Startling New Artist

I found this new artist, his name is Owl City. And I cannot help but share the best music video I have seen in a long time, maybe ever.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=aI4JLa0hbUw

And I just love this song now.

Screenwriting

I'm in a screenwriting class. It is totally awesome. My teacher wrote for the Batman cartoon series. I found him on imdb.com:

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0108419/

That is just amazing to me.

Documentary, Of Course

Here is my first documentary! It was supposed to be a minute long. It's a little longer, but that's okay, right? : )

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZqZQd9-IBo

Let me know what ya think!

Recollections Of A Post-Broken-Hearted-Failure-In-More-Ways-Than-One

"It Always Fails"

Sometimes the nicest guy
Will waltz your way
His smile is brighter
Than the sun today

So you smile back
And he dances best
You know he's different
So different from the rest

But it's gonna fail
It's never meant to be
It'll never be you and me
They always stop
Like a rock in the windshield
Busting all that glass
Didn't think it'd go like that
It always fails

Sometimes the sweetest guy
Will run your way
His eyes are lighter
Than the breeze today

So you look hard
And he runs the fastest
You hope he's different
So different than all the rest

But it's gonna fail
It's never meant to be
It'll never be you and me
They always stop
Like a rock in the windshield
Busting all that glass
Didn't think it'd go like that
It always fails

He's all perfect
You know he's perfect
But he's leaving for Chicago
Six hundred miles from here
And the vision becomes clear

Somehow I wasn't good enough
To make him stay


“We Both Lost a Friend”

So you've lost a friend
Well I've lost one too
Maybe together
We won't hurt like we do

Wishing for peace
Or a day without grief
The days pile to months
And there's no relief

Why must we lose
Great friends?
Why must our hearts be torn?
Why does the pain never end?
My life so forlorn?
Who is to blame?
Is it me is it them?
I just know one thing
We both lost a friend

So you've lost a boy
Well I lost a girl
She was my best
Now I feel like dirt

Wishing for release
From the guilt and the blame
The days pile to months
It all stays the same

Why must we lose
Great friends?
Why must our hearts be torn?
Why does the pain never end?
My life so forlorn?
Who is to blame?
Is it me is it them?
I just know one thing
We both lost a friend

I want you back
In my life like before
Nothing is right
God I can't hurt anymore

This is me asking
It's late and it's sad
But I've loved you so long
I don't care if it's bad
Please let's move on
I'm crying on the phone
Existence without you
Is just living alone

Who is to blame?
Is it me is it them?
I just know one thing
We both lost a friend

Lent: a short film

I had to look up short videos for my film-making class and I chose to present this one. It's maybe not what you would expect, but it is very well made.

http://www.veryshortmovies.com/onlineVSMFestivalVoting.asp?nf=65&cid=3&vb=1&qtr=&vid=184&vlk=1

The Power of a Writing Group

My writing group and I wrote this story, three sentences at a time. I edited it and typed it all up. Enjoy.


When Gangsters Attack

Bob loved to lean over the railing of the cruise ship and watch the water far below. One day, instead of just deep water he saw a speedboat in the distance. That was the day he leaned a little too far. Lucky Bob.

As he bent to get a better view, the ship sailed under him. He fell. Down, down, DOWN! Crack! He landed on a big fat mafia leader.

“Hey you! You're the new Don—you killed our old boss! You're the boss now!”

Bob figured he better play along for now, so he picked up the dead dude's gun and set his face into a creepy frown. It looked more like a pathetic scowl to the general populace, but it seemed to work well enough. He asked to be shown to his new quarters, marching after the second-in-command like he owned the world. To him anyway. To anyone else, he walked more like a guy with a leg cramp.

“Boss man...I mean, leader dude...er...I mean..HEY YOU!”

Bob turned and raised his eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“I forgot to mention to you sir,” the angry mob man paused. “The FBI is due any moment...what shall we do?”

“We attack them,” Bob shouted, really getting into the mood of his new position, the thickness of the anger and greed in the atmosphere.

Just then the FBI jumped onto the ship, guns flashing, and luckily all the gangsters had just pulled out their guns to cheer Bob's brilliantly mafia-like idea so they were ready. At least, they assumed they were ready. A thoughtful bystander would've reminded them to decide on a religion at this point, just in case. But thoughtful bystanders rarely frequent mafia speedboats.

Death is a strange experience. See, when gangsters attack FBI agents, the agents show no mercy.

Bob died just like a real gangster. Although, to an outsider, it looked more like a half-crazed, middle-aged man screaming at the top of his lungs while waving a gun around.

More on Fenwick

“Slow down a bit, will ya?” Fen gasped as he pedaled. “I'm kinda out of shape.”

Linkoln laughed, slowing her pace by stopping her pedaling altogether. She loved to ride her bike. She especially loved to ride her bike with Fen Summers. He could never keep up, no matter how hard he tried. His professed, “out of shape” was hogwash. The boy could not keep his eyes steady on the road. A strange house, a wilting tree, an oddly parked car—Fen could not pass by without slowing to inspect them. He had to catalog and review these little bits of observation constantly, recalling obscure facts at the drop of a hat. He knew the mood of the doctor who lived four houses down by the way he trimmed his grass. He knew what car Mrs. Talmedge, the eccentric lady who owned five vehicles on Riverside drive, drove on which day of the week to which appointment.

Linkoln loved to shout out random questions to test Fen's knowledge. She was an exceptionally adventurous person, someone willing to leap from her bike to tackle him before he steered into a highway guardrail and fell to the traffic below. Fen was easily distracted. Lying on the grass after one such tackle, Linkoln realized that she just liked touching him at all, which scared her a bit and she jumped back up to her feet immediately. This friendship stretched into early childhood and neither opted for much physical contact with people outside of family.

“What is that?” Fen wondered a loud. Linkoln followed his gaze with her eyes. She wanted to be ready if he started swerving. A gigantic SUV-type vehicle filled her vision. Black, sleek and powerful, the overbearing beast sat feigning innocence at the curb. It was just the sort of creature that would house several black-suited creeps intent on watching someone through the tinted windows.

It was also almost directly across the street from Fen's house.

“Is it one of the neighbor's?” Linkoln asked. No matter how sinister something appeared, Linkoln remained skeptical. She believed deeply in a normal existence, where strange things like spies just did not appear across the street in ritzy rides. That sort of thing was for the movies.

Fen was the opposite in every way. He was suspicious of everything, making all the twists and turns of life out to be plots in his books. Nothing was simple or benign to him. Through and through Fen was a writer, in every dreamy, ultra-focused and weirdo way.

The two of them slowed to a crawl, fixated on the new parked car.

“Don't turn off into my driveway,” Fen murmured. Linkoln kindly humored him.

“Isn't it just as obvious to stare at them?” she murmured back, hiding a smile.

“Right,” he acquiesced, snapping his head back to the front and then narrowly missing his own parked Cavalier. Linkoln stifled a laugh. Suddenly the beast of an SUV roared to life and lumbered off down the street in the opposite direction. Both teens halted.

“That was creepy,” Fen stated, swinging a leg over the side of his bike.

“Very,” Linkoln added.

Linkoln stayed for dinner, along with two other friends of Fen and his sister Aonora. The duo often included guests for dinner at their home. Aonora loved cooking for people. Some siblings are total opposites in every sense of the word, but Aonora and Fen both loved people and doing things for people. If anyone needed help moving, painting, gardening, cleaning or peacemaking they need only choose which cell phone to call.

The house was modestly small. With just two occupants, the living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, office, bathroom and laundry room were more than enough space. It was a single-story house with a garage that housed Aonora's car and Fen's seldom-used Harley Davidson. The furniture was in good shape, though not new by most standards. Pictures hung from all the walls, memorandums of all the friendships they made in their lives. All the clutter in the house consisted of CDs and paper. Letters, post-cards, pictures, ticket-stubs, newspaper clippings—these filled memory books and shelves alike. The laundry room walls crowded four shelves filled completely with pieces of the past contained in that substance so often identified as paper.

A few books sat in Fen's office, but he had a habit of giving books away. Some movies and board games stacked by the couch in the living room. Aonora liked her TV show seasons in a tower by the older TV screen. She was a collector of Numb3rs, Chuck, Monk and Psych.

She did not own any expensive jewelry, clothes or collectibles. The cabinets held no silver, no high-priced glassware. No single object in the house was worth more than a hundred and fifty bucks, except possibly the refrigerator and Fen's laptop computer. It is important to remember this, because no thief would be willing to waste time stealing the contents of this particular home.

Fenwick's End

Fenwick's End

Fen's fingers tapped incessantly on the keyboard. Each click of the keys sounded like music to his ears. Each word punctuated by his smile, by the music flowing through him. These words and this music merged as one, a blinding intensity of beauty capable of stunning the world. One more paragraph, he thought. Just a little more and then I achieve all that I have wanted.

His curly black hair stuck up in all directions, unkempt enough to match his mud-stained, ripped t-shirt with the words, “We could be the kings and queens of cool tonight.” Dark jeans that once would've been called black, but faded to a shade nearer gray, hung about his legs like ragged flags that have flapped too long in high winds. The most beat-up tennis shoes imaginable scrunched across his feet, stuck together by long haphazard pieces of black duct-tape. Thin, fingerless gloves fitted his hands, the material something of a mystery to the average person. Dark-rimmed glasses sunk low on his nose and he shoved them back up subconsciously. His eyes glowed with a deep internal fire, the hazel irises orbs of excitement and laughter.

He appeared to be around twenty, but Fen's child-like energy, smile and seeming innocence threw off most observers. He was not an average person, that much was certain. The air around him pulsed with the aura of a someone that cannot help but be liked by every person he met. His walls in the small office were covered with pictures of smiling people crowded around him and notes of encouragement and thanks. His desk's surface bore the 112 scratched signatures of every person he had invited inside his house since he moved in two years before. And Fen loved company.

Aside from his “music,” the small house lay silent about him like a thick comforter. The wind occasionally thwacked the apple tree's branches against his windowpane, momentary distractions in his otherwise unbroken train of thought. No one was home but him. Then again, that should not have comforted him.

His sister was late coming home from work. She was not often late. He should have noticed that she was late, but he was in his element, lost in the world that he alone could see. If someone else could see it, he would not be the subject of a very curious crime scene several hours later.

Fen's foot rhythmically tapped the floor, in time with his typing. The noise of his shoe hitting the hard wood masked the approach of his enemy. The gun raised deliberately, and paused at the level of Fen's back, aimed at his heart.

“Yes!” Fen abruptly shouted, throwing his hands in the air. He stared at the screen, at those last words, the two he had wanted to write for as long as he could remember wanting something.

The enemy pulled the trigger and Fen died happy, lying in his own blood where he fell from the chair.


So, why would a perfectly happy person like me write something so....morbid? And should I continue it, just to figure out who wanted this writer dead?

What is A Friend?

The Bible says, "a friend loves at all times." I wanna be a friend. I lost someone I thought was a friend once. These are some of my response.

Keep You

Known you so long
We're kinda like good friends
I know you loved me once
Thought our relationship wouldn't end
Today I looked back
At yesterday and tomorrow
Where are you is the question
Were you just borrowed?

Can't I keep you?
I don't want a rental
Pick you up for a movie
One that isn't sentimental
Stay with me forever
Not a week or a year
No returns on this friendship
You're stuck with me dear

Don't know what happened
We haven't talked on the phone
I know you hung out once
Back when we were both alone
Today I looked out
At the dates in my mind
You're nowhere in sight
Did I forget to rewind?

Can't I keep you?
I don't want a rental
We'll go get coffee together
And we'll talk sentimental
Stay with me forever
Not a week or a year
No returns on this friendship
You're stuck with me dear

I wish I stopped to listen
Wish I first tried harder
You're so far away
Advancing even farther
I'm bringing out the reserves
Fighting for all I'm worth
You're still that important
One of the best humans on earth

Can't I keep you?
I don't want a rental
I gotta keep you
I'm being sentimental
Please come back forever
Not a week, not a year
No returns on this friendship
You're stuck with me dear


You Need A Rescue

You're sitting up late
In front of the screen
Typing away in the shadow
It hides you
Think you're laughing alone
You think you're unseen
Typing away in the shadow
It holds you

But I can see you
Gasping for air on the inside
Maybe I just imagine your sigh
Wishing you hadn't let go
Wishing the words you type
Would somehow get me to know
You need a rescue

Your face isn't smiling
In front of your screen
Crying alone in the shadow
It hurts you
The phone hasn't rung
So you think you're unseen
Crying away in the shadow
It tears you

But I can see you
Gasping for air on the inside
Maybe I just imagine your sigh
Wishing you called me sometime
Wishing the words you recite
Would somehow get me to write
I will come rescue

You never asked
Was I all wrong?
I think I know nothing
Wishing the words in this song
I'd be your true hero
In two seconds flat
But the truth is you don't care
And that is just that

I can see me
Gasping for air on the inside
I cannot imagine this sigh
Wishing you called me sometime
Wishing these words I recite
Would somehow get you to write
You need a rescue

The Highway Man

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

(And the awesome song version http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2CFM4ev-g8)

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding,
up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead,
and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet,
and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle;
his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle-- His rapier hilt a-twinkle-- His pistol butts a-twinkle,
under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters,
but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window,
and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter-- Bess, the landlord's daughter-- Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim,
the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked-- His eyes were hollows of madness,
his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter-- The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply,
and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups;
he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement!
His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight (O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight,
and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning;
he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset,
before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching,
up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord;
they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her
to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement,
with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement,
the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention,
with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her,
with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her,
but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers
were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness,
and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it!
The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it,
she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention,
with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing,
she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight,
throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot!
Had they heard it?
The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance!
Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight,
over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The redcoats looked to their priming!
She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence!
Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer!
Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment,
she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight-- Her musket shattered the moonlight-- Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West;
he did not know who stood Bowed,
with her head o'er the casement,
drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it,
and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight,
and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman,
shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him
and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon,
wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway,
with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say,
when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman comes riding,
up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters,
but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window,
and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter-- Bess, the landlord's daughter-- Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

On The Song

Three hours into the trip I was up in the command room studying star charts with their relation to recent attacks. Outside the ship's only clear wall (I guess it could be called a window) the blackness that can only be felt and seen in space melted around the ship. Thick and syrupy, that's space. Space is actually a really stupid name for it, since its all full of stuff. Stars, planets, comets, asteroids, creatures, black holes, blips, supernovas—that's just the beginning of the list. It's not a vacuum as much as it is like peanut butter. I missed peanut butter. Anyway. Sticky, that's space. It tries to grab everything away, such as the air in your mouth. Unless you happen to be Lavien. Laviens can breathe in space. It's never been explained, how they do that. Their home planet was destroyed so long ago it's not in “civilized” space records. There's only a couple hundred Laviens left in the universe. Finding one used to be good luck. I say bad luck if they happen to be a Pirate. Bad experience. Then again, not many good things happened to me when I was a kid.
I switched the star charts for an update paper. The headline read, “Missing Pirate Hunters Mystify Employers.” That was good and bad. If hunters were vanishing, that raised my pay, but it didn't bode well for our upcoming hunts.
A diminutive sound, so quiet it could've been dust falling, hit my ears. I snatched up my blazer, spinning faster than a *Winket dies on its home planet. I looked down the viewer at Radin, who stood with a stunned sort of expression on his youthful face at the pressure of my gun on his chest.
“In your hurry, did you forget my occupation, Inspector?” I asked in a husky voice. He exhaled loudly.
“I...did not think—”
“Pirates sneak, Inspector. I cannot afford to be slow. Or miss. You are lucky to be alive.”
He nodded. I retracted my weapon slowly, studying him with new eyes. From the moment he appeared on my quay I had a strange feeling about him. His eyes were veiled and wary, his demeanor not quite at ease. An inspector, huh?
I twirled my chair back to face the numerous dials, gages and, ultimately, the helm. It was easier to think with my back to him. He shifted uncomfortably. I watched him in the tiny mirror that pokes out of the edge of the desk. It could only be seen from my point of view, an insurance in case I didn't move fast enough. Yori came up with it after we were unknowingly boarded and two of our crew were brutally murdered. That was also when we decided to hire just one crewer—less to lose.
“I came to alert you that I need to have a look at the engines,” Radin stated.
“Not at this time you will not.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you know much about this model?”
“I went to airschool.”
“Yippee,” I snorted. I stood and walked around him. He followed me down the stairs to the deck. “You see the film encasing this deck, I presume?” I motioned at the plasma above us. It extended to the short walls of my Voyager, held in place by a laser system. The ever morphing, moving, living material assured us air and protection from the peanut butter blackness around us. It was insanity, really, because if the lasers went out with the rest of the engine we would be dead within minutes. At least, most Voyager crews would be.
“One of the reasons the Voyager was designed with plasma roofs is the convenience of it,” I continued. “If all the crewers are safely inside the command room or the hold, we could go deep space fishing very easily. Or if we had assailants on board we could throw them out into space.” I walked over to the mast, stepping over the largest pile of wirerope.
“This stabilizes the plasma,” I began. “It can also serve as an alternate means of floating, should something happen to the engine. At this stage in the voyage, the engine is stabilizing the plasma through this,” I paused to see if he was catching up.
“If anything should happen to the stabilizer, the plasma would harden and we would have ten seconds to run to the command room before it shattered,” he offered.
Or your new cabin, I added in my head.
“Sort of. The anything is really just one thing,” I corrected. “Human presence. Or really, humanoid.” I turned to look him in the eye. “Wait a day, Inspector. Most things here need a day.” I walked back toward the stairs.
“Radin,” I heard him mutter.
“If you get bored, Inspector,” I called over my shoulder, emphasizing the last word and hearing Yori laugh in my ear. “You can hook up your screen to the database in your cabin.” Suddenly I stopped and turned again.
“I almost forgot entirely. The mess is down below,” I told him. “We dine on the song.”
I grinned to myself. I was at the top of the stairs when I heard him murmur,
“The song?”
~*~
Not long after that our dinner song1 clicked on. Up in space we don't have timed lights like the space ports or sun downs like the planets. We go by our internal sense. Sometimes that comes back to bite us though, because we'll get into a groove of when we sleep and then we'll arrive somewhere that claims it's the middle of the night.
I sang as I put the charts away. I hummed with the music as I jumped down the stairs.
I was comfortable leaving the bridge because everything was on autopilot. Voyagers have the best autopilot out of any ships in the universe. They were designed by a genius human only twenty years ago. The good thing about that is that he's still alive, which gives him the freedom to modify the ships every few months to work the kinks out. The autopilot was a learning program. It watched when the captain made maneuvers and copied them into its system. I typed in a destination at the beginning and it not only knew how to go there, it could sense any new objects in the way and skirt them without complaint or hiccup.
One more attribute set it apart: it bonded to the captain. The real, true captain of the ship was the only one who could steer or initiate autopilot. It could be voice activated, just in case the captain was incapacitated, but if the ship was overrun, the autopilot would automatically return the ship to the nearest law station. It could not be stopped unless the captain commanded it.
I hit the bottom step and my ship beeped at me, her equivalent of goodbye. She would be taking care of us while I was below eating.
I met Radin at the top of the ladder. A half smile played on his face. He allowed me to lead the way, as this was all new to him. I wondered if he traveled much at all. It might be kind of fun to mess with him later. I could execute some crazy maneuvers if I wanted to...
Yori sat at the bottom of the ladder.
“Breyben's done it again, Sapph, he's—” Yori broke off at the sight of Radin. “Oh. Ah.” He leaned close to me and I leaned down at his level. “I forgot about the suit. Do we have a plan to get rid of him yet?”
I straightened with a laugh. I led the way in the opposite direction of the engine room. The mess was small, like everything else. The smell hit us immediately. Thick. Salty. What was that smell?
I ducked through the curtained doorway. Breyben bent over the heating pads on the table. Strange mixtures of vegetables and meats simmered on each plate. It was weird to see four settings. The pungent aroma intensified greatly. I walked around the table to my customary place beside Breyben's plate, perching on my stool as it rose from the floor.
“What is this, Breyben?” I asked bravely.
“Stir fry. Always start a voyage with something new, Hunter,” he replied, applying his finishing spices to the mixes. “Eat up everyone.”
I pointed to the place on my right. Radin squeezed in, conscious that I would lead him right. Yori rolled forward into his place, his chair still poking out the doorway. He crossed his eyes at me. I picked up my fork, hiding my smile.
We ate in silence. The meat was actually quite good. I didn't know what it was, or the vegetables. I never really pay attention to food. Most of it comes in squeeze tubes or ultralight packaging. I knew the green and red stuff were vegetables because they didn't look man-made and they weren't sweet. Fruits were sweet. Most of the time. Like I said, I don't pay any attention to food. I eat everything. Unless it's still alive. Been there, can't do that.
“It's very good,” Radin commented. I saw Yori jump. “I've had it back on Carpediam. One of my superiors loved to serve it for parties. He said it was a crowd-pleaser.”
“Hear that, Yori?” Breyben exclaimed. “I've got a supporter at last.”
“Lovely. Now you've done it, Inspector. Encouraged him,” Yori riled.
Radin shot him a puzzled look, glanced at me (I looked down at my plate), and returned to his food.
The rest of the meal Breyben outlined his recipe for making stir fry. Radin listened politely, just as Yori hummed off-key melodies in a sad attempt to annoy them, ending up annoying me more than them since I was annoyed and embarrassed on their behalf. I vowed as I climbed back up the ladder that we would spend our future meals inundated with raucous rock music.
*Winkets were microscopic glow bugs from the planet Tune. Seeing the light of one speck before they winked out of existence was so rare that most natives thought the bugs weren't real. I know they are because I was attacked once during one of our long repair dockings. Little devils nearly killed me. I plead the fifth on how microscopic insects could possibly kill a grown fighter.
1This was Galaxies Collide, by a very old band called EleventySeven. It was the one I picked. Yori picked the lunch song (In the Dark of the Night, from the musical Anastasia) and Breyben, of course, picked the breakfast song (My Heart Will Go On, by another very old artist, Selene Dion).

It Doesn't Pay To Have An Inspector Aboard

“It's not like my job is a secret,” I defended myself.
“No, it's not. But how you do it is,” Inspector Radin replied, stylus raised above his small screen. He didn't look like an inspector at all. His muscled arms bulged under his tight-fitting jacket reminding me my head barely reached his nose. He couldn't have been more than a day older than I was, with his smooth, beardless face. I always associated Inspectors with thin, ugly, short and middle-aged. Then again, maybe I received a special qualification because of recent events.
I strode up my short gangway, silent as death. When I reached the deck airlock I stopped to let the Inspector go first. He advanced across my foredeck.
“After all the public shock about...your last captive, I'm sure you expected a full inspection,” he said, gazing over the numerous piles of coiled wirerope.
“I expected fame and glory, actually. Not suspicion from my employers, who pay us only enough to keep us honest,” I shot back. I snapped my fingers. The Inspector gave me a funny look, but I ignored him.
“I'll need to see the entire ship. And when is your next voyage?” he pried.
I stiffened.
“We were just readying, actually. We'll be shipping out as soon as the inspection is over,” I replied begrudgingly. I didn't like the look of the instrument he was pulling out of his belt pocket. It was a scanner, I knew that right off. I don't like scanners on my ship. Besides all the obvious annoyances, they messed with my gages and things.
“You could threaten him with quitting,” Yori's voice suggested in my ear. I half smiled to myself. I had turned on our link when I snapped my fingers. Yori could hear everything we said and talked to me through the ear piece I had surgically inserted in my ear two years ago.
“Good. I am all ready to ship out as well. Where can I store my equipment?” Inspector Radin asked.
I nearly choked on my own spit. I could hear Yori reacting about the same way.
“Inspector, you don't really think you're going to voyage with us, do you?” I coughed. Instinctively my hand grasped at my blazer, the gun heating at my slight touch.
The Inspector turned to face me. He flipped his shaggy black hair out of his face.
“Hunter,” he began. “I do intend to travel with you. I am required to do so until you catch another Pirate.”
“You might want to reconsider my idea,” Yori said a bit angrily.
I glared at the Inspector. I can't threaten quitting because he might call my bluff, I thought furiously. I can't go back to Bounty Hunting. I tried that for a whole two months after I was trained. I hated it. Who knew if those people really deserved to be caught? Or if what I did actually helped anyone? I choose Pirate Hunting, thank you.
“This job takes months and sometimes years, Inspector,” I coldly reminded him. He stuck his stylus back on his screen and pushed the screen into his jacket pocket.
“I realize that,” he calmly answered. “You do have an extra berth, right?”
“I don't usually entertain Inspectors,” I grumbled.
“Or anyone else,” Yori added.
I stalked across the deck to my own cabin door and threw it open carelessly. On my ship, this was the only cabin. All the hold space was being used. Except the corner Yori slept in.
“Ah, traditional wood. That's something I've not seen for years, especially not on a Voyager,” the Inspector commented, brushing the door frame lightly with his fingertips. A wistful look came into his eyes. I was too angry to think much of it.
“You've been to the museums then?” Yori suddenly chirped from behind him.
The Inspector jumped and turned around. Yori's chair doubly threw him off guard, but he was polite enough not to comment.
“Yes, I practically lived at the Olden Ships museum when I was a boy,” he replied. His eyes took in Yori's shrunken legs strapped to his metal foot rests. The heavily cushioned seat balanced on its light frame rolled slightly on the over-sized wheels that propelled it around the ship. Yori's entirely blue outfit and goggles completed the insane picture. I almost felt sorry for the Inspector, as he was too shocked to continue, like everyone else who saw Yori for the first time.
“Fell off a Tree Cruiser on my home planet. My legs never recovered,” Yori explained tersely. “I'm Yori.”
I leaned around the Inspector.
“Yori is my weapons expert, navigator and business partner. Yori, this is our new crewmember, Inspector Radin,” I introduced them. Yori grinned.
“You may both call me Radin. I know this may be a long trip and I'd like to drop the formality,” the Inspector reacted.
“You haven't a first name?” Yori asked in his typically blunt way. His spongy red curls emphasized the blue highlights common to his family. The goggles squeezing his head looked a bit like a girl's head band and gave him an extra kick in weirdness. No one in civilized society rolled around in a wheel chair. I could just imagine what sort of note Radin would be sending to his superiors later. “Her partner is a half-crazed cripple, sir.”
“I've gone by Radin for many years. I don't even think of my first name anymore,” he dodged. I noticed that habit for the first time then. I grew to listen for his dodge moments as the trip progressed.
“Yori, open the link line and call up the Ins—Radin's equipment, please,” I commanded in a question. My partner cracked a lopsided smile and rolled quickly away, muscled arms pumping.
I turned to Radin.
“You can lodge in here,” I said, motioning around the room. “I'll just move a few things first.”
Radin raised an eyebrow.
“Isn't this your cabin?” he annoyingly quipped.
I gritted my teeth.
“Your things are being loaded on deck,” I effectively ended the conversation.
He nodded and walked out, leaving me to my thoughts and my packing. I inspected the tiny pocket of a room. My mesh, body-molding hammock swung as the ship's engines revved. My three books lay in a heap on my foot-long desk, along with my extra blazer cartridges and my Captain's log screen. My satchel with spare clothes also functioned as the chair for the desk. That was it. On a Voyager we couldn't risk any unnecessary weight. Every ounce counted. I wasn't happy about Radin's equipment, but we could lose some other excess junk Yori kept around for amusement. I emptied my desk into my hammock and hefted it and my satchel onto my back. A few steps across the deck and to the right up the stairs and I was in the command room. I would be sharing it with Breyben, which wasn't bad considering he was the only one who slept up there. I offered him my cabin once, seeing as I was always in the command room steering, but he refused it. It was very like him to say that the Captain, the Hunter, should have the cabin.
Yori slept down in the hold with all the random mish-mash. He liked to keep his stuff company. When he ran out of things to do, he fell into tiresome grumpiness. I avoided him at those times. Let me just say that avoiding someone on board a Voyager on a voyage is a bit difficult. I think I should get some sort of award.
I suspended my hammock. The other stuff was laid to rest on my Captain's chair until I could clear a space in one of the cubbies.
“We need to lighten the hold,” I muttered.
“I'm already on it, Sapphire,” Yori replied in my ear.
He was the only one who called me that. I went by Hunter and nobody, not even Breyben called me Captain. I was a hunter, and am Hunter. Yori didn't really like to be like everyone else. Especially if they happen to be the Selective Press or the Government Galactic news. I think one reporter asked my real name. All the others just went with Hunter, seeing as it was the name my employers put on my check. Most people figure that if I had a name, my employers—who know everything—would use it to pay me. I guess they forget that I am not the only hunter under employment. But I'm not a real expert on reporters, because this recent captive was my first high-profile capture.
Not even Yori knew my real name. Sapphire was a pet name of course. I'm not sure where he got it. Maybe my blue eyes. Maybe he's being poetic, it's hard to tell sometimes with him.
I tramped back down to the deck. Radin's boxes stacked in two heaps around him. He was making yet another note on his screen. I rolled my eyes at the sight of its green glow. This is going to be a long trip.
“You'll be setting up as the ship gets under way,” I pointed out, just in case he expected us to wait for him to get settled. We couldn't be on his timetable. Our hold held the exact amount of fuel we would need, with only a little extra to get us to the next refuel station. We packed light in the food area as well, seeing as the ship needed to float and we could do without if something should happen along the route. Our next stop expected us within a certain time frame to insure the best service he could give.
“Just pretend I'm not here, Captain Hunter,” he said over his shoulder.
I spun on my heel. I will ignore you then. The ladder for the hold met me soon enough. I slid down into the brightly lit depths. Yori grinned up at me when I reached the bottom.
“What are you so happy about?” I grumped. He rolled behind me as we walked the length of the ship to the engines. The passage beside all the supplies was too tight to fit us side by side.
“He called you Cap. I like that. He's got some class,” my eccentric friend happily replied.
“Great. The only good thing about this Inspector—”
“There's a good thing?”
“—is that you'll have someone else to annoy,” I finished.
“Whatever Your Majesty. You know you're hopelessly in love with me.”
Snort.
“As much as I'm in love with my headaches.”
We arrived at the door to the engine room. If it could be called a door. Mesh. The plastic fibers stretched from ceiling to floor to cushion any parts that might come flying loose. Half-way up the mesh was a small latch. If pulled free, this latch opened a small space through which to crawl. For this reason, Yori stayed clear of the engine room.
“Your Majesty, eh?” a deep voice rumbled from the other side of the mesh. Breyben.
“Yori is showing his jealousy because the Galactic called me the 'Queen of hunters, with her faithful guards helping her along the way,' ” I clarified, letting free a small laugh.
“Jealous? Ha! You just wait for the day when they find out who's the real brains behind this operation,” Yori defended.
Breyben stuck his head out from his nook inside the engine.
“I'm nearly done, Hunter. Voyage ahead,” he said.
I saluted him.
“Let's be off then, Yor.”

Only the Beginning

I may write more. This is only the beginning.