these dreams Volume 1- "Harsh Words"

[joegoda]

Five ancient phrases, hidden throughout the world. Maybe I should add hidden throughout the 'Ancient' world. Ancient because that's what these phrases are, created before man, or most of man, walked upright, uttered by Gods or Goddesses or demons or aliens or somebody that knew that the right combinations of sounds, put together have power, and some combinations have incredible power, and some, fewer still, so incredibly rare they may have only been uttered by a coelacanth during a mating ritual right before he or she died, have the power to shatter worlds, rebuild Universes and shake the foundations of that fragile thing we like to call reality.

And then, having uttered these phrases, they, who ever the hell 'they' were, had the audacity to actually scrawl the reality shaking sounds somewhere. Maybe on a log, petrified or a stone high on a mountain or lost inland seabed or, believe it or not, on the bones of an animal so long dead that it was unlikely to be found unless someone knew exactly where to find it.

Of course, good old normal John and Jane Doe would have no clue were to go looking for this sort of power. As ordinary folks, living ordinary lives, it would be surprising if any of them looked up from their Eggo existence long enough to see the world that was sitting right next to their world.

That's where me and my friends come in. We're not normal. We're not ordinary. Hell, I'm not even sure if we were born on this planet. I'm not even sure we were born at all. It's just as likely that we were drummed up by the same type of words of power that we've been charged with destroying.

There's four of us, see. Iggy, and Suran and Jennifer and me. I'm Paul. Iggy's the leader. With a name like Iggy, he would be, wouldn't he? If you heard someone say "Check with Paul," the next part would be "he's in accounting." or "he's at the loading dock."

If you hear "Check with Iggy." That's pretty much it. You go looking for an Iggy looking sort of person and that's why you find. Tall, thin, long face with a pointed chin. Blazing red hair when it's not shaved bald or colored into a rainbow of a Mohawk. Pale blue eyes circled by a dark blue ring. Freaky eyes. The sort of eyes where you'd swear they were fake until they looked at you. Looked through you. Iggy has the voice of command. When he asks you to do something, doesn't matter what, you'll do it because you're supposed to. Your heart tells you to. Your soul agrees with your heart. It's always that way. Always. Except for the rest of us. We're what you call immune. Still, he's the boss. His ideas are usually the best. Usually.

Suran is a dark eyed, dark haired, dark skinned, dark souled sort of person. Short of stature and temper. He's not a leader type either. He's the type that you send to do jobs that require a dark eyed, dark haired, dark skinned, dark souled person. You get the idea. Or, if you don't get it, then you should never get the idea, because it will change who you are forever.

Take Suran, turn him inside out and around and about and you get Jennifer. Loving, sweet, gentle and kind, is our Sweet Jen. Sharp as a Occam's razor and subtle is a mother's whispered love. Blond haired and green eyed, a bit on the comfortable side body-wise (some folks call it plus size. We all just call it a plus), Jen can also look at a situation, regardless of it's complexity and break it down to it's simplest part. Occam's razor. See?

And me; Paul. Sounds like pawl, that little clicking part of a ratchet that keeps the gear from slipping to fast or out of bounds. I'm the mechanic, scribe, chief cook and bottle washer of our little group. Round, but not as pretty as Jen. Short, but not as short as Suran. Sharp eyed and able to command, but not as powerful as Iggy. I pick up the pieces when balls are dropped or unstick the unstickable or rewrite the already spoken.

I patch the history of mankind. I unwrite the things that should never be said. I fix things.

We've been friends for about as long as there's been the word friends, in any language. We've wandered the world together and apart, because let's face it. Sometimes you just don't want to see that bastard's face for a century or so. And no matter how soft and loving Jen may be, there's times you just don't feel like being sooth or the friggin fact that she's so right so much of the time. And Iggy. He's great and all, but damn it! Sometimes a guy has to be his own boss.

So, here it was, in the year of somebody's lord two thousand something or odd (we tend to lose track after a while), that I found myself in God forsaken OK La Home A, sitting on a bar stool, drinking some 30year old scotch that I swear was made last week and trying to hit on this sweet young thing a millennium or so younger than me when I hear the voice in my head say, "We found another one".

It wasn't the voice of Iggy, which it should have been. It was the voice of Sweet Jen. Iggy's voice wouldn't have given me a second of pause. I would have dumped darlin' morsel on the bar stool on which she sat and headed to points unknown to hook up with my compadres' and take care of that bad boy, whatever that bad boy might be.

And, to confuse it even more, Sweet Jen didn't call me by name. This meant that either she has forgotten my name, which is friggin' unlikely, or she was sending out a broadcast to all who could hear her, which would be only me, Suran and Iggy. Now, when I say 'only', I'm using it in the broad sense of only. There may be other folks who can listen in on the broadcasts of the worlds oldest near immortals, but I haven't met any of them. And if I had, then Suran would go talk to them, and then they wouldn't hear anything at all.

There was another possible, one I don't like to think about. Someone could have, unlikely as hell, highjacked Sweet Jen and forced her to send the broadcast. Unlikely because I've seen Sweet Jen take down a bull elephant and drive it to it's knees bleeding and blinded, using only her will, her skill and a pair of chopsticks. Really sharp chopsticks, okay, but still.

For someone to have done that to Sweet Jen means they would have overpowered her. Not friggin' likely. However, one does not live as long as *ahem* I have just by rushing head long into unknown territory.

"Oh yeah?" I though, wittily, "What's the password?"

There really was a password. We had decided on one sometime around Napoleon's reign. I just couldn't remember what it was.

Minutes when by, second by second. Darlin' morsel was getting restless for something to happen between her and me, so I put her on ice by excusing myself to the little immortal's room. While I took care of what was needed to be taken care of, I waited some more.

"Hey!" Yes, kids. You really can yell loudly in your head. Not terribly recommended, though. It will give you a headache.

"Butternut, numb nuts," was the response. It sounded like Sweet Jen. It felt like Sweet Jen. Maybe it really was. Whoever, they seemed to have A password, and it might even be the right one.

"Where do I find you, sweetie," I sub-vocalized, just cuz it sounds weird to me for me to be just thinking words. Unless I'm just thinking to myself, I mean. Then it's perfectly normal.

"Roach coach, 41st and Garnett."

If this was Jen, it was Jen being really dead serious and... wait a minute. "41st and Garnett? Where? In Tulsa?" This I said aloud. Because I wanted to sound surprised.

"Yeppers. And hurry."

And still, she didn't use my name. Password or not, I checked my favorite sidearm, which looks like a paper straw you get in a soda. My soda-straw comes preloaded with darts. Darts carrying the venom of a black mamba crossed with golden poison frog and a dash of Fugu. Not likely to come back from that.

Leaving the bathroom, I looked in on darling morsel and she was half-drowsing on the barstool while some six foot house-ape was trying to hit on her. Best of luck, house-ape. Better appeal to her intellect before you a-peal her. She will mess you up, m'friend.

I waved at George, paid my tab, asked him to keep an eye on the morsel and hit the road for Little Mexico, Tulsa style.

Dammit. I almost hoped it wasn't Sweet Jen. I almost hoped it was. Either way, my life was going to take a turn for something or other. I hate being bored.

Comments

[kitwench.livejournal.com]

Merry Christmas to mmeeee!
Ok, seriously - I was actually sitting at my computer yesterday thinking -
"damn, wish that (NaNo) story wasn't over, need a fix - wish he'd start a new one...."
So - yeah!
*like*

[joegoda]

You flatter me. If I was that good... I could quit my day job.

[shackrlu.livejournal.com]

I always like stories at Christmas! Good start!

[joegoda]

Then I'm glad I could supply!