Fourteen weeks, 3 days, 11 hours.

[Ebonstar]

Fourteen weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

That’s how long mine was.

It isn’t something that’s been tracked, at least not that I know of. Most people that come here don’t try to track time. They all assume they’ll have as much as they need.

When we arrive at the station, capping off that indescribable ride in- they were right about one thing- it really is a new life.

But nobody bothers to track how long it is.

Fourteen weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

That’s how long mine was. That’s the length of my new life, my story.

It begins with a young woman who takes a train ride in expecting a new life.

The middle part of this new life is kind of a mess. The young woman finds herself duped by men, and decieved by women, and discovers her new life is one of a street rodent, foraging for scraps and selling off every meager possession, until killing and fighting for food and money is all she seems capable of.

It ends with the smoking barrel of a handgun, held in the remaining hand of an old man eager to avenge the recent loss of his other hand.

Two years, nine weeks, 1 day, 6 hours.

That’s how long his is. For now.

At the end of the story, the young lady is propped up by her hands as she drags her broken body behind her along the cold rocky floor of the street late at night. Tiny pebbles slide below her waist and jam themselves into her knees, as her arms struggle to pull the weight of herself. Her bony shoulders jut into the air as long, trembling, blood-soaked fingers splay out across the bleak gray of the road, eager to drag her broken body just a few more feet ahead of her.

Fourteen weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

That’s when this story ends. That’s when my life is over.

The old man may be on his feet, but to say he is in better form would be a bit of an exaggeration.

Two years, nine weeks, 1 day, 6 hours.

He staggers up the road after her, dragging one leg behind him that might as well be dried meat on a spit. His left arm dangles below his waist, the stump of the recently removed hand buried in the ragged grey cloth of his sleeve, now stained a rich brown with blood.

She left her story all over the man. His crinkled, leathery face looked more like loose burlap.Gaping holes on his face and neck continued to bleed all over his silvery moustache, where she told him the story of keeping her nails sharp and a knife strapped to her thigh. On his thick leather vest she wrote tales of her blade tasting his flesh until he reached for her blade with his hand, which didn’t stick around to see the rest of her tale.

Two years, nine weeks, 1 day, 6 hours.

The old man uses his last bit of strength to squeeze the trigger of his handgun. The force of the powder exploding snaps his weak wrist backwards, nearly knocking the gun from his hand as his arm flails behind him.

The shell finds my soft flesh of my back, burrowing itself within and causing an eruption of blood. The impact slams my face into the cold street below.

I have no more energy to cry out.

My tale will be over soon.

Fourteen weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

I roll over, onto my back. As my blood stains the street below, I feel the warmth escaping with it.

Two years, nine weeks, 1 day, 6 hours.

The old man continues to hobble towards me. His thumb plucks at the hammer of his revolver to cock it back. He flashes a near toothless grin at me while my nose gathers the coppery flavor of my blood as it coats the street below my body.

Fourteen weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

I could have had this life flash before my eyes. It’s just that I was well past the point of adrenalin, and the story of this life just isn’t worth recounting. From what I know now, it just isn’t a very remarkable journey compared to some of the citizens here in Malifaux.

Not compared to those that live past fourteen weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

Those are the ones that hired me. The post fourteen-weekers.

They were an odd crew, entirely female. They hired me off the street, saying I was “The prettiest one of the urchins.”

Normally when I was hired by my appearance, it had nothing to do with guns or knives.

Unless the customer and I were negotiating the price.

Prior to hiring me, they inspected me, from head to toe. They asked me about my life.

They even wanted to know about the one prior to the fourteen weeks, three days, and eleven hours.

They dressed me up in the finest dress I have ever seen in my entire life. An ornate gown, mostly black with some green. It had a long, plummeting neckline and every border was frilled with beautiful black lace. The dress put the finest gowns Earthside to shame.

The customers dressed me quickly, strapped a derringer to my thigh, and handed me a purse with more money than I had seen in my entire life.

All I was supposed to do was walk down this street, pick up a rock, and throw it down the alley. If anyone came and started asking me questions, I was supposed to knock over a barrel they had filled with water, and quickly walk away.

It was at fourteen weeks, 3 days, and 10 hours when this exact sequence of events happened.

When I met Mr. two years, nine weeks, 1 day, 6 hours, and his estranged hand.

But that’s all I had to do.

And now I’m going to die in a dress that’s worth more than my life. I suppose I can’t complain, but I can mourn the dress.

After all the dress is 9 months, 2 weeks, and 3 hours.

It had more to lose than me.

Mr. two years, nine weeks, 1 day, and 6 hours pressed his thumb down hard, and I heard the hammer lock into place.

I looked at his face, then laid flat on my back. I didn’t want my corpse to look like it was cowering or begging when this story was over. My eyes gazed up into the beautiful cool night sky.

My silent finishing thoughts were momentarily interrupted by a faint whirring sound, and across my view a bird flew by, the most beautiful bird I have ever seen in my life.

I must have been hallucinating but it looked like this bird had wings of the brightest silver, and eyes of smooth obsydian. I noticed a soft blue hue about the bird, and all I could think about was feeling the warmth of that blue around me.

As I heard the loud bang of the handgun, I reached upwards into the sky with my right hand, my trembling fingers all pointing at this beautiful bird. The world exploded into blue and white light all around me, and the sound of the explosion shook my broken frame.

This was the end for me. I was grateful that my last sight was that beautiful bird instead of that ugly man.

That was at fourteen weeks, 3 days, and eleven hours.

[Thechosenone]

A good bit of writing with an excellent repetitive element that drives home the point of the piece.

My only criticism would be that it takes a number of lines to figure out who the speaker is. For a short story I prefer to know who the speaker is as soon as possible. I would start it by saying something along the lines of "This story begins with a girl, as most good stories do. I'm that girl and this story doesn't have a happy ending." and then follow with everything else.

Otherwise i do like it a lot and i hope you get feedback from others. Its notoriously tough to get a lot of comments in this section of the forum. Believe me i know, my stuff has very little commentary.

[Ebonstar]

It does seem like a short story, doesn't it.

Thanks for the comments and criticism. I really appreciate it.

(And yes there are more parts to this story to come).

[Nathan Caroland]

I like it.

Not sure what yet, but I like it.

[Ebonstar]

Our New Property

I was told early in life that most of us would lead an unremarkable existence.

And that in such an existence, we have only one true moment that is ours and ours alone.

That is, the moment of our death. It was explained that the other milestones of our lives, such as our birth, our newly gained adulthood, marriage, family, and mourning were as much about those around us as it was for us when we experience it.

The moment of your death however, is yours and yours alone. Those around you may mourn your loss during and afterwards. Often circumstances and people well beyond your control will bring you to that moment, but the moment itself is yours.

Your last beath.

Your dying thoughts.

Your escape from your physical form.

These are yours, and yours alone. No one may share yours, and no one may steal the experience for themselves.

That’s what I was told, anyway.

I remember reading that, scribbled on thick ivory paper, many years ago. I remember looking into the face of its author, who no longer had the ability to shut his mouth. His lower jaw sat just half an inch below where it needed to be, and all I remember was that open mouth that made a humming sound each time his strained and heave for each breath.

I couldn’t even look into his eyes. I was afraid that maybe I would steal his moment.

He wrote those words to me, that death is ours and ours alone. That each dying moment is promised to, and reserved for- the honoree.

I lived a life once where I believed in that. Where it was one universal, empirical truth to me.

But obviously, the guy who wrote it never travelled through the Breach.

The Breach teaches us things that most of us will never understand. We may not even realize that we we’re being taught.

My realization of this lesson was at 14 weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

And my lesson was: the words on the paper are wrong.

My universal, empirical truth had exceptions.

And my moment of death was stolen from me.

The pain, returning to course my entire body was all the proof I needed. All those tiny nerve endings, screaming their celebratory chorus of still being alive. The nerves in my back sang the lead vocals, while my elbows and head contributed each verse. My legs! My wonderful legs now screamed out in pain, which I took as a good sign considering I had no feeling in them at the time of my stolen moment of death.

The pain opened my eyes like a person snapping the drapes open. I had no idea where I was. I was covered up and against something soft. I was indoors, and in a bed. Only a very small white candle, no longer than my middle finger lit the room. I gathered my strength and sat up in bed, while my left hand grasped at the clothing at my chest. The dress- that beautiful dress was gone. Covered in a soft cotton sleep gown, I spent a moment to mourn that dress- that masterpiece.

My right wrist was shackled to the sturdy iron bed post. I could tell that I had been bathed at some point.

As my eyes adjusted to see the room I was now captive in, I spied the form of a woman standing perfectly upright across the foot of the bed. The dim light only betrayed patches of skin, and long, pointed toes extended out from her black satin shoes. I made out the form of a grand dress, not unlike the one I was wearing at the time of my death.

“Who are you? How did I get here?” I asked her.

The figure remained motionless in the dark. I could tell she was facing me directly, yet she was as still as the night. A small glimpse of her silhouette led me to believe that she had no hair atop her head.

“Are you gonna tell me anything?” I asked in vain.

I brought my head back against the pillow in frustration. Muscles in my back were complaining about the bullet wound, or maybe it was the fact that I had not slept in a bed for some time now, and it felt too soft and squishy.

A brief moment of terror struck me as I realized I did not have my coinpurse on me.

Now I know I’m alive. I need money.

Using my chained arm, I pulled myself over to the right side of the bed where the candle sat atop a nightstand, which had been pushed out of reach. Looking at the candlelight stung my eyes a bit, but it did not dissuade me from looking for a coinpurse atop the furniture.

“You have my money now,” I explained to the motionless figure in the dark. “Just let me go, and I won’t say a word about what happened, I promise.”

She just stood there, exactly where she was when I awoke. It started to scare me a bit.

“Look, I done my job and I just want to go home now.”

Just then I heard a door squeal and creak as it was flung open. The clunk clunk sound of footsteps against the hardwood floor drew nearer. Instinctively, I dropped my body back against the bed, as the dancing light of another candle bounced all around the walls.

I heard a jingle and felt something smack against my belly as more light continued for fill the room.

“It’s all there, girlie,” I heard as the object hit my body and land in my lap. The low and sultry voice was from a woman I recognized, one of the girls that had hired me in the first place.

“Yep. It’s all there,” she assured me as I snapped open my faded wool purse. “Question is, girl, do you want to live to spend any of it?”

I sat back up and watched her approach me. The other girls called her Beatrice when they arranged my hire.

Beatrice had light brown hair, carefully teased into quarter-sized curls that bounced and dangled every time she moved. Her skin looked like sculpted alabaster, wrapping every feature of her form, from her slender, delicate fingers to her tiny, perfect nose and the long, regal stretch of her nape.

I remember not being able to take my eyes off of her when we spoke in the day-time, despite her curt tongue and sour attitude towards me.

That was in the daytime, yet I’m not sure if that was two days or two months ago. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep.

Beatrice began her interrogation.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” she explained, walking around to my right at the side of the bed. “Answer the question, and see the sun return tomorrow.”

As she approached my eyes watched her magnificent black heel shoes, the perfect switch in her hips as she brought each long, stocking-covered leg forward, leading up to a stunning evening gown whose hue shifted from blue to white as she walked. Every line was perfect. Every movement was sublime. I studied the tiniest details of her.

The blue gems which studded her garter.

The dangling, shimmering gold earrings, that could have easily fell off her ears and returned to their place in the night sky.

Bright blue eyes, like polished sapphire, carefully guarded by long, thick eyelashes.

Her red, glistening lips that puckered and pursed, almost as if every word she spoke were a kiss.

If I could look like that for 5 minutes, I swear I’d be the happy for the rest of my life.

Beatrice walks up and snatches the coinpurse from my lap. In its place, she plants an open hat box. I fight to take my eyes off of her and inspect the contents of the box.

I can’t really make out what it is. It looks like a collection of tiny gears, springs, and thin slivers of metal, once painted white, but charred black like they had been burned in a fire. Most if not all of the pieces were bent, split, or torn. The bits of metal jingled as I shifted in bed to inspect it.

“How did you know to do that?” Beatrice asks me.

“How did I know to do what?” I respond, trying hard not to look back at her, but instead staring at the puzzle-piece contents of this box.

Beatrice let out a sigh of frustration. Although I knew that I was the cause of this, I wanted to look at her to see if she looked any less beautiful in frustration.

I spied her long eyelashes, which snapped shut just after her wonderful eyes rolled behind them. The lashes re-opened to let her eyes sparkle in the candlelight once more.

“Well, as crude as it may be, you pulled it off,” she explained. “And that alone is worth something to the lady, if you prove yourself, that is.”

“The lady?” I asked, shifting in bed again. As I tried to sit up, we heard my stomach growl.

“I’ll have Elyse bring you some food,” Beatrice explained, taking the box back from my lap and dropping my coinpurse into it.

At that point I realized that the silent woman that was standing at the foot of my bed had disappeared during all of this.

“Elyse!” Beatrice called out, as she left the room into the hall. “Elyse, take care of our new property!”

[Thechosenone]

keep writing sir. responses are often slim but its getting read

[Cambrius]

I fully agree. This is really good. Getting responses is like pulling teeth, but that's not the only reason we write.

[Thechosenone]

All though here and now I'd like to pledge, and i hope others will with me, to respond with something every time we ready something in this section.

Everybody who writes knows how good it feels to get responses. So for us to then not leave a response to something we read here is kinda lame of us.

I will respond to everything I read. I hope everyone else joins me on that.

[Cambrius]

Seconded. I will do the same.

[elril]

Sure, why not? Though if i am reading an entire string of chapters (playing catch-up) I am not commenting until I get caught up.

As far as this story goes, I am enjoying the writing style a great deal, the only problem I see is the forum that it is being written for. With all the imagery and detail, it is taking time to get the story said, which is fine, when I have a book in front of me instead of a page in a forum. Basically I like it and want more. Good job

[Ebonstar]

Don’t Miss Your Cue.

Don’t miss your cue.

That seems to be the only rule around here.

But that one rule seems to have a thousand or more applications.

‘Don’t miss your cue’ could mean to make sure Monday is ready for Beatrice’s next entrance.

It could mean a properly timed smile or wink when a customer brushes past and tries to cop a feel.

Don’t miss your cue.

It has now been 9 weeks, 6 hours, and 2 days since I woke up chained to that bed.

When Wednesday the mannequin stood silent at the foot of my bed.

And when Beatrice handed me a box full of burnt metal, and I missed my cue.

So here was Beatrice, backstage at the theater, jumping headfirst towards Monday. Monday grabs her by at the sides of her ribs and rolls backwards, flipping beautiful Beatrice. As Beatrice rolls forward, one costume peels off and she slides right into the next costume as she completes her flip and lands flat on her feet. This is all one fluid motion, before Beatrice spins the pad of her right foot 180 degrees and charges back on stage, flashing the kind of smile that could stop traffic.

Don’t miss your cue.

Don’t miss your cue applies to everything in our daily routine around here. The first cue of the day is to get out of bed before the sun hits your face, tidy your room and help Elyse prepare breakfast. It means washing the linens in the morning and inspecting each and every prop both on and off the stage. Check each vanity to assure each has the right amount of powder, the exact color of lighting, the same level of bottled fragrances, none of which I had ever heard of Earthside. Every mirror must be polished by hand each day. Every stitch of fabric to be worn that evening must be inspected.

The mannequins, even the mannequins, must be measured and inspected each day.

They never miss a cue.

Don’t miss a cue means running messages across the city, to the kind of folk nobody wants to run messages to.

Like him- the bald, fat Guildsman trying to pretend he’s not a guildsman.

Or that guy, the panhandler across vegetable cart. His nails are way too clean to pull off the role of panhandler.

Or him- the short one in the brown pin- striped vest who touches too much. Among my drop-offs, he’s the only one I believe. I doubt the other two would make it to 14 weeks, 3 days, and 11 hours.

My cue is to drop objects out of my hair, my pockets, sometimes my hands when I interact with these people. When the pan-handler yanks my arm, I am supposed to drop a bracelet.

When the touchy guy grabs me, I stomp his foot with my heel, while he shakes a ribbon out of my hair.

The Guildsman who swears he isn’t a guildsman was supposed to wrap his arm around me and whisper in my ear.

So I walk by him, at the appointed time and the appointed place.

He does something stupid.

He is sitting when he was supposed to be standing. The lady will tell you, angles are everything.

He looks me in the eye. I lower my head to avoid his gaze. His eyes never leave me.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I don’t bother looking at him anymore. The show is over. We’re now working off book.

He missed his cue.

He stands up as I briskly move past him. He grabs me by the elbow.

“Keep walkin’ “ he says to my back, which now has something solid and heavy, about the diameter of a nickel, jabbing into it.

For me it’s a familiar sensation.

He missed his cue, and now it seems like we’re reverting to an older script.

One I haven’t played out for more than nine weeks, six hours and two days. Since that night I died and Beatrice handed me a burnt metal puzzle box.

But I know this script too.

“Round this corner here, lass,” the fat man whispers in my left ear.

As the different plot unfolds, my senses gather information about the new scene.

I am walking on a dusty road. My eyes scan for rocks, metal. Objects larger than 2” in at least 2 dimensions.

The fat, bald guy behind me, his breath smells of cheap swill, but expensive tobacco. His fingers are jittery from the tobacco, but his mind is slow from the swill.

His brown leather coat is more than enough to turn a blade, and it would take several shells to put the man down if I only shot him in the chest.

Not that this is an option right now. For this job, I am unarmed. That used to bother me.

Now, I am just measuring the width of my back in my brain, while the fat man yaps in my ear.

“ I need more,” he says to me. “Tell him that. I need more, or I expose this whole thing.”

“Tell who what?” I ask, as I turn the corner and find my new cue.

The divet in the dirt road. It is greater and deeper than 2”.

My waist is 10” across, and the barrel of his mauser is 1 and a half inches in diameter. I need the barrel to swing 7” to my left.

If I am short by 2”, I the blast will clip me at the top of my hip and could tear my left arm off at the elbow. If I am short by more than 2”, the blast could sever my spine.

Because I know he will pull the trigger after I stumble over this divet. He is jittery.

He is about to open his mouth. I know it will be a threat to pull the trigger right here.

That’s my cue to stumble.

I didn’t miss my cue.

As I fall forward, my right arm slaps his elbow sharply, causing him to pull the trigger instinctively.

As his arm whips to his left, the blast blows his wrist off, and powder burns my own arm. But I have followed through on my tumble, and I have his gun pointed at his belly when he squeezes the trigger again.

The force blows him backwards and he crashes to the ground.

I dive behind a bush and a rickety wooden railing and round another corner while the fat man fires again in anger.

Flat on his back, with the afternoon sun drying and burning blood over his eyes, he yells obscenities at me.

He stops for a moment to grab at the gaping hole in his chest.

His next cue: scream for help.

“Guildsman down!!” he screams. “HELP!” he yells, spitting hot blood from between his teeth.

Behind this thicket, I make my costume change before my re-appearance.

I cannot help but smile a little as I hear the man cursing me from the street.

From the pouch under my shirt I draw a washcloth. It is lined with a special crystal powder. I wipe the cloth across my face, and in one stroke it removes all the soot on my face and leaves me with fine white features and subtle accents. It even puts a freckle or two where I have never had one.

I release my long black hair from underneath my rusty cap, which I invert and turn into a clean white bonnet.

I tear at two edges atop my trousers until they rip off like a sheet, allowing my skirt to poof, and inverting the sheet I tie it into an apron across my waist.

I am ready for my next cue. Time to re-enter the stage.

A crowd has gathered around the fat, bald man. His blood forms a thick, brown, dry paste when it meets the gravel, and he is still flailing his arms and crying out for help.

“SOMEBODY HELP ME!!! DAMN YOU ALL!!!”

The faces of the folks gathered about him are covered in grime. Shirts and overalls, covered in dust and dirt, exposing brown leathery flesh at thick, sinewy arms. The heavy steel hats are the final clue as to their shared profession.

They are miners.

They stand there, mumbling amongst one another, enjoying the free show.

“I’M A MAN OF THE LAW, DAMN YOU! GET ME THE DOC!”

The guildsman screams, but he is losing blood so quickly, his screams are losing their volume.

Not to mention the fact that the miners huddle about, muffling the sounds even further.

They just stand there, staring at him.

They have no intention of helping.

“YOU PEOPLE SUPPORT OUTLAWS! YOU ARE ALL TERRORISTS!”

My cue comes up again, and I cross the street holding a basket of day old biscuits.

I can still hear the bald, fat man crying on his back.

As I walk past, some of the miners tip their hats to me. My long, black hair sways and bounces with the breeze.

The bald fat man is having his moment. I dare not steal it from him.

I continue to walk down the street, knowing that the bald, fat man will be dead within the hour.

The miners won’t miss their cue.

[the_madhatter1]

I have only read this one so far but i am enjoying them much

[Chucklemonkey]

A very nicely thought out story. I did get a little confused about the setting of the third part, although I get the feeling that may have been intentional.

Surprised I missed this story until now. Keep writing and I will keep reading.