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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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A Memory of Murder

(Written as an application for an online writing gig; didn't get the paid position, but I thought you might like this snippet anyway. Cheers.)

It has been said of the city of Memory that it is as much a place in time as it is a place in mind. The memories who inhabit it are in semblance much akin to you or I, but at the same time they are simpler, more rarefied beings, and they do not age so much as change. The city is separated from the Dreaming Forest by a wall that is thick and sturdy, but not high, for it is not placed so much to defy passage as it is to demarcate the boundary between Memory and Dream -- and not so much to keep the Forest out, as to keep the memories in.

It is often unsuccessful.

Noiseless and swift as only memories can be, a slim figure broke from the adjacent alleyway and ascended the wall using only her feet; from afar, you might imagine you were seeing the shadow of a bird flying by overhead, rather than a female form running up a vertical surface. But it was full nighttime, and the briefest clinking of a chain carried in her wiry arms, still attached to a manacle upon her leg, betrayed her as a solid creature even as it made her speed all the more breathtaking to behold.

Reaching the wall's apex, she sprang aloft and, silhouetted against the night's eye, beheld the city guard she'd been the fondest of, breathtakingly fair in his moonlit bewilderment. She had no recollection of escaping Memory's dungeons, no idea how she'd broken her chain, no thought except the burning need to move, to run, to be free. In midair, in a single pure moment, she felt the wind spinning by, and the beat of her heart, and the widening of his eyes, and fell in love.

And then fell past it.

A twist and flick of the chain sent it looping about the young guard's neck. Her momentum carried her beyond the wall and downwards; her weight carried her love's head to a position across his back and shoulders that it could not endure, and it protested with a quiet, brittle, final snap.

And so it was that a memory of murder entered Dream, dragging behind it the broken remnants of something beautiful.

(c) 2005 Ken Barnes.

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I LOVE it. You need to keep writing it! It aches to be written and I ache to read it. So chop! chop!

Wow. Weirdly puts me in mind of Aeon Flux for some reason.

Or maybe no reason.


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