OctPoWriMo 30- Right and Wrong

Today's prompt asked us to write about a social issue that is important to us. I make no apologies for my poem, but be warned: I didn't pull any punches.

Right and Wrong

Don’t like slavery? Don’t buy one.
Don’t like abortion? Don’t have one.
Don’t like murder? Don’t commit one.
But don’t you dare tell me what to do!
Now, wait just a doggone minute!
What if I want to kill you?
What if I want to enslave you?
We can tell others what to do.
Sometimes, we must.
There is such a thing as right and wrong.
There is such a thing as good and evil.
There are absolutes.
What is right for me is also right for you.
The truth doesn’t care what you think of it.
It doesn’t matter what you say or do, the truth is still the truth.

The Hunt

She walked boldly through the nightdark city streets, unafraid, certain that nothing would dare to threaten her. Impatiently, she brushed her long black hair from her eyes, cursing the breeze that had blown it across her face. Blue eyes looked at the world out of a face that in the light would appear unnaturally pale and bloodless.
He followed, slipping from shadow to shadow, keeping her just in sight. It appeared that she was unaware of his presence, but he couldn’t be sure. Surprise would be to his advantage tonight, but he was confident of the outcome even without it.
Sliding his hand into the pocket of his dark grey hoodie, he gripped the leather-wrapped handle of his knife. He wished he could have brought his sword, as he was more comfortable with the longer blade, but it was much harder to conceal it, even at night.
She entered a forested park, still moving carelessly, certain of her own invulnerability. He smiled. The young ones always thought they were untouchable. They were always shocked when he showed them how wrong they were.

As the trees closed in, he quickened his steps, no longer caring if she heard him. She did, and she stopped and turned, smiling as she saw him coming.

He waited until he was close enough to touch her before drawing the knife and slipping the leather sheath from its blade. She caught the movement and looked down, a small frown creasing her brow at sight of the blade shimmering in the moonlight that filtered through the branches above. As she raised her eyes in question, still not considering that he might be a danger to her, he stepped forward and plunged the silver blade into her heart.
Her eyes widened and she grabbed at his hand—too late. As her blue eyes faded to grey she whispered, “Why?” But he gave no answer, yanking his knife free and stepping back as she fell to her knees, her strength leaving her. He pulled a rag from another pocket and wiped the blade, careful not to touch it.
She toppled sideways into the litter of leaves and twigs, her hands futilely trying to find something to hold onto, something to save her. Disbelief and betrayal shone from her eyes. He watched impassively and waited until she stilled and her body dissolved into dust, disappearing into the detritus, leaving no trace of her existence.
He sheathed his knife and returned it to his pocket. Tilting his wristwatch, he caught a beam of moonlight. It was still early. There was time for another hunt tonight.

2012 Valentine's Day Blog Hop: A Valentine's Letter

Vicki Orians challenged us to write a love letter from one of our main characters to another. I'm going to do this a little differently; this won't be romantic love. So this is Lance, the main character of my untitled WIP, writing to his deceased twin brother.

Raoul,
It has been so many years since I last laid eyes upon your face, so many many years, and yet sometimes I still forget. I turn to ask a question of you and you are not there. I hear your laughter in the next room, but you are not there. I see your face in the mirror, but it is only my face, and you are not there.

Ah, Raoul! I miss our conversations; I even miss our arguments. We always said we'd live forever, but we meant to do it together; eternity is lonely without you. I would do anything if you could live again.Vengeance was supposed to make it better; but vengeance only made things worse. Now your murderer hunts me with the strength and skills I gave him and with a great hatred in his heart for me and all our kind. I fear that this is my fault, for instead of killing him for killing you, I turned him into one of us, turned him into what he hated. For so long, I hated him for what he did to you; but now I only pity him for he is like me: forever alone.

I was always so proud, so proper. I don't remember if I ever told you that I loved you. I wish that I had, even though I know you would have laughed at me and made some joke; I miss your jokes. You were always so impulsive, so happy, so alive.

I miss you.

Your brother,
Lance

Weakness

Another fanfic I wrote based off of my favourite line that was in the movies but not in the books.

Weakness

You're the weak one. You've never known love or friendship. And I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you.


The Dark wizard paced up and down the long room, his followers standing back against the ornate walls watching him. He could feel their fear, fear of him, but he ignored them. How dare the boy? How dare he feel sorry for him? It was ridiculous that the child he had orphaned would pity him. As if he were a pitiable figure! He was the greatest wizard alive, and he would soon prove it to all, muggle and wizard alike.


But how had the boy fought him off? No, it couldn't have been the boy; it had to have been a trick. It must have been Dumbledore. The old man was smarter than he looked; he always had been. There was no way a mere child could have forced the Dark Lord out of his head and caused such pain to the invader. At the memory of the agony that possession of the boy had caused him, Voldemort paused and flung out his wand hand at random, casting the cruciatus curse on one of his Death Eaters, inconsiderate of which one he struck. Momentarily distracted from his fury, he watched the masked man convulse in pain.


Call me weak, will you, Harry Potter? He fumed silently. I'll show you. Everything you've been through up until now will seem like a stroll through your puerile Honeydukes compared to what's coming. You will lose everything. And perhaps now was the time to get rid of a certain meddlesome headmaster as well. Voldemort smiled at his followers. Who needed friendship with such devoted slaves? "Lucius," the cold high voice said, "you have a son, don't you? A son who attends Hogwarts?"

Zankar's Betrayal

I woke up one morning with this scene in my head, and I just had to write it down. It feels like part of a much longer work, and someday I may write more, but as of now this is all I wrote.

Betrayal

Zankar's face was like a mask of death. He strode through the streets of the city, his long black robes billowing around him in the wind of his passing, and those who saw him were afraid. Most looked away, unwilling to meet his empty eyes, but some were caught in his dark gaze and stared after him, helpless to look elsewhere until he was out of sight. He had always been a strange individual, the King's Wizard, but since his wife had taken ill, he had become almost a hermit, spending hours a day in the Library searching for a curative for her malady.

Today, however, his destination was not the Library, but the Palace. The guards at the gates nodded to him as he passed, hardly noticing that he did not acknowledge them, that he stared straight ahead as if he saw nothing around him. They were used to the Wizard visiting the King.

The guards at the doors to the Council Chambers, however, did try to stop him. King Derrik had asked that no one interrupt the meeting with the Council today, so they stepped forward and were about to inform Zankar of this when the Wizard lifted his hand and the doors to the Chamber were thrown open. The guards, with only a second of hesitation, crossed their halberds, blocking the entrance. Another gesture from the Wizard, and they were flung apart and away from the door to crash against the walls on either side of the corridor. Not pausing to see them fall, Zankar entered the Chamber.

Derrik had risen from his chair when the doors opened. Now, seeing his friend and advisor enter so precipitously, he was momentarily speechless. In that moment, the Wizard passed through the doors and approached the table around which the King and his Councillors were seated. Coming to a halt, Zankar raised his right hand, palm up, before himself, almost as if he were offering or asking for something. The King opened his mouth to speak, to greet his Wizard and ask why he had burst into the meeting unannounced and in so ill-mannerly a fashion, but before Derrik could utter a word, Zankar closed his hand into a fist, and the King found himself unable to speak.

King Derrik gasped and clutched at his left arm with his right hand as he fell heavily back into his chair. He groaned as from a great pain. The Councillors watched in horror as their King's face turned grey, his whole body suddenly drenched with sweat. Those closest to him rushed toward Derrik, and those closer to the door turned on Zankar, reaching for the ceremonial daggers they wore in their belts. The Wizard lifted his left hand, palm forward, and all in the room but the King and Wizard were stopped instantly, in mid step, the expressions of shock, anger, outrage, and confusion frozen on their faces.

The guards from outside the door had now picked themselves up and returned to the Chamber door. Seeing that the Wizard was attacking the King and Councillors, they lowered their halberds and charged him. Zankar flicked the fingers of his left hand toward them without turning around. At once, they were as unable to move as were the Councillors. All watched in horror as the King's breathing became more and more laboured. Derrik's eyes never left Zankar's, and his lips moved as he tried to speak. Finally, he managed to whisper, “Why?” The Wizard did not respond, his gaze pitiless as he watched his King struggle to breathe. After what seemed an age to those watching helplessly, Derrik's gasps slowed, then stopped, and the King slumped in his chair, his unseeing eyes staring blankly at the Wizard who had been his friend.

Zankar turned and left the room. As soon as he was out of sight, those held motionless were free. As the Councillors rushed to check on the King, the guards raced after his killer. But no one ever saw the Wizard Zankar again.