Becoming the Villain

He gripped the photo tighter and tighter until it bent and crumpled and then tore it to shreds. Then, with anger filling him, he wrecked everything in sight. Books were pulled off shelves and thrown. Knickknacks were tossed to the floor where they shattered. Tables and chars were overturned. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen and slashed paintings and photos on the walls. He took a bat and shattered his windows. Nothing was spared from his anger. Finally, when the edge of his anger had been dulled, he grabbed his jacket, keys, and emergency cash and left. He would be back, however. He would be back to wreak havoc and take his revenge.

Untitled Sci-Fi Story (1)

She stared at the man pinning her to the wall. He had been like a father to her. Her parents had died when she was young, and he had taken her in and had given her a home aboard his ship. He and his crew had treated her like family. When she was old enough, he had somehow arranged for her to join the Alliance's top naval academy. Now, this man held a knife- her knife, the one he had given her- to her throat. She desperately wanted to ask him why, but she dared not speak.

Recently, there had been rumors that he had turned terrorist. He and his crew had never been upstanding citizens, but they had never hurt innocent people or caused destruction for the fun of it. Her relation to him and his crew was not in her personnel file, and she had kept silent when her current captain and crew had been assigned the mission of hunting him and his crew down and bringing them in, alive if possible.

She had never believed the rumors. The man she knew would never have done those things, and his crew would not have gone along with him if he had. They were good people. Now, however, as she felt the knife tip, pressed to her throat, doubt tempted her. It had been ten years after all.

Finally, he spoke, "Are you alone?" His voice had an edge of steel to it.

She didn't answer right away, and he pressed the knife closer to her throat and repeated the question, "Are you alone? Did anyone come with you?"

She whispered, "No. I split from the others."

The knife lowered, and he spoke. This time, his voice was filled with relief and apology "Good. I'm sorry, kid. I had to be sure we were alone."

She took a deep breath and asked, "Do know why we're here? Is what they're saying true?"

He nodded his head, "Yes, to the first. As for the second, what do you think? You flew with me for years. If I tell you I was framed, will you believe me, in spite of all the evidence?"

With that last statement, he met and held her gaze. As she stared into his eyes, she realized that she would always believe him over any Alliance officer. He may operate in a grey area, but he had never lied to her or his crew, and he had always stood for what he believed in. She could count on one hand the people she had met in the past ten years who had done the same. Her current captain was a good man on first impression, but she did not know him enough to judge him against the man standing before her. As for their mission intelligence, they were operating on information that others had "gathered" and passed on. There was no way to verify its authenticity.

"I never doubted you." was her reply.

He smiled, although it was only a sad, half smile. "Have you told anyone your relationship to me?"

"No. It was left out of my file and I never found a good reason to bring it up."

"Good, you were always smart." he replied, and was silent for a moment. "We've missed you, you know. The ship's not the same without a little brat running around. Someone in the Alliance higher-ups is out to get us. We've been running secret Alliance support missions for the Three World Rebellion and someone wants us to stop. The reports are right that there's a traitor, but it's not me or my crew. You can't let anyone know you were with us. They'll just brand you a traitor too." He was silent again. After a moment he met her eyes again and spoke. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." she replied, without hesitation.

"Then please forgive me."

Before she could ask "For what?", she felt a sharp pain in her right side. She gasped and tried to move away, but his arm still held her against the wall. She felt her strength leaving with the warm blood now running down her side. She sagged.

He held her as she slid down the wall. When she had reached the floor, he cupped her face and turned it to him. "I'm sorry. It had to be done." Then, he kissed he forehead and left.

The Lost Pizza

It had been a good pizza too. Deep dish with steak, mushrooms, green peppers, and extra cheese. He had only eaten one piece when his door had been smashed in and the had fight ensued. During it's course, he wasn't exactly sure how or when, a fire had started. They had continued to fight until he had killed his attacker; but by then it was too late to save his apartment. Realizing this, he fled from it, pizza forgotten, and melted into the on-looking crowd and stood, watching it burn. There had been nothing special in the apartment, not pictures, keepsakes, or valuables. There had only been that poor, poor pizza.

The Humanity Problem

"And what's that?'

"You're human."

.................................."I don't get it. How is being human wrong?"

"It's not wrong to be human; but it's what's wrong with you. Tell me, if you were there was nothing wrong with you, what would you be?"

"Perfect?"

"Exactly; and if you were perfect, you would not be human. Humans make mistakes. Humans feel emotions. They lie, cheat, steel, abuse, fight, and all sorts of bad things. We're not perfect. We never will be; well, not until The King returns, but that's something else. Anyway, humans are wonderfully flawed creatures. No, it's not right what we do sometimes and we should always try to do and be better; but when you make a mistake, don't beat yourself up over it. You're human. When someone else makes a mistake or does something bad, don't beat them up either. They're human. No one is perfect."

Lonely Love

He waited for her. He sat quietly, all alone, and waited; and waited, and waited. She never came. Eventually, sad and dejected he left. He was never seen again. Some say he left and died alone of a broken heart. Others say he left and found love again in a distant, distant land. No one knows for sure. They only know that a love that had held so much promise withered and died like a rose in winter.

Too Sunny

They were always to bright and overly optimistic. They seemed to ooze happiness and giddiness.  I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being happy, but some control is needed. Being all "bright and bubbly" to the point of jumping up and down uncontrollably is annoying and unnecessary. That's what sunny days reminded me of- giddy school girls with air for brains freaking out because the guy they thought was cute looked at them or because they got invited to a party with more airheads.

So Close to Consciousness

She came to consciousness slowly. She didn't bother to open her eyes at first. She simply lay there, listening to beeps and humming. Beyond those, she was only aware of the fact she was breathing and in pain. There was a dull ache in her lower left arm; and a sharper, more widespread, pain on the right side of her torso. Her head, although not pounding, throbbed slightly. She felt stiff and heavy. She decided to open her eyes, but was only rewarded with a blinding light that caused her to scrunch them closed. Against her better judgment, she tried to sit up. The movement caused her side to flare in pain and her head began to pound. The unconsciousness she had slipped away from moments before grabbed onto her like a parent finding a runaway child. She tried to fight it, to cling to her hard won awareness, but the darkness won. She once again slipped into its numbing hold.

Woman Warrior

 This was mainly because a sword was a man's weapon. Women usually carried daggers. God, according to popular opinion, had not made women for battle. He had made them to be homemakers and healers. This woman obviously didn't care about "popular" opinion. The long, curved weapon hung at her hip with such a natural ease it almost like she had been born with it there.

Later, when she had cause to withdraw the sword, she did so in a graceful, fluid motion. As she moved, the weapon became a natural extension of her arm. There was no hesitation or doubt. Each strike and block was executed with precision and minimal effort. When she had defeated her opponent, she simply sheathed her blade and walked off. Neither gloating or basking in her victory. She knew what she was capable of and that was all she needed.