Fiction: Funky Little Demons C9 P6

It is currently February 5th, 6:46 PM as I write this. I’m good as far as this blog goes till the 18th when this will post. I need a break. Then I have to work on the next chapter. The past few days has seen me spend more time at this desk and less time playing games, in fact, no time playing games. I’m a little grumpy! I haven’t exercised in over a month either. I need to get a decent writing schedule and solidify it through consistency before I tackle that beast again. Maybe in a couple more weeks I’ll add some cardio to my schedule. For now writing is more important. Need to rewrite the ending here too. I’m over this chapter for now, I’ve poured everything currently available to me into it. Inspiration currently has its sights set on the next chapter and apparently couldn’t give a flying f–k how this one ended. 

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 9: BACK FROM THE DEAD (working title)
PART: 6

     Remarkably, there was still a pay phone in working order outside the husk of parks that lined Fort George Avenue. Shawn dialed. It rang only once before it was answered.
     “Report.”
     “It looks like him. We found the goat. Cops think it was some voodoo ritual gone wrong. I left evidence behind to throw them off the trail. We need to talk to the girl. Someone else was there.”
     “That ship has sailed. The priest picked her up.”
     “That shouldn’t impede a NYPD investigation.”
     “It does when you have the Vatican’s seal.” There was a tapping on the phone, as if someone hitting the handset with a pen. Shawn pulled the phone away from his ear slightly. “Was the girl harmed?”
     “Unclear.”
     “She’s still alive. I suppose that’s a good thing.”
     “Yes, but we’ve lost the target.”
     A dry laugh echoed out of the receiver.
     “He’ll show up. He always shows up.” There was a short pause and a deep sigh. “Thank you Shawn. The apartment they were staying in is close by. See if you can finagle your way in and have a look around. Maybe find out who this other person was.”
     “I’ll see what I can do.”
     Shawn wrote down the address and hung up the phone then walked to his car. He laughed to himself when he saw the tie stuck in the door. Opening the door he noticed a reflection of someone sitting under the trees across the way in its window. He turned to see but no one was there.

Fiction: Funky Little Demons C9 P5

I’ve been editing and getting this whole chapter ready for the blog for 6 hours now. I can’t think of anything relevant to say about it that I haven’t said already. I’ll just shut up and let you read…

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 9: BACK FROM THE DEAD (working title)
PART: 5

     The door to the interrogation room flung open. The cacophony and turmoil from the chaotic goings on of the police station burst in with it startling Carmen. The detective looked up from scribbling in his yellow legal pad.
     The man standing in the doorway wore an ankle length, white single-breasted cassock adorned with rose colored piping and buttons. A priest, Carmen thought to herself. His head nearly reached the top of the door frame. His face, while kind, had a hint of permanent seriousness carved in it. Brown eyes peered out of slightly slanted slits over a bulbous nose that made everything else on his face appear that much smaller. Aged and colorless lips smiled at her from behind a neat snow-white goatee.
     “Carmen,” he said in a voice that wasn’t as deep as one would expect from a man of such size, “I’m Monsignor Perrault. I knew your parents.”
     Knew. He said knew. Past tense. With a simple slip of the tongue Carmen’s suspicions were confirmed. Her head sank and her body quivered as a wave of grief crashed through her. She was alone in this world.
     Suddenly she felt arms around her. A warm embrace. Perrault was kneeling in front of her and holding her tightly.
     “There, there, child.” He soothed. “It’s going to be fine,” he placed her at arms length and cupped her face, wiping the tears gently with a soft handkerchief, he smiled anew and she noticed he was crying as well. “You’re not alone,” he cooed as though he had read her mind.
     He wiped her face dry then patted his own tears away and stood up. Brushing himself off he looked over to the detective. “You’re finished here.” It wasn’t a question, Carmen noted. “The girl is my charge now. Thank you detective.”
     The detective’s mouth dropped and he looked to the pudgy man standing just outside the room. “Captain?” The captain shrugged his shoulders.
     “Come Carmen. Lets get you something to eat and a nice hot bath.” Monsignor Perrault guided her out of the room and away from the chaos.

Fiction: Funky Little Demons C9 P4

I can see a rewrite of parts of this chapter are in order already. I’m not digging the CSI stuff. I don’t do detective novels. I’ve never been one to read them and I can’t stand detective shows. I’m starting to feel like a lot of this could have been glossed over in narrative. I suppose that’s the stuff you have to suss out on the second full draft of the novel. Writing this scenes out is not wasted time, they’ll help give you a clearer picture and direction when you rewrite them. I’ve already noticed the inconsistencies with calling the corpse “mummified”. I’ve made a note in the manuscript to deal with it later.  

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 9: BACK FROM THE DEAD (working title)
PART: 4

     “Well, look who we have here, Detective Eddings. Back from the dead.” The cop said from behind the yellow tape. Hands playing pocket pool as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He threw out his chest as Shawn drew closer. A pathetic attempt at intimidation that looked more like his chest was having a contest with his gut to see who could reach out further. It was a contest his chest couldn’t possibly win.
     Shawn didn’t know him but this boy in blue knew Shawn thanks to his brief stint in Internal Affairs. All cops know I.A., especially the corrupt ones. Only the guilty fear getting caught.
     “Back from the dead?” Shawn inquired dryly, his eyes locked on the officer. “That wishful thinking?”
     “You’re the Detective. You figure it out.” The officer spat the words at him and motioned behind him with a quick bridle. “They’re waiting for you,” he looked at him balefully then he garbled something into his walkie-talkie.
     Shawn ducked under the tape and made his way down a dirt path strewn with broken glass, past the rusting carcasses of stripped cars littered with empty crack vials. Another officer met him at a copse and motioned for him to continue through a slight break in the foliage. This one kind enough to hold the overgrowth back to allow him through.
     “It’s just down the hill. You can’t miss it, detective.”
     “Thank you.”
     “Careful,” the officer said grabbing Shawn’s arm, “it’s pretty steep.”
     Shawn stopped short of the decline and sidled down, sliding most of the way. These shoes are fucked, he thought. He registered the debris almost immediately. Shattered and splintered wood, unhinged leaves, and modern refuse lay everywhere. Petering out from some central point ahead. The soil was clotted with a white substance. He knelt down and examined it. Feeling it in-between his fingers. Sand, he muttered to himself.
     “THIS WAY DETECTIVE, WE DON’T HAVE ALL FUCKING DAY.” A man in a tan raincoat and Fedora called out to him from the clearing ahead. Shawn noted the faint smell of the ocean in the air. He wrote something in his notepad and walked slowly towards the man in the Fedora, not in any effort to further aggravate the man, but more so that he could carefully scrutinize the area.
     “You took your time.” Fedora growled.
     “Traffic.” Shawn said pointedly. Not bothering to introduce himself. “What do we have here?”
     “You tell me, you’re the fucking expert.”
     Shawn glared at him. He wasn’t in the mood for this. “Why don’t you spare me the testosterone filled insolence, detective, and give me the quick rundown of the events, so we can all get out of here and get on with our day.” He said in a manner much less aggravated than he felt.
     “A girl, Carmen Esperanza, was kidnapped from her apartment and brought to this location. Some sort of voodoo ceremony was performed in which she was possibly raped. Somehow she managed to retrieve a gun from one of her assailants and kill them both.” Fedora rambled impatiently.
     “Where is the girl now?”
     “Being interrogated at the 34th.”
     “Interrogated?”
     “Questioned might be a better way to put it. Her story doesn’t pan out.”
     “How so?”
     “She claims to have obtained the gun from that guy over there,” he pointed to a small, skinny Hispanic male lying on his back. A bullet hole in his chest and a wound in his arm. “We don’t have a positive I.D. yet, we were instructed to wait for you before further investigation on our part.” Fedora motioned towards the CSI unit standing off to the side.
     Hence their frustration, Shawn thought and casually acknowledged the CSI unit. “I appreciate your adherence to protocol, detective. Thank you. Continue.”
     There was a pause. “Umm, well, she claims to have obtained the gun before she got to the clearing when she scuffled with her assailant,” Fedora’s tone was a little less brittle now, “but there are no signs of struggle beyond this clearing.”
     Shawn scribbled in his notepad.
     “Somehow she claims to have shot that guy and managed to shoot this,” Fedora stepped out of the way and waved his hand over a pitch black and very mummified corpse behind him, “whatever this is, in the back of the head. It doesn’t make sense.”
     Shawn scanned the clearing as he knelt down next to the mummified corpse. He removed a pen-knife and plastic bag from his pants pocket, cut a piece of skin off the corpse and placed it in the bag.
     “Should you be tampering with evidence like that? We still have jurisdiction as far as I know.”
     “Need it for carbon dating.” Shawn replied absently.
     “Carbon dating?”
     “Don’t worry about it, detective.” He turned to the CSI team. “Search for traces of explosives as well.” They looked momentarily perplexed. “All the foliage around here is blown outward from this central point,” he pointed to a spot behind the mummified corpse, “something had to char this corpse up. Look for a goat as well.” The two CSI men scoffed loudly at him.      Still kneeling next to the corpse Shawn turned on them. “You can begin your investigation now, gentlemen,” he chided and returned his attention to the corpse.
     Shawn noted the bullet entry point in the back of its head and the spray of brain matter on the ground. Using a nearby stick he carefully lifted the corpse a little and examined under it. The spray pattern outlined a body. No one noticed him retrieve another baggie from his pocket and sprinkle its contents under the mummified corpse. He found the bullet lodged in the sand clotted soil about three feet above the corpse. He searched where the other assailant had been killed and discovered no telltale signs of a major struggle. This one had been marched to his death, he thought.
     “Someone else was here.” He said out loud.
     “That’s what we think.” Fedora took off his hat and wiped his brow. “Girl swears no one else was here.”
     “She’s lying.”

Fiction: Funky Little Demons C9 P3

NARRATIVE. That’s what’s always missing from my first drafts. It’s all dialogue and basic action. It’s not until the third work through that I notice I’ve had the last three characters look up, point or all do something in pretty much the exact same way. Everyone in the chapter smiles at some point or other. Better descriptions come when I slow down and get inside the heads of the characters. Mostly, thanks to the strategic use of my Flip Dictionary!

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 9: BACK FROM THE DEAD (working title)
PART: 3 

     Marley sat still with his head cocked to the side on a stone wall under the athletic field where he had watched the fireflies play yesterday afternoon. Silently he surveyed the scene across the way. At first he had intended to stay only long enough to make sure Carmen was safe. He had watched as a police officer placed a blanket around her and gently coaxed her into the patrol car and drive off. Contemplation stayed him.
     He didn’t like Carmen taking the heat for him. This was his doing. His responsibility. His mother couldn’t kill him if he was behind bars, right? Besides, he was fairly sure Carmen’s story wouldn’t work. Too many holes in it. He wanted to go down and tell an officer what had really happened but he was scared. Instead he sat there and watched, hoping a cop would notice him and come over to question him. He was sure he could confess then. For now, as much as he wanted to walk over, his legs betrayed him and refused to move.
     He was about to leave when the man in the red velvet vest and unkempt blond shoulder length hair showed up in a black Datsun 240Z. A blue tie hung untied around the collar of his white shirt. It got caught in the car door when he closed it and slipped off his neck as he walked away. He didn’t seem to notice. Perfectly pleated tan pants dropped down to gray alligator shoes and he carried a small notepad, like the one Marley used to write his homework assignments in, and pencil in his left hand. He dropped the pencil and pad as he mounted the curb and shook his head in self derision when he picked them up.
     It wasn’t the man’s poor choice in fashion or the haggard way he carried himself despite his youth that interested Marley.
     He glowed.
     Marley shook his head. Rubbed his eyes. Looked away. Looked back. Shook his head anew. Squinted.
     Yup, the man was definitely glowing.
     It was as though there was some alien force-field protecting him. It shimmered a bright lemon yellow just inches from his body. Ebbing and appearing to flow around him like water unhindered by gravity.
     The police ignored the man. Some even appeared to show a bit of disdain towards him, sneering, turning or walking away as he neared them. The glow momentarily turned a muddy red and mercurial as he exchanged words with an officer standing guard. Then he ducked under the yellow tape blocking the path that led to the woods behind the parks that lined Fort George Avenue and disappeared down it.
     Marley examined the others gathered across the street, squinting at them. Forcing his vision in and out of focus on them. No one else was glowing. Strange.
     Stranger still was none of the officers or detectives seemed to notice him sitting there. Granted, he was hedged back a bit and partially blocked from their immediate view by some trees and another stone wall, but he wasn’t exactly hiding. He’d been sitting there ever since Carmen had flagged down a passing patrol car, almost an hour.
     Strange.

Fiction: Funky Little Demons C9 P2

I suppose the proper usage of the term ‘working title’ is to use only it when you have not decided on one. I’m using it to remind myself I’m not really happy with this chapters title and may need to change it. I try to get my chapter title from something a character in it has said. Relevance is the key. A lot of times I get them from songs. That is, part of a song. A verse or a rather poetic line that taken alone and worked into the chapter can find a deeper meaning within the story. Chapter 5, The Rugs Topography, got its title from a line in a song that, along with some personalty experiences of mine, inspired the chapter. If I didn’t fear getting sued by silver spooned little pricks like Lars Ulrich I’d be using epigraphs in my stories.

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 9: BACK FROM THE DEAD (working title)
PART: 2 

     The detective sat across from Carmen with his face buried in his hands. The gun, now empty of havoc, sat on top a manilla folder in the middle of the bleak metal table between them. Forms full of chicken scratch floated around it.
     “Okay, Carmen,” the detective said softly, “explain how you were able to take the gun again.” He moved his head so as to catch her eyes. “Please.” He smiled.
“I-I-I’m not sure.” Carmen was just nervous enough to inflict a stammer but consciously emphasized it for effect. “When Benny was dragging me to the clearing.”
     “You said you were unconscious.” The detective interrupted.
     “I was. F-for a bit. Benny was carrying me. I woke, I tried to get away. We fell, the gun fell to the ground near my hand. I pocketed it.”
     “Why didn’t you use it then, Carmen?”
     Carmen closed her eyes. This was not going well. Marley was right. This story has too many holes in it.
     “I tried. I think the safety was on. I couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Maybe I was too weak. I don’t know. I was scared. He put the rag over my face again.” She clambered over her own words and felt herself growing more nervous. Desperate, she tried changing the subject. “Has someone checked on my father? I need to know if he’s okay. Please.”
     The detective looked away. The same way he’d done last time. “Someone is checking on him now. They’ll tell me immediately.” He forced a smile but it quivered.
     Tears welled up and the detective handed her another tissue. “Alright, lets skip to how you managed to shoot,” he fussed with the papers in front of him for a moment, “err, Khalid,” he pronounced it Ka-leed, not Ka-lid, she thought about correcting him and changed her mind, “in the back of the head.”
     Carmen continued to sob, fearing the worse for her father and deeply regretting her last exchange with him.

Fiction: Funky Little Demons C9 P1

I could lie to you and say this is a first draft. I won’t. I’ve tried and tried to get this story out in its entirety before returning to edit it. I can’t. It’s not my style or would that be technique? In all honesty what I first put down can only be described as complete and total shit. The first paragraph of this story started something like ‘Shawn didn’t want to answer the phone but he did anyway.’ And the rest of it was little better than, ‘Jane and Dick went up the hill. Jane looked at Dick. Dick looked at Jane’ and OH my God did it suck great big elephant jobs! Now dialogue, I almost always nail that on the first go through and only have to edit for cadence or character later on. I think that’s how all my scenes develop, around the dialogue.

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 9: BACK FROM THE DEAD (working title)
PART: 1 

     Shawn Eddings eyed the ringing phone. He knew who it was. How could he not? His wife wouldn’t speak to him and his friends were distant memories. No one called Shawn anymore. Except… Haltingly, he picked it up the receiver and held it to his ear.
     “There’s been a murder in Washington Heights. You need to investigate. I’m faxing the report now.” The voice was calm and forceful; emotionless. Shawn once had a face in mind to go along with it, but time had faded it away.
     Shawn said nothing. His voice quelled by the questions running anxiously in his mind.
     “Acknowledge.” Shawn let silence sit a moment longer, then let out a deep breath, the courage to finally ask immediately shot down by the rigour of the personality on the other end of the line.
     “She’s fine, detective,” the voice hit with a hint of exasperation that held a light tone of compassion hidden somewhere in it, “she is still in New York and quite safe.”
     “Can I…” Shawn gathered a little more courage but was betrayed by his increasingly tremulous voice.
     “Impossible.” Stern again. Forceful. Unflinching.
     “It was her birthday last week.” Shawn was desperate and mumbling now, stringing his words together. “Canyou geta message toher?”
     “That would be… problematic.”
     Shawn staggered back and flopped into the chair next to the phone stand. Dust danced solemnly through the blades of sunlight that peeked through the half drawn curtains of his living-room. He closed his eyes in a supplication he knew would be lost over the phone lines. Any further inquiries would result in even more vague answers that would undoubtedly leave more questions in their wake. Shawn felt defeated.
     “You have to trust me. Get to Washington Heights before those idiots from the 34th botch up the scene. I’ll need carbon dating done on one of the bodies. You’ll know which one.”
     The fax machine started screaming in the next room. Shawn breathed slowly into the headpiece, wanting to plead his case and knowing it would do no good.
     “She’s fine, Shawn. You’ll see her in time. You have a job to do.” The voice tried to sate with clemency but Shawn could detect his anxiety was cloying the presence on the other end.
     Shawn sat up straight in the chair. “I’m on my way,” he affirmed and gently placed the headpiece back in its cradle. Absently grabbing clothing from various piles strewn around his apartment and without bothering to turn on a light he dressed himself and retrieved the fax.

Fiction: Funky Little Demons C8 P3

From here on there’s a lot missing of the story. All that filler material you add after the fact. The stuff you use to flesh out characters more or fill in the gaping holes in your plot structure. I plan to self- publish this novel. It makes sense to leave all that stuff out. Why would anyone want to pay for something they could read on the internet? For now it’s a work in progress. Isn’t everything?

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 8: YOU LOST YOUR CHANCE KID
PART: 3

     “You don’t remember anything?” Carmen asked.
     Marley looked around the clearing. “Not really.” He walked over to Benny’s body. “I remember shooting him.” He said kicking at the corpse. “In the arm. I don’t remember shooting him in the chest.”
     “How’s your headache?”
     “It’s going. How’s your stomach?”
     “Flat.” Carmen paused thoughtfully. “Marley.” She looked at him sadly. Marley cocked his head to one side. “He raped me.” Her eyes began to well up with tears and Marley stepped forward to embrace her.
     “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” He held her for a moment then walked over to the corpse that was once Khalid. It was mummified, lusterless black skin clung tightly to skeletal bone like something out of a museum. He picked the gun off the floor and pocketed it. “What do we do now?” He looked at Carmen as she sat cross legged on the floor. Crying.
     The clearing looked as though a bomb had hit it. There was no crater like he had seen in the photos of WW2 Liverpool his mother had shown him once. The trees and brush were all blown outward. Broken branches and leaves littered the edges of the clearing and on, the sand was all but gone, the trees above no longer formed a dome. Almost as though the sylvan oddity had never existed. Marley’s eyes began darting between the two corpses in front of him.
     “Oh shit.” He said.
     “What?”
     “I’m gonna go to jail.” Marley fell to the ground in a sitting position. “Oh,” he said as his face grew in shock, “my Mom’s gonna fucking murder me.”
     “Your mom don’t seem like the murdering type.”
     “You shoulda’ seen her the first time dad left.”
     Carmen squatted next to him. She wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled at him. “Give me the gun Marley.”
     “Huh?”
     “I’ll say it was self defense. They don’t have to know you were here. Just give me the gun and everything will be fine.”
     Marley hesitated. This was his doing. He should fess up to it, accept the consequences of his actions.
     “I’ll say Benny had the gun. I’ll tell them I took it from him when he wasn’t looking. It’s okay Marley. Give me the gun.”
     Marley reached into his pocket and reluctantly handed her the gun.

The Blogroll Chu-Chu-Chu-Chu-Chu-Changes

See how I did that? A little nod to David Bowie there.

Who’s David Bowie? … … … Okay, you, get out of here, Now. Go. Leave. Kids these days!

Alrighty then. I spent an entire morning cleaning up, organizing, adding, deleting, stuff to the side bar over there >>>

I mentioned in a blog post a bit ago the focus around here was going to be more on writing than on gaming and such moving forward…

“Hey DUMBASS!” you say with self-righteous smite, “Seven out of ten of your recent posts have been about gaming!“

To which I can only respond with a simple, byte me.

Hockey is not a game. Hockey is a state of being. A zen. That being said, in my defense, I’ve been playing Borderlands 2 and I haven’t been writing about it even though I really, really wanted to. So there, neener-neener and all that good stuff.

Back to the issue at hand.

The decision to focus more on writing forced me clean up the sidebar (that one, over there >>> we’ve gone over this already, geesh). I removed the RSS feeds from Major Nelson (f–k him, like he needs me advertising for him) and PreGameLobby where my XBOX Live gamer pals hang out. I’m not very active in the PGL community at present, nothing to do with them, I’ve become a little more introverted since Gina’s passing and writing is higher on my agenda than socializing right now. I still think of them all and will join in games when I see them playing the same. They are not entirely gone from the sidebar, but have been resigned to a meager link under the Gaming section of my Blogroll (over there >>> how many times do I have to tell you this?)

As always, if adult gamers out there are looking for fellow adult gamers to game with, PreGameLobby is the place to go. And for those of you in Europe, I hear tell Dads of Gaming is a pretty cool place to meet adult gamers too. For gaming, not XBOX Live sex or anything like that. Don’t try that. I tried it once. Didn’t go over too well. People just don’t have the appreciation for llamas, little-people and the strategic use of whipped cream that I do. Their loss.

This introverted phase I’m going through has also kept me from posting much on my favorite blogs out there. Rest assured I’m still following and reading you all, I’ve even reserved a day out of the month when I do nothing but catch up on my favorite blogs. It’s just one day though, the rest of my time is for writing. Selfish? Maybe. Deal with it.

As far as the Blogroll goes, if your blog has disappeared you’ve been deleted. I’ve also added a couple more to the list and will probably add a few more in the coming months. It’s how I show appreciation for those folk who, for some strange reason, keep coming back here.

I’ve noticed some frequent visits by some very talented and published/working writers lately, and while I question their tastes, the fact that they keep coming back here tickles me pink to no end–more so than llamas, little-people and the strategic use of whipped cream.

Nothing is more encouraging to a writer than another writer’s endorsement, especially when that endorsement is from people far more talented.

Thank you all for visiting.

Fiction: Funky Little Demons C8 P2

Okay, before you even get there, I’m not pleased with the whoomp-whoomps. To be honest, this whole chapter was written in that writer’s rush/panic of “oh shit, I better get this down before I forget it…” Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.

FUNKY LITTLE DEMONS
A novel by AJ Beamish
copyright © 2013

CHAPTER 8: YOU LOST YOUR CHANCE KID
PART: 2

     Carmen lay on her back. Groggy. Dazed. She felt the warmth of a fire near by. The glow of it silhouetting the groaning and chanting Khalid kneeling between her legs. It scintillated off the edge of the curved blade he held in his hand. She felt sick and his swaying motion made her more nauseous with each fluctuation. A sharp stabbing pain suddenly pierced her stomach. She looked down expecting to see the blade penetrating her but her stomach was untouched and the knife still swayed steadily above her secure in its wielder’s hand. She cringed as the pain stabbed her again. Her hand weakly caressed the flat of her abdomen. Panic rose in her. The muscles in her stomach were rippling. With each pang she could feel her stomach grow larger. With each tiny bit of growth the pain got worse. She tried to scream but no sound came out of her open mouth. Murkily she sensed commotion somewhere behind Khalid.
     The chanting got louder. Her stomach grew bigger. The knife raised higher.
     The world swam around her.
     There was an explosion. Warm gooey liquid rained on her face. The knife began to fall. Her eyes forced shut.
     Shlink.
     The knife penetrated the dirt mere centimeters from her ear and the breath was forced out of her as Khalid’s heavy mass fell.
     And then there was silence.
     Too weak to push Khalid off her, she slid out from under him. Her stomach was shrinking. The pain lessening. She hunched on her hands and knees and vomited. There was a trembling in the ground. The strange sand around her began to jump steadily as though it all lay on top a giant booming speaker. She looke where Khalid had been hovering over her just a few moments before and her heart leaped a tiny bit at the sight.
     Marley stood there. Arms held stiff and wide off to each side. He was shaking violently. She watched entranced as a gun fell out of his right hand. She looked at Khalid’s lifeless body, to the wound in the back of his head and she absently wiped at the goop on her face. The gun hit the floor and began to pulse along with the sand. The air began to whirl around them and Marley’s feet floated off the ground. His shaking intensified as the wind picked up the sand, spinning it violently around the clearing. Carmen tried feebly covering her face.
     Marley started to float higher. She lunged forward and tried to grab his feet but slipped and fell down on her back. The trees bordering the clearing shook fiercely. A thin light shot out of Khalid’s body and into Marley. Two thin white lights shot out of Marley’s eyes and up through the tree tops. Time stood still. Sand hung in the air all around her. Then everything went pitch black.
     Carmen didn’t move. She could sense Marley still floating above her in the darkness. She could hear a distant sound, like a generator starting up.
     Whooomp, whooomp, whooomp.
     A single star pierced the darkness through the eye of the domed roof the trees formed. The sound drew closer and quicker.
     Whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whomp, whomp, whomp…
     The star grew bigger with it. Marley floated about ten feet above her, silhouetted in its piercing light.
     WHOOOMP.
     The tops of the trees surrounding them blew inward as the light crashed down on them. Time stood still anew. Her fear suddenly washed away. Marley stared down at her in a peaceful visage. Then the light soaked into the ground and exploded outward without a sound.
     She was knocked off her feet, the sand and trees blew outward and Marley fell to the ground. It was over. Save for the light of the moon it was dark. She crawled to Marley and cradled his head in her lap.
     “Marley?” She whispered. His eyes opened and for a second she thought they glowed. She smiled at him.
     “You OK?” Marley asked.
     She laughed. “Am I OK?” She kissed him on his forehead. “You saved my life.”
     “I’m sorry.” Marley said.
     “Sorry?” Carmen looked perplexed. “For saving my life?”
     “For acting like an idiot when you kissed me.”
     Carmen laughed aloud and hugged him closer. “You stupid, silly boy,” she said.