Pitch: Tonus: Part 3

The last part.

I hope you've enjoyed my gladiator ;P

::

This time, before he fully straightens, he lunges with his fists, but I easily dodge them for access to his uncovered back. I can feel the bone bend and crack under my knuckles.

He doesn't try to get up, instead he lays on the hot sand and gasps. When I stalk towards him, fear finally settles on his features, sending panic to his scrambling limbs.

Crouching, I easily grab a hold of him, grasping his long, thick golden hair in my left fist. He starts to sob, his mouth, once again, opening and closing, swallowing large gulps of his own tears. His eyes meet mine and suddenly something lodges itself into my throat.

The back of my eyes prickle and I tear my gaze from his to stare at the audience. They're up and stomping, the reverberation calming, but it doesn't stop the choking.

My eyes sweep the stadium, and catch on something glinting in the sand: the shield. It's close enough for me to watch myself debate how to kill him.

Is that his nose? I shake the thought away but the nagging noise in my mind continues to drawl. No, it's been broken too many times.

Angrily I shake my head, enough to sway my whole body and rattle my opponent by the roots of his hair. Slightly dizzy, I find myself staring back at my contorted reflection. 

Ah, there he is, in the eyes. No!

Wrenching his head back and without warning, I rip my right arm guard's metal edge across his throat, slicing through it and ending the show with a great display of shooting blood. Dropping the boy, I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly self-aware.

The thrum of the audience reaches my spine and I ache to know what they are shouting.

I am entitled to hear my own victories! They are mine, and mine alone!

Frustrated and hit with a bout of confusion, I open my own mouth and let out any noise I can muster, disgusted and distraught that I can't even hear myself scream.

::

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Pitch: Tune: Part 2

::

A net is fisted in his left hand, and a square, embellished shield in his right. I'm perplexed by the shield and realize it must be a gift, otherwise the weaponry of choice is appalling.

The shield glints bright and the shine takes me by surprise. I catch my reflection in the polished surface and don't recognize the tall, dark man covered in blood and scars. Is this what I look like? I hide my disappointment behind a stone face as we approach each other.

His eyes sweep over me and I draw myself up hoping to look especially intimidating as I tower over him. He doesn't react as expected, instead seeming to sigh and resign himself by calmly opening and closing his mouth. Enraged by his disrespect, I lunge towards him with a growl, hoping he will stop.

Sensing my fury, he swiftly dodges my attack, surprising me with his agility. Lunging again, he ducks and rolls out of my path and, from the corner of my eye, starts to wind his arm back. He throws his net towards me and I slash my sword as it tries to ensnare me. He quickly draws it back with a flick of his wrist before I can slice it to shreds.

He re-evaluates the move and we circle each other, eyes locked in anticipation. Sweat covers me in a thick layer from my previous matches, slicking uncomfortably from between the metal plates over my torso. The straps over my calves and arms from the guards are starting to feel numb.

The sun shines blindingly off the shield and I have to break out of my revere to focus.

Who was that man? I shush my thoughts when I catch a glimpse of myself again in the mirror-like facet. Where did the boy go?

I lunge towards him and instantly he throws his net at me in response. Holding out my pilum, I tangle the net by weaving the metal head through the openings. He attempts to tug back, but the differences in our strengths is monumental.

I pull hard, but he instantly releases the tether at the end of the net, freeing himself from my trap. I stumble back, driving the end of the staff into the sand to keep from falling.

He opens his mouth again, this time aiming it at the audience with a smile. He jabbers on, flicking his hair off his shoulder, and the annoyance burns.

Leaving behind my ensnared javelin impaled in the sand, I jab my sword at his shield, the force denting the polished metal and sending a shaking pain up the arm of my cocky opponent. He yelps and pulls his arm to his chest protectively, eyeing me with a confused and awed expression.

In reply, I smirk.

Massaging his arm, he regards me then unwinds himself to have a squared position. Unsure of what he is doing, I am caught unaware when he dashes at me, hidden behind his dented shield as he rams me with all his weight.

After a panicked shuffle that causes me to stumble, I'm in the sand, and it is scorching. Spitting the grit from between my teeth, I swing my sword above me to fend off any attacks while I am down. I stop when I realize I'm just slashing at air. Lifting my head, I find him doubled over, his body shaking. Picking myself up, I seethe at the embarrassment of being thrown down by a slight amateur.

Without a second thought, I charge at his exposed back. He catches me in his peripheral and mistakenly releases his shield as he turns to face me. His hands reach for mine around the hilt, and as I charge, he pushes my hands away from himself.

The force is shocking, and the sword with my hands swing right, dangerously close to my cheek. Releasing my sword so it spirals far into the dirt, I twist my wrists out of his hands and marvel at the unexpected tactic.

He starts to move his mouth again, but I can't bother thinking too much anymore. With no weapons in hand, I resolve for my fists. They connect with his exposed navel, quickly disabling him and halting his constant chatter.

He's doubled over again, this time in pain, but I wait for him to straighten up before landing a fist into the side of his ribs. No more games. This is a fair fight with strict rules of life and death, and we're going not playing anymore.

::

Whoa, today was a doozy.

Finally got to go to a concert by THE Mother Mother! 

And I am so psyched by how awesome they are! 

Definitely my favorite band ever. :P

Mera.

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Pitch: Tone: Part 1

JournalWord: Gladiator

::

The air always smells and tastes the same: salty and dusty.

The screams and gurgles go unheard when I plunge my pilum into the throat of my fallen opponent. Not a sound escapes my own as the spectators scream from the surrounding stands.

Dislodging the spearhead from the corpse, I kick at the bloodstained sand underfoot without a glance at the severed neck of the man. Eyes up at my audience instead, I revel at the pulsing reverberation that travels through my chest from the stomping of my fans. A smile approaches my lips, but I halt the action and exchange it for a more appropriate smirk, and the women stare wide eyed and enchanted.

I'm a monster in this stadium and heart breaker out. This bloodthirsty being they play me as is a Gods-given dream. Not a trace of the scrape of a boy left to fend for himself in the slums, abandoned and constantly hungry. Nor a hint of the fear that had wracked the boy's thoughts present in this heavily muscled body.

I usually notice the gate opening by the distinct rumbling of the sand as the chains hoist the metal gate up, but with the stadium in an uproar like this, I take the instant swivel of everyone's head to my left as the signal of my next opponent.

Hefting my javelin over my shoulder, and posing for the ladies with a quick tense of my arms and shoulders, I spin around and hurl the wooden and metal weapon. It ripples the atmosphere and I can feel the dense, humid air being sliced by the bending of minuscule hairs in my ears. It tickles comfortably, like a familiar graze.

Watching the javelin arch gracefully across the arena and find itself home into the chest of my victim, I pick up my feet into a light jog to effortlessly scoop the sword my previous opponent had left behind. He hadn't used it and now I know why; it's unexpectedly heavy. Most likely a cheap apprentice's mishap in allot selection.

Gripping the curved metal between my palms, I race through the sand, avoiding as many patches of dusty burgundy sand as I can. I am quite proud of how easily I can dispel the thoughts for the origins of them.

There isn't much left for me when I finally reach my opponent. He writhes pathetically in the sand, gasping, unarmed, having tossed his wooden shield and rusty dagger far into the dirt, and attempting to stave off the bleeding around the spear's visible staff with his blood-drenched hands.

I bite a scowl through my lips at the trouble of running all the way here for a dead man, shaking my leather sandals of the clumping grit. Deciding that he isn't worth the exertion anymore, I slam my sword down and sever his head to end his misery.

Despite the short conquest, the audience gifts me with another warm thunder to my chest at the sight of the spurting blood. This time I cannot hide the smile that breaks across my sunburned cheeks. Wiping the blood out of my eyes, I end this battle with a flourishing bow in all four directions, adding a couple winks to the noblewomen batting their lashes provocatively.

They love me. Thank the Gods.

The thrumming in my ribs subsides and I instantly regret the loss. It can only be because of another opponent. A bubbling stirs in my gut, of anger, of fear for the loss of adoration. Holding my head high, I pivot to face my next victim, my shoulders flaming from the heat and displeasure.

This one is the match I've been waiting for, I realize when I find my opponent striding towards me in a slow, purposeful stalk. For once since the first months I had entered the arena as a boy, I watch my opponent and study him in detail.

He is lightly tanned and lean, the leather straps of his simple armor wrapped around his slight chest. I scoff at him, proud with only a couple victories under his belt. He's fresh from the gutters. His hair, extremely fair and long, curls around his shoulders, probably to entice the support of the ladies. He has the audacity to keep it untied in the arena.

When he smiles at my audience, fury balls up between my shoulders, boiling unpleasantly. Squeezing the hilt of my sword in my right palm, I grab the staff of my javelin with my left hand and rip it out of the corpse. With my weapons in hand, I decide to greet my guest.

::

Who doesn't like a good bloodthirsty gladiator? ;P

Can you decipher the special characteristic I have left out in this story? 

It's a valuable piece of information about Mr. Gladiator, just saying :D

Also, there will be a second part for this piece, so look forward to it! 

-Mera.

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Wooden Horse

JournalWord: Fighting gravity.

::

She examines the horse, poised on the tips of its back hooves and balancing as it stands tall on the clear glass tabletop. The curve of its back is a series of slopes and arches, almost a vertical posture as its front feet kick at the sky.

His mane is tossed back in frozen waves, curling into itself like a tornado, and the wispy tail is a whirlwind of incoming clouds. The dappled grey hide glints from a polish set into the grain. She wonders if he's even touching the table.

"Papa," she asks her grandfather as she settles her head onto the backs of her hands, waiting for the sparkle to appear in its eye. "How long did it take for you to carve him?"

"Two months," is his gruff reply as he tinkers on a wooden cuckoo-clock on his work bench. "It took two months to fight with gravity."

::

Another short!

I'm juggling (when am I not?) work and responsibilities, and studying for my interview is not helping for time to write :(

I'm in need of some time for intimate laptop-me-inspiration cuddles..

Well, keep bubbly, and wish me luck :)

Mera.

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A Tiny Tune

JournalWord: When a misfit comes home.

***

He stumbles into the cafe, slamming shut the front door from the peeking rays of the morning. The jumbled chime of the bells over the door announces his arrival and he grunts, clutching his head at the sharp pain the sound induces. 

He shuffles one of the tables, knocking down a chair from it's upside door position on the tabletop. It's too early for anyone to be up. Dan isn't even up yet to turn down the chairs for the day.

Placing the chair on it's legs, he falls into the wooden seat, ducking his head under his arms as he places them on the table. He attempts to ignore the pounding at the back of his head with whispered curses. No one messes with him. No one should mess with him, he corrects. It's their own goddamn fault for bringing a bat to a fist fight, he scowls. 

So he fights the beginning of pain, knowing if he doesn't sleep now, the bruises will be keeping him up for days. Dan will know, then, and when he knows he's been in another fight, he'll have to be kicked out. 

He doesn't know why he fights. Dan should have kicked him out months ago. Coming home every week with a new set of bruises and gang members out for revenge, he's endangering Diana and the cafe for being here.

Damn, he curses again, a fist meeting the wooden surface of the table. A jagged pain runs through his knuckles for his efforts and he swears quietly, praying he doesn't have any broken bones or fractures. Then he wouldn't be able to help out. Then he wouldn't be able to teach Diana her lessons. 

He cradles his hand in his lap, hiding his eyes in his other forearm, wiping away ungrateful tears. He doesn't even deserve to cry, not for his actions, and not for his broken promises. He's still mentally cursing himself when tiny pattering of feet sneak down the stairs into the dining hall.  

He wipes his eyes again and plucks his head up from his arm to the stumbling tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. He watches as she struggles over the keys of the old upright piano. Her tiny fingers flutter and stretch to reach the ivory keys, tripping over others in the obstacle to complete the children's tune. 

She finally finishes the song and spins on the bench, her nightgown twirling along with her long hazel braid. She beams when she sees he's been watching. "Are you feeling a little better now?" she asks, hopeful.

"Not in the least," he gruffly replies at the child. Her smile falters and he adds, "yeah, so play it again for me."

He drops his head back down onto his arm, hiding his smile in the crook of his arm when she starts to play the tune again, this time with an exited gusto. He stays awake knowing she'll be lonely when he falls asleep. The pain will be worth it, he vows. It's the only equivalent to the sweet serenade of an angel.

***

Love, love, love misfits!!

I'm realizing I like writing from a limited third-person point of view. Seems to feel right.

Let me know what you think!

~mera

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