy

DS YW176- Desolation

Everything hurt. It seemed every nerve in my body felt like the best way to hurry me back to consciousness was to scream pain at my brain. The cockpit was mostly intact, but the sheer strength of the impact is what got me. As I looked to my right, I notice my peripheral monitor was shattered. At least that explained why the right side of my body was covered in blood. Shrapnel is the bane of mechanised armour.

Heartbeat- slow. Pilot has regained consciousness.

I grunted as I sat back in my seat. No time to waste. I brought a status report of my mech up on the screen. Looks like I wasn’t the only one in bad shape. Hydraulics for the right leg were badly damaged, perhaps beyond repair. The left arm was basically torn off. Thrusters won’t be able to reach maximum efficiency. At least there were no leaks. Thank god there were no leaks.

As far as weapons went, my rifle was god knows where, my assault knives forgotten in the armoury during the scramble, and my magnum was low on ammo. The only weapons that were still fully operational were the wrist mounted light machine guns. Talk about firepower. I turned on the main camera, grabbed the joysticks, and powered my robotic armoured suit back to life. I felt my eyes widen, as the rest of my body froze in a mix of surprise and terror. Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t turned the camera on. To say the moon base was annihilated would have been an understatement. Those bastards took a whole chunk of the moon with them. All that was left of the sprawling military complex was a couple floating rocks. In the lunar sky, cadavers of ships where slowly drifting down to the surface. Hundreds, if not thousands of destroyed mechs lay on the surface, lifeless. A quick glimpse at the comms told me I had lost the signal of all my squad, including Commander Carter, as well as mission HQ. The sensors couldn’t pick up a friendly signal for hundreds of kilometre. I had been very lucky.

Heartbeat- normal. Pilot focused.

I threw my mech into combat speed, pushing what was left of the thrusters to their limit. Unable to achieve flight, I found myself leaping from crater to crater, some of them eons old, some very recent. I was headed for the equatorial comms relay. Earth had to know something had attacked us, clearly with the intent of leaving no survivors. They had taken us by surprise, and had the ability to do so again. The distance to cross was phenomenal, but despite missing some thrust, space armours were fast. The sophisticated inertial dampeners and the genetic modifications I had received at birth easily allowed me to surpass sonic speed, without turning me into a milkshake.

Heartbeat- fast. Adrenaline levels rising

The situation didn’t improve though. As I got further away from the battle field, the sky began to clear. The Earth was piercing the horizon. My sensors were able to extend their reach, no longer impeded by the leftovers of the battle. Quickly, my radar started to send alerts to me. I was picking up a number of large heat sources between me and the Earth. I focused my sensors on it. The image appeared on my screen. My blood froze in my veins.

Thousands, if not tens of thousands of huge ships doted the sky, their silhouette invisible without a filter. They were headed to earth at battle speed. Their architecture wasn’t earth-like. They could not have been built under the constraints of gravity. This wasn’t a rebellion from the colonies. No. This was a full-fledged invasion force.



Man what a great summer. It’s good to be back, though. To start the school year off with a bang, here is a quick sci-fi piece, stepping away from the action heavy pieces and trying something a bit more on the descriptive end of the spectrum. Hope you enjoyed! Comments, criticism, random thoughts, and advice is welcome!


Posted by on 25 August 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


Tags: , , , ,

YeahWrite Summer 2014- Drumbeat of Egora

I felt strange in my cloak and doublet, my naked feet bathing in the pearl white sand. I had been sent to the south-eastern nation of Egora by the guild in order to escort another mage back to the royal city. Being from the war-torn western coast, the culture of Egora was a truly fascinating thing to me. The people were dressed lightly, revealing their dark skin to the harsh sun, challenging it. The outfits themselves weren’t ragtag, battle hardened armors like those I used to wear as a young man, nor did they resemble the humble, practical outfits worn by the inhabitants of the central provinces. They were colorful, carefully crafted masterpieces.

Jewels were imbedded in the cloth. Precious metals made up the structure of the more complicated outfits. Cloth-of-gold stitching were made on the edge of the clothing. Rare dies colored the cloth in exotic colors and patterns. The people painted their bodies extravagantly, sometimes leaving no skin untouched. Women wore the feathers of birds of prey to ornate their hair. Men wore the skin of feline hunters to show their worth.

Tonight, the outfits and body paintings were particularly spectacular. Tonight was the eve of the Summer Solstice, a sacred day here. The sun was a red semi-circle sinking into the horizon before me. The sound of drumbeat started as soon as the last sunbeam fell beyond the horizon. I let the vibrations guide me to the town plaza. The space that had been empty shortly before was now dominated by a row of eight huge, elevated drums. A crowd was forming around a tall, ebony skinned woman. She wore a pearl white outfit lined with cloth of gold and ornamented with blue stones. Her abdomen and collar bone were decorated with azure body paint that also swiveled around her arms. That same blue paint ornamented her eyelids and cheekbones.

When she opened her eyes, I was struck by the cold blue light that lived within, like a piece of arctic sky imbedded within her dark frame. A quick look at the drums revealed the true nature of the musicians. They were magical beings summoned, animated and controlled by the blue-eyed sorceress. The same blue light lived within their eyes and the runes that ran throughout their bodies. The mage’s singing began than, her crystal voice amplified by magic, and accompanied by the drums as well as another sound, as if fingers of metal were plucking strings of lightning, summoned by magic, causing a deep vibration throughout my body. The crowd around me was dancing wildly, the only light coming from the village’s torches, and from magical holograms that appeared in the sky, animated by a familiar blue light. The air was fresh and alive with music and happiness.

Hours later, the music died down and the mage stopped her nimble and fluid dance. The flying lights died out, the black silhouettes disappeared from the drums in a cloud of blue particles. The eyes of the mage regained their natural color. The crowd was in awe. She then spoke the local language, her crystal voice reaching the edge of the village. I didn’t need to speak the exotic, fascinating tongue to understand that she was inviting others to join the spectacle with skills of their own.

I dropped my cloak from my shoulders and pulled up my sleeves. The people around me started to move away as my hands started to glow with a crimson light. I let magic flow from my palms, allowing a cloud of red-and-gold particles to form around my knees. I sent a flow of magic through my legs to levitate me and used part of the cloud to materialize ornate wings on my back. The circle the crowd had formed around me now rivalled that of the mage. I cracked my neck and breathed deeply as I pushed more magic out into the night, extending my consciousness, creating bright red figures of my own. I closed my eyes to better focus. Creatures of western myth materialized in the air, re-enacting the stories of my childhood on an epic scale…

… And I was only getting warmed up!


Part four of my Souleater series, introducing a second character. Previous part here and all parts here.Trying a more descriptive approach this time around, perhaps less exiting, but something I need to get better at, meaning feedback is very welcome this week, and I’ll gladly take in opinions, and random thoughts as well! Thanks you for stopping by!


Posted by on 4 August 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


Tags: , , ,

YeahWrite Summer 2014- Crack in the window

The green bar completes its journey across the monitor. The screen illuminates the room, the only other source of light being the thin rays that filter through the paper blinds. Outside, the sun is setting. Despite the relatively cool air, I am sweating. The air is tense. My muscles ache from exhaustion. I control my breathing to be as quiet as possible, knowing it is useless. Security will be here soon. The comforting pressure of a 9mm gun on my left rib helps me to keep a cool head. A strange thought pierces the surface of my mental stream: How many 16 year olds have infiltrated tight security compounds over the course of espionage’s relatively short history?

Hurried steps echo in the corridor. A short moment of silence is interrupted by the mechanical click of a loaded firearm. A nervous voice is muffled by the wooden door, the crack of a radio following the stereotypical “Over!” A message of completion appears on the screen before me. The data transfer is over

Just in time…

I snatch the USB key from the computer and stuff it in the inner pocket of my suit. The door explodes behind me as I burst into a sprint. The blast of a shotgun erupts from behind. I hear the burning metal pellets whistle by my skull as they crash into the window before me, cracking it. My job thus made easier by my pursuers, I dive elbow first into the glass obstacle, and fall through it. The still, artificially fresh air of the office gives way to the dry summer wind. Thirty floors of empty air separate my falling body from the hot pavement.

After a few seconds, I pull the strap hidden under my suit, releasing a parachute camouflaged within. My velocity is reduced abruptly. Overhead, voices shout in anger. I hear the explosions of a familiar shotgun crack through the evening sky. A quick glimpse downwards allows me to estimate to about 15 seconds the remainder of my fall. I take my small gun from its holster and quickly shift my weight forwards, making the parachute dip back. My line of sight now clear, I aim the deadly tool up towards my assailants, and pull the trigger. The recoil of the gun doesn’t help my muscular exhaustion in any way. One of the men’s silhouette tumbles back into the office, a scream of pain accompanying his fall. Once the distance between my feet and the pavement is reduced to about 6 feet, I cut the strings of my parachute and let myself fall to the ground.

A Porsche 911GT3 pulls up, the new girl, Sam, at the wheel. “Where on earth did you find THAT!?” I ask, a little startled by the beautiful German supercar. “Does it really matter? Get in here now!” She replies, her voice barely understandable because of the engine’s steady purr and her heavy Russian accent. I collapse onto the passenger seat, exhausted, and let the muffled roar of the engine drift me away from reality, and into sleep, as Sam’s expert driving gets us far away from any possibility of pursuit.

Man, who knew being a spy was so tiring? They forgot to mention that in James Bond…


Stereotypical spy story for this week, also the sequel to this post. I decided to write in present tense this week, as a sort of experiment. And sorry for letting my petrol-head ways show in this post, but if you’re going to escape, might as well do it in style right? Consider yourself lucky. I could have talked about the 3.7L, 475 break horse power V6 in AGONIZING detail for anyone who’s not into that stuff… But I held it all in. That’s dedication right there!


Posted by on 28 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


Tags: , ,

YeahWrite Summer 2014-Nightime Runaway

I burst forwards, using the trees as leverage. Movement behind me. I turn around in mid air and release a wave of magical heat, vaporizing the vegetation, illuminating the night with deadly flames. I turn back around to face the right direction, ignoring the movement in my peripheral vision, renewing my momentum with the nearest branch. Screeches of rage erupt from the flames behind me. Shivers crawl up my spine. I mustn’t let fear take over. Focus! Focus on the trees before you, not the shadows behind!

Tree. Right foot on the branch, left foot forwards. Eyes spotting for the next stepping stone. Burst of energy through the right heel. Left foot anticipating the next branch. Arms stabilizing the jumps and ready to fire death upon anything that gets too close. Spot. Land. Jump. Repeat.

How long I ran? Who knows? I came down to a stop when the trees did, at the edge of a cliff. It was too dark to see the bottom. My exhaustion could be heard in my breath. Soon, shadows landed around me, four colourful dots in each silhouette’s face. Their long arms nearly reached their feet. Their strange necks twisted around as they observed me. These things had haunted me, manipulated me ever since I escaped their lair, down in the depths of the earth. Then again, I had stolen something from them. Now they had cornered me, at the edge of a cliff, so far from civilisation that none will hear me scream. They waited, patiently. I spat a cuss, realising the predicament I was in. Slowly, I reached inside my pouch and took the artefact out. I laid the mysterious stone on the ground before me, the green runes eerily illuminating the grass.

One of the SoulEaters roared out of what seemed like satisfaction. The creature straight across from me stepped forward and grabbed the stone. I didn’t stop however and kept walking towards me. I tried to move away but I was paralyzed, held in place by a cold, invisible hand. It stopped before me. It rose the stone up to its mouth and breathed on it. The stone vaporised, revealing a bright green light within, like an emerald star encased a body of rock, floating in the monstrous palm of the creature. I shut my eyes.

I was fighting the dread rising within. Be logical. If it wanted you dead, you’d be dead! Then why keep you alive? Logic. Fear. Hope. Fear. Confidence. Fear…. Fear.

The familiar tingle of magical runes on my skin interrupted the mental ballet. The creature’s palm was next to my abdomen, the green light illuminating my doublet. Before I realised what was happening, the green star traversed my clothes, phasing through my skin and logging itself within me. A wave of excruciating pain crashed on my body. I heard myself scream. The invisible hand let me go soon after. My legs refused to obey my brain, and I fell to the floor. I saw the feet of the SoulEaters vanish. I wanted to scream, to move, but my muscles shut down, as if the pain had fried my nervous system. My eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. They shut despite my best efforts. I was drifting away from reality. The last sensory stimuli I remember came from my ears. “Am I dying?” a shaky, girlish voice said.

No. It wasn’t death. Dreams of terrible creatures chased me through my mind. Memories that didn’t belong to me flowed into my mental river. I saw a boat through a familiar explorer’s eyes. I saw a boy through the eyes of a mother. I saw a house through the eyes of an architect. I was somehow conscious of memories of those that had fallen prey to the SoulEaters. That green light gave me the collective knowledge of hundreds of people, as if I had a sensory library within me, one I could access at will. I was painfully floating back towards reality when I became conscious of the green star’s second gift: I felt a huge, distant reserve of dark power stored within my abdomen. I was focusing on it when the rising sun forced me out of the nightmare.

I realised the ground below me wasn’t grass but sand. The eerie silence of the mountain gave way to the quiet harmony of waves on a beach. The star within me produced a name: Egora, thousands of miles from where I fell unconscious.


Hello yeahwrite! For those of you not familiar with me (and the many of you who probably forgot), I am running a fantasy series on this blog. This is part three. You’ll find the previous part here, and the whole thing here. Thank you for stopping by, I hope you enjoyed! As always, your thoughts, criticism, and opinions are welcome.

PS: For those who remember the comment section of pt 2, yeah, I’m gonna make this character a girl…

PSS: Bookworm is gonna be at least less active, and at most completely absent from the blogosphere for the next two weeks. She’s out in what some people call “nature”. It’s a strange place where things happen without human intervention or wifi. Crazy right? So you guys are stuck with me for a while… Take that as you will.

PSSS: Isn’t it supposed to be PPS and PPPS, as in post post scriptum, and post post post scriptum?

PSSSS/PPPPS: If you are still reading, congrats! You have just received the Dwagon Seal of Awesome. Now you can brag in the comment section.


Posted by on 21 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


Tags: , ,

The place that life did shun

Where have all the flowers gone?

For winter’s been and done,

What have all the people done

To make such beauty run?


It is because the flowers know

That people burn and kill,

The war and devastation show

That coulors suit us ill.


The sun starts to fades away

To leave us in the dark,

Such creatures don’t deserve to stay

Lighted by a spark.


The flowers bleed their sorrow and hurt

For Man has pierced their shield:

Their brothers laid down in the dirt

Under the poppy fields.




I’m sorry this had to be so sad and I’m not sure I’ll be uploading this to the grid, I’ll probably find something more fun :/

Ok scrap that I wrote something I liked a little more but it was way too long (over 900 words) and I didn’t have the heart to cut it that much so I’m going to cheat by adding a link if you want to see it but feel free to ignore it. Here it is

Feel free to comment on anything you see should you choose to roam around this blog (I even encourage you do so) even if something is months old it’s always nice to get new feedback or even just appreciation (or depreciation but with reason). Also if you want to participate in a friendly prompt or prompt me (or us, I think DragonSpark would be happy to give it a go) do so, go ahead 🙂

By the way I’m leaving for two weeks on Friday so don’t be offended if it takes me a while to answer, I promise I’ll answer you when I get back.
If you read this far thank you for bearing with me as I rambled on ^^’


Posted by on 14 July 2014 in Banzaï


Tags: , , , , , ,

YeahWrite Summer 2014-It’s a rough job…

“The shifts are demanding. Around 7pm-7am, knowing the starting hours vary depending on the day. You have to start the job at the exact assigned time, not a second earlier, not a second later. Everyone has to be in perfect harmony. We’re more synchronised than a orchestra of Swiss watchmakers.

Not only are the shifts hard, but the job itself is hard too. You are expected to be brilliant all the time. You don’t get brakes, not even to go to the bathroom. It’s a job that will anchor you in place for sure.

We’ve got nobody protecting us. We don’t have a union, politicians are always trying to cut our budget, and the media doesn’t give a crap about the real, hard working folks out there.

We’re never appreciated either. One flicker of failure, and any passer-by will be cussing at or about you. Nobody ever compliments us, even if we’re the one lighting up the city. Dogs sometime urinate on us for Christ’s sake! And don’t even get me started on the pay.

It’s a hard job being a lamppost…”


I wasn’t planning on posting anything to the first supergrid this week, as I had already posted something for the Moonshine, and because I was traveling. The idea for the post above came to me while observing the city lights as the plane was taking off. So here is my humble homage to a piece of infrastructure we often forget.
Up next, traffic lights!! 😆


Posted by on 14 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


Tags: ,

Speakeasy 169 – On the Outside

He had already been living on the run when she met him on an old town where Order was slightly more relaxed than in other places. But she despised Them all the same. Everybody did in every place that wasn’t Free. And everyone had a different idea of what free was. No one ever knew, they had never been told. The Free did not contact the enslaved; in fact these people didn’t even have a name to categorise them. Not even people. For others, they were: Them. Those out there we rarely heard about. The imperfections of our perfect world, hidden in the shadows, doing all the dirty work, or left Outside to die, or become enslaved by the Order. That was all there was: Outside and Inside. There were no windows, just an unreachable barrier that separated the two. They were worlds apart. The Unnamed, as they called themselves, had chosen this wisely as not only their caste was unmentionable, but most of them had no name, as they had been thrown out at an early age because of an imperfection: A missing limb or a malformed one, a misplaced organ, heart condition, cancer, mismatched eyes. Anything that was below their standards. Unsurprisingly, after a while the Outside was not so sparsely populated anymore.

Walker had come to her town with another, older boy but he had been found. Dreamer’s Walker had escaped and found her accidentally by hiding in the same place she did when the world got too real. Of course at ten years old she wasn’t fully aware of the reason, she just instinctively left when the invisible weight on her skinny shoulders was top heavy. He was Walker because he travelled; the boy with him was also Walker. They didn’t have names so they gave each other names. She was Dreamer. The names they had categorized people. A smart No-name would stay that way, or at least not give away their names too easily, but children are unaware of such silly things as they would see them, so they exchanged names and two days later Dreamer ran away with Walker.

Dreamer then became one of the few with more than one name. They travelled together from village to village, not lovers but instinctively kin and by the time they were 15 they got caught up in some trouble. By that time they were a little less knowledgeable about the world but it could be argued that they were not less foolish for they were at the age when the young mind thinks idealistically and everything is possible.

Our Dreamer and Walker understood more of the world they lived in and its workings, and they would stir unrest in the villages they went to, they would rouse anger in the villages they stopped at, and they would incite the people to rebellion in the villages they left.

Eventually they were reported in one such village and found before they could leave. Dreamer got caught and Walker ran away. She loved Walker dearly as a brother, they had travelled alone together for five years and knew nothing or no one better than each other. She never got to tell him how much she loved him. The next day at the stocks in front of everyone she said nothing but thought it so loud that she convinced herself he had heard it. She died with no regrets and Walker never knew. He could only guess and hope she felt that way because it was the way he felt for her.

Though they were the same age, he had always acted the older brother, protecting her. But it still hadn’t been enough. And he hated himself for that.

And Walker walked alone while Dreamer dreamed above. A lone wolf crying out to the moon. Wolverine. And suddenly, he had a new name.


The owner of this blog, B00kworm, is currently somewhere in England, with no wifi and a weak phone signal. It took her three tries to send this to me, one hour for me to type it all up, and god knows how long for her to write 600 words ON HER FREGGIN PHONE! Just barely making it on to the speakeasy Grid. GG bookworm!


Posted by on 9 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


Tags: , ,

DragonSpark Speakeasy 169- Isolation

She woke up to a dull, grey, lifeless sky. It was as if the sun refused to cast its warm light upon the inhabitants of the quarantine zone. As for the birds, they’d been the first source of food to expire. How long had it been since the army had set up the particle field? Months? Years? It felt like eternity to her.

“Think of the devil!” She spat, as two white ships flew overhead, their hydrogen fusion core spiting neon blue flames from the reactors, looking for an excuse to drop fire and death upon the already broken remnants of a glorious city. She got up from the mattress, letting the two devils fly away. If she were to look in a mirror, she would see a face covered with dirt, dust and soot, she would see a girl dressed in a ragtag armour of leather and steel. Before the quarantine, she had been unsatisfied with her looks. It was the only thing she regretted. Now however, looks were meaningless. What mattered was strength, cunning, and food. Always food. After the appearance of the particle field, stores were raided. Then, birds were shot. The sewer rats were becoming rarer and rarer lately. Soon, people will stop caring what animal the meat comes from. “Good thing I’m skinnier than most!” She declared out loud, then laughed despite herself. Was she going crazy? Probably. She stepped out of the sewer pipe that housed her small home, and out into what used to be the city’s canal. Before her was a valley of concrete, rust, and broken glass. Several colons of black smoke rose to meet the grey sky.

The army said they created the field to keep a pandemic in check. Thing is, there never was a pandemic. She knew the real motives were political, but couldn’t be bothered to know the details. She had more important things to do. She left politics to those with too much time on their hands.

She headed downriver, battle knife strapped to her back, hoping to find rats. Three kilometres and two decomposing dead bodies later, she found another sewer pipe. She stepped into the darkness, allowing her eyes to get used to the obscurity. She drew out the battle knife. Her steps were slow, steady, and quiet. Her breathing was controlled and deep. All her senses were alert, waiting for the slightest sound, the slightest shift in the air, the smallest of movements. The field had turned her into an efficient killing machine. After what seemed like a long time spent walking in the sewers, she heard a distant sound, like a distant beep. She froze. Where did it come from? What was it? Silence and darkness were the only answers she got. Did she imagine it? The possibility seemed more and more likely when beep! There it was again. A regular sound. She followed it until it lead her to a locked door. What to do? Someone might be waiting behind that door with a gun. Or it might be a food stash. Or a weapon stash. She put her right ear on the door and listened. No sound came from inside. No footsteps, no breathing, nothing apart from the increasingly ominous beep. She took a deep breath, backed away from the door, and slammed her shoulder back into the obstacle. It didn’t budge. After three attempts, she felt the top hinge crack. After five, the door was giving in. On the eighth shoulder slam, she fell into a bright room, screaming briefly, the door falling beneath her. After the dust settled and her eyes adapted to the sudden light, she finally found the source of the beep.

Before her was a large, white, rectangular box. On top of the box were two dials with two key slots. In between the dials was a screen, with a timer. On the flank of box facing her was the army’s crest. Next to it was a set of symbol she recognised from her university’s physics course. Nuclear hazard. Explosive content. She had found a nuke. A big nuke, by the looks of it.

Panic rose in her. This thing will turn the city into a crater! Even if she survived the initial blast, the radiation would put her down in a matter of weeks. Thoughts of death and suffering flowed through her mind until a new kind of thought emerged.

What happens if you detonate a nuke next to a particle field?


So I remember reading some awesome post-apocalypse posts a few weeks back, and I remember making a mental note to try my hand at it eventually. Except I also made a mental note to redo sci-fi, because I wasn’t satisfied with my first  attempt, so I figured “let’s do both!” Dunno if the whole thing blends well, but it was fun to write.

Fun fact: Adrift was my first contribution to this blog, and this here is my tenth, but also the first I post with my own Gravatar (Instead of BW posting it for me), and, as you all know, the last before the Speakeasy’s summer break, so I guess this post is a little special to me. It’s a testimony to the progress I’ve made as a writer and a person, partly thanks to the SpeakEasy.

B00kWorm, thanks for dragging me into this gin joint!

As always, your comments and opinions are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!


Posted by on 6 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


Tags: , ,

Speakeasy 168 – Complications

“When did you know you were lost?” he asked, concerned.
“When no-one came back for me.”

“I was ten, I didn’t know any better, I ran away and tried to live how I could, I didn’t know there were people who could help me.”
The boy was panicking he had just been caught stealing, he was thirteen years old and had been living on the streets for three years. As his lawyer the man had to understand why he did everything that he did, to make sure there were no lies and to inform the boy of the other possibilities so that he would know that people could help him.
Steveson now knew everything he need to know, Josh was a victim of his own ignorance, he did what he thought he needed to do to survive, he had no idea that what he had stolen contained state and even country secrets heavily guarded by the CIA. So well hidden that the boy had no idea what he was doing, he thought he just taking something he could exchange for food. The guarding must’ve had a flaw for such a child to get ahold o something so precious but luckily he didn’t get far.
Of course he didn’t know that Josh was actually called Andreï and that he was an elite agent of a very special division of the Russian special forces, or that the boy had been sent to infiltrate North Korea as Jihye Kim, or that he had been caught there and had then been sent along with supervision to America (Pueblo, Colorado to be more exact) to get this information. Steveson didn’t know that Andreï/Jihye/Josh got caught on purpose to make sure North Korea did not get what they wanted. The man had no idea that the boy in front of him was in grave danger. He didn’t know that this boy was planning on leaving a message to someone to get help but didn’t know if it would work. When Josh was put in an orphanage he stole some paper and an envelope and he found a pen lying carelessly around. He also had to find stamps. Enough to get his letter to France. And he started writing in a careful hand (he was still a little unused to writing in this alphabet but it was one people would more easily recognise and be less wary of so it was better than Russian. People would more likely post it if they found it and his shadows didn’t know that he spoke and wrote French. He hoped it would work):

Cher Martin
Ça fait longtemps, jai beaucoup de choses à te dire. J’aimerais d’abord savoir si tu avais bésoin….. daide…… lés… Coréns…….. Mont……..

The mistakes were the key, the message was this: “j’ai besoin d’aide les Coréens m’ont”
“I need help the Koreans have me”
He signed the letter by the name he had used when he met these contacts. He also added hints as to where he was but his superiors in Russia had put a tracker in him. All they needed was to activate it and they could find their agent. He could only hope he was worth an extraction. If the letter ever got to France in the first place.
The day after writing the letter Andreï had a trip to the beach. He had hidden the closed and stamped letter in his shirt and he managed to slip it into the sand without anyone noticing. All he had to do now was let luck an fate run their course. He planned to write letters every week but I can only see people’s past so I can only tell you what has already happened.
I hope that his plan will work and he gets an extraction. Time will tell.


In the nick of time! Looks like DragonSpark didn’t make it this week…


Posted by on 2 July 2014 in Banzaï, Speakeasy


Tags: ,

Speakeasy 167 – Table Turner

Turner could change things, she could will things to happen and she could, to some extent, change the past. But everything she did came with a price: the twin towers were hit when she saved her parents and little brother from a car crash they had died in, her neighbour died of a heart attack when she stopped a burglar from coming into her house and shooting her in fear trying to get away and she found a dead pigeon on her doorstep the day she undid the entire day and came back to the morning. The retribution was always disproportionate and unpredictable. That’s what made it so dangerous.
Turner was 25 years old though her mind was young and heavy. She would twitch her ear if she was annoyed by something or other and she lived alone in one of those big square bins except this one was stuck for everyone else who tried to open it an it was bigger on the inside. That had cost her three dead cats and a cholera outbreak somewhere in Africa. But she had stopped caring. That was the last time she’d used her “powers”, that sacred “gift”…
She lived scavenging the nearby bins and pickpocketing to buy the food she couldn’t get scavenging. She had ten water bottles she’d fill up at fountains. She had everything she wanted: a quiet life, where no-one would bother her. On the contrary, they seemed to avoid her.
Then she met Sam. She was sitting in the street with her back against the wall, enjoying people not talking to her, walking past fast, swerving to avoid her, even going so far as to cross the street. That’s when Sam came. He was ten years old. A street urchin, starving to death. He was the only one to come near her, to nestle against her, to not mind the smell and the absence of money or decency. And she fell in love.
She showed him her home, she taught him to scavenge and pick pockets and beg. Then she showed him other things, she only wanted him to be happy and she never thought her curse would actually affect her.
And it didn’t. But Sam got hit by a truck. She brought him back to life, but Sam was never the same again.



Posted by on 25 June 2014 in Banzaï, Speakeasy


Tags: ,