The Lady, the Lake, and the Long Sword

Police Lieutenant Edgar Campbell knew his time was up. Was. Had been. His chest and side punctured in a hail of gunfire by a man on so many drugs he could've started a pharmacy. Even now, Edgar could feel the shard of hot metal lodged within his rib. He could barely breathe. He was sure there was no blood left to even think, with the amount covering the seat of his patrol car, and the hands of his partner Mark, who had patched him up. Mark was in the passenger seat, white as a sheet but unwounded. His eyes had not left Edgar's wounds for the entire ride. Not back to the station, or the hospital- nothing they could do now but dumb him down and maybe give a few more unfeeling minutes. No, no. Work to do. Driving down back roads, coaxing the car to the red "Empty" line and far beyond, going far past the speed limit. Eighty, ninety, one hundred miles per hour. Power lines and houses whip by. Trees. All signs of civilization gone. Edgar swerves, slams on the break. The car skids, grumbles, almost flips- stops. Mark's fingers slowly unwind from the sides of his seat.

"We're here," Edgar says through a mist of blood. He attempts to pull himself out of the car under his own power and manages only to fall onto the grassy field he's stopped the car on with a soft, pained grunt. Mark charges out of the car, jumps the hood, and pulls Edgar to his feet. Edgar points.

A lake. Shining broad and glorious in Mark's eyes. A bright, brilliant blue- the color of the sky during childhood adventures traipsing through a forest long since bulldozed for some mini-mall or another. A tear rolls down Mark's cheek before he gets proper hold of himself. Edgar, one arm looped over Mark's shoulder, stumbles forward. At the very edge of the lake he lets his weight drop, sliding away from Mark to kneel in the wet dirt. On Edgar's belt, the following things fit snug:
Standard issue sidearm. Nine millimeter. Matte black.
Mace, one can, with carry pouch.
Handcuffs, two pairs, plastic. Non-standard, but personal choice is personal choice.
Various electronics- a taser, communications devices. So on.

Car keys. Mark hears them jingle as the driver falls. Mark goes just a shade paler. The sound of their patrol car rumbling behind them fills Mark's ears. Mark reaches down and touches his own copy of the keys. He shivers.

Also on Edgar's belt is a simple and non-descript advice: A telescoping black baton, used more often than Edgar ever would think necessary. Never without explicit and extreme reasons, but used. With numb, fumbling fingers, Edgar pulls this from its pouch and flails his hand in the air weakly- as if he had flicked it with the strength and expertise of his prime, the baton flies out to its full length, light from the lake glinting off of its length. He traces his finger along the handle. A worn strip of duct tape navigates its length. Written on this tape is the word "Caled." Edgar had never bothered finding out what it meant. The tape had been there since he acquired the baton. Here. Decades ago, as a recruit.

With a weak grunt, Edgar manages to fling it towards the lake, spinning and shining, until it is caught by a hand covered in green and grey scales. The hand and baton sink beneath the waves, but the two officers can feel a pair of eyes on them, from under the slowly darkening lake.

The shield next. Edgar's badge, currently with no less than five bullets crumbled against its golden facade. Flipping it like a card, the badge glides beautifully just over the surface of the water before dropping into the water unceremoniously.

Edgar smiles, then, and finds the stretch the lean up enough to clasp a brotherly hand onto Mark's shoulder.

"Get out of here, kid. You'll break your curfew," Edgar smiles with bloody teeth and sinks back into the dirt to stare at the lake's dim light, as the light leaves his eyes.

Silver Signs, part 1.

I saw an angel today, I think. He was slumped in an alley with bloody feathers all around him. A sword the size of a street sign and the color of magnesium sat across his lap. A half empty bottle of something foul was in one of his hands. He looked up at me with cracked lips and smiled.

“I want to go home,” he told me. I tossed him a wadded up ten, feeling guilty. It (for what I saw was certainly not human now) laughed harshly and spoke in a voice that at once soothed my soul and clawed at my mind. Its wings swelled and spread as it spoke, many pairs of then flapping and shining. I saw for an instant what it must have been before it became the broken man I saw before. Something in my mind fractured, screamed. It was a man again, smiling beatifically and a small bit mischievously. “Can you see the stars, child?” The voice clawed at the already broken parts and I nodded dimly. My world narrowed to a thing that may have been an angel (or the devil himself) and the bricks he leaned against. “Those of us who wait are waking. Things will not be well for a time, and I am sorry for this,” the light of mischief left his eyes and he looked to the ground. The pain and the salve left his voice and he laughed again, the crackling left of a man without even his sanity left. “Go home, kid,” the angel drank amber from his bottle. I watched him for a moment, horrified, before I made myself scarce.

Adhesive diodes stuck carefully behind my ears. Jolts from the radio pumped lights and sounds straight to my brain. I dialed in to something relaxing, went to bed in my clothes. The angel? The mirage, more likely, brought on by stress surely, had shaken me. I chuckled at how foolish I felt, and the radio’s noise followed me to sleep.

I was watching a woman, hovering somewhere above and behind her. She sits stoic, somewhere in some city, in the same night as I sleep in. I knew this in the floating, offhand way you know anything in a dream. Legs crossed, eyes wide, open, and watering from a dozen lit candles, she waits. An hour passes and the big clock strikes eleven. The room has grown hot. A bead of sweat runs from her temple and she can hear the city’s heartbeat. She still waits, unmoving. This will work, she knows. Part of me knows it as well. All such things work, with patience and belief. They always have. We know this as well. Her heartbeat pounds loud in my ears and hers. It merges with the city’s sounds. Something about the night tears, and a mind reaches through, ignites mine. It seems to have affected her too. She has slumped, her eyes are wider, and she’s panting.

New Direction.

I'm changing the direction of the blog, partly for it to have a point, and partly as a challenge for myself. I have some stories I'd like to write, and it might as well pop up here, eh?

As for the direction: Webcomic style (we need to work on that, don't we Lupine?)stories.
What's this mean? I'll be trying for two posts per week, of decent size, until the story is done. Then the next story, then the next, etc.

I will still, of course, be writing standard-style blog posts as well, but the story will take precedence.

First up: Silver Signs, a semi-apocolyptic supernatural horror series, written in the first person. Also, it's very light science fiction. Again, it's purely experimental, so anyone actually reading will need to work with me. First post should be ready around Tuesday.