Posts Tagged ‘fight’

The Sheriff of Ladies Room Four

Posted: August 1, 2014 by writingsprint in Drama
Tags: , , , , , , ,

gate

Gang fights still raged in the cafeteria, the library, and the parking lot. Teachers had locked the doors to their classrooms to keep them from spreading. Dianna leaned out of the ladies’ room to look down the hall. To her right, a folding steel security gate cut off this hall from the rest of the building. To her left, at the far end of the hall, the cafeteria fight was too close for comfort. She thought she heard radio chatter and the clanging sound of fists and chairs on riot shields.

Behind her, a raspy girl’s voice asked, “What’s going on?”

Dianna turned. The girl was half a head taller than Dianna, thin, with a good makeup and hands less clean than they should have been. She had a green and white bandanna tied to her sleeve, which made her the girlfriend of one of the gang members fighting outside. Her brown eyes narrowed as Dianna blocked the door.

“Sounds like the cops are here.”

“Let me by.”

“No one goes by until the cops get here. Go sit down.”

The girl stepped toward her. “You think you can take me?”

“I can snap you in half with my pinky toe. Sit down.” Dianna voice had the stillness of a mountain lake. She played soccer and boxed with her brothers. One girl didn’t scare her. The gang fight did.

The girl tried to shove her way past. Dianna snapped a quick heel strike to her nose. It was more of an attention-getter than a real hit. The girl stumbled back.

“Ow! Jesus Christ, that hurts! What’s the matter with you?”

And she wanted to go fight? Really?

The gate on her right cranked upward. A group of four officers in their regular blues peered under the gate. Dianna waved. “Hey, guys.”

“Hi, Dianna,” one of them said. It was Donnie, the traffic cop from near her house. “How many do you have this time?”

She looked over her shoulder. She counted heads of the teens sitting on the floor, the counter and the toilets behind her. “About 12.”

The officers lifted the gate the rest of the way up. Two more officers stood behind them. Dianna had seen it before. They were doing a sweep of the building to make sure they knew where all the fights were.

Dianna stepped aside and let Donnie push open the door. “Everybody okay in here?” he asked.

“I’m not!” the girl holding her nose protested.

Dianna started to respond, but Donnie held up his hand. He said, “Don’t say it. I don’t want to know.” One of the other officers tried to get his attention. “Sit tight. Thanks for your help, Di.”

“You know me. Any time.”

Dianna watched them go. She folded her arms, leaning against the doorway like she owned the place. For now, she supposed she did. She was the sheriff of ladies room four.

Photo credit: “Untitled” by Anthony Fine
Photo is unmodified
Shared under Creative Commons license

battle robot

Post #38 of the Dubrillion Burning series

The droids were Republic issue 304’s, as large as the speeder they’d just left, armed with a heavy blaster turret for vehicles, rotating antipersonnel guns for troops, and an electrifying web to discourage Sith. Since they were deep inside the space port there were only four of them, one at every compass point, to discourage saboteurs. Their detection equipment wasn’t good enough to see through the strike team’s stealth fields. That would change in a minute.

The stealth field crackled. The two nearest droids started scanning their way.

Or maybe sooner.

Cartog said, “It’s the power surge. The field won’t hold.”

“Plan B,” Jeana said.

“Get ready.”

Cartog and Raina pointed their fists at the droids. They started tapping codes into datapads on their sleeves. Jeana and Jaesa took out their lightsabers.

“Good luck, everyone,” Jaesa said softly.

The stealth field winked out. The power in Cartog and Raina’s armor switched to broadcast a high-powered stream of fractal nonsense that smothered the droids’ receivers. Both went into cybernetic convulsions. Arcs of electricity jumped across their bodies.

The other two droids detected the enemies immediately. They roared – it was really their reactors firing up but it sounded like lions just the same – and ran toward them. Jeana used the Force to throw one into the side of a shield generator. Jaesa had a different skill set and froze hers in place. They both leaped to the attack, Jeana’s blue saber and Jaesa’s green staff flashing in the air.

Jeana landed on the droid just long enough to slash off a handful of sensor antennae. Light as a dove she sprang away. The droid fired its electrical shield and only succeeded in blinding itself.

Cartog and Raina climbed atop the two nearest shield generators. They began setting charges to the power conduits.

Jaesa rammed her lightstaff into the middle of the droid. She winced. The thick armor was too much to cut through. Jaesa closed her eyes slightly and a pulse of light ran down the blade into the droid. Something gave way. A bright white flash bled out of the droid. It wasn’t dead yet. Jaesa jumped off as it drunkenly tried to slap her with its guns.

Jeana’s droid fired like a man half blind. Jeana wove and danced in a cat’s cradle of gunfire. In a flash of inspiration she leaped through the air and landed next to a generator dish.

The droid kept firing and perforated the edge of the dish. Wild energy flashed everywhere. Jeana leaped away, her boots trailing stray tendrils of blue light.

Cartog laughed. “Beautiful!” he cried.

“Could we please focus, darling?” Raina asked breathlessly.

Photo credit: “Still 8 – RIP” by Reptile FX at Flickr
Photo is unmodified
Shared under Creative Commons license

Fighting for my characters!

Posted: June 6, 2014 by writingsprint in Essay
Tags: , , , , , ,

This is a fantastic article on the best kind of research there is — real life. It also shows what real combat is like. It’s not what you think.

Bloodstone Sci Fi

B18

Fight scenes are tricky to write. It’s hard to pack clear description into few words and keep that sense of speed and surprise one gets in a real fight – It helps if you know what you are doing.

I really didn’t want to write: “She bounced him off the wall.” I wanted to write how she bounced him off the wall.

In order to find out, I enrolled in a self-defense class that was supposed to last ten weeks. I figured that would give me a feel for it. It not only gave me a feel for it, it gave me real hunger to learn more.

It turned out my instructor taught defense skills to several police constabularies in England and in Wales, and I ended up the only non-police officer permitted into those classes, clocking up an extra 18 months of training before returning home to Australia, where I…

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bar-fightPost #8 of the “Dubrillion Burning” series

Formerly a Hutt dreadnought, the ship had been modified to act as a moving way station for pirates, scum, and more savory types who were looking for a little privacy between worlds. Raffa had fallen under all three categories at one point or another, depending on whom you asked.

They walked under a graffiti-stained bulkhead as they entered the ship’s forecastle. The space had been converted into a docking area. The Comet was of three ships docked here, out of a possible six. Two other traders stood near one of the other locks, a human and a Kubaz, having a smoke while they talked in heated whispers. The Kubaz’s thick, anteater-shaped nose made his smoking look even stranger. Raffa ignored them. Risha gave them a nod. Bowdaar ducked under the bulkhead and snorted.

Behind the forecastle had originally been the spaces for the ship’s forward battery. This deck and the deck below it had been converted into a bar called the Quick Draw. Above and below those were private rooms. Hard, metallic Jadian rock pounded the walls. Pirates and spacers crammed the dance floor or sat at tables gambling and getting drunk with old and new friends.

Someone punched someone else near them. Not to mention old and new enemies.

The fight started to spill toward them. Bowdaar snarled. A bloodied Mantellian stopped his punch in mid-swing and held up his hands. His combatant did likewise. They moved away, then the bloodied one suckerpunched the first and they picked up where they left off.

“Can I offer you weary travelers a drink?” a bartender hawked at them.

Raff waved him off with a smile. No reason to be unfriendly.

They pushed their way through to the far side of the bar. The volume dropped once they were on the other side of the next bulkhead. The next area had been crew quarters. Now there were dealers in trade goods, legal and illegal. Blasters and other arms on the left, spice and contraband trade on the right. Deeper in, they passed a whorehouse and someone selling and repairing droids.

The next section was private rooms, 100 credits an hour. A Balmorran battle droid took payment and handed out keys. Looking at the shine on its claws and buzz blades, Raffa didn’t want to know what happened to people who didn’t pay.

“You’ll notice there’s no blood on the walls or the deck,” Risha said, reading his mind.

“100 creds an hour for peace of mind? I’ll pay that,” Raffa agreed. He nodded to a scarred Mandalorian wearing mismatched armor who stood guard nearby. The Mandalorian only stared back at him. He wasn’t paid to be friendly. There was a saying among hired guns: fear the one with beaten armor and beaten skin. They’ve lived to look that way.

They passed through more docking spaces, then went through one more bulkhead. Low thrumming vibrated through the deck plates into their feet. They felt it out the tops of their heads. Two decks below them was one of the ship’s reactors. Raffa loved that feeling. It was like feeling your own heartbeat, good and strong.

Bowdaar rubbed his arms and growled. He said he hated that feeling. It made his hair stand up.

They reached another bar, called Myn’s Dragon Lounge. This was where people went to sit back on Port Nowhere, rather than blow off steam. A genuine chanteuse sang smoky blues in the corner, while patrons played pool or chatted while they enjoyed the music. A mesmerizing blue and red neon dragon covered the far wall.

On the other side of the nearest bar, Raffa locked eyes with a woman with round, graceful cheekbones and dark brown eyes. Her blonde hair would have been shoulder-length if it hadn’t been clipped to keep it back from her face. She wore sleek, fast, black-as-night battle armor. They both started to smile as they recognized each other. They both remembered why they were here at the same time, too, and their smiles faded.

valkyire

“Valkyire” by thedurrrrian

Jeana fought wave after sickening wave of the dark ones. Killing them put them out of their misery – poor Jaesa wept with every one she fought – but it still sent death into the Well, feeding the demon. It had grown almost as large as a starship.

She stood around another field of bodies, blade humming, armor slick with black blood. The demon pulsed. Its veins reached into the earth. The Well erupted again. The sky turned red, then black, as the demon drew it in.

“It not working,” Jeana said. “There’s too much Dark power here. With the staff broken there’s nothing to siphon it with.”

Over the chaotic clatter of needler fire, there was one shot that Jeana felt – right through her belly, shattering into duralon teeth when it broke the skin.

No — not her. Raffa.

Her gaze whipped over to see. He went down. She saw him falling backwards, blasters waving, arms flopping in dead weight. She was so distracted that she didn’t even notice the Force saving her life twice. She blocked an axe attack from behind that should have cut her head open, then she ducked under a spear attack that impaled the axe wielder.

“Raff!” she screamed.

Jeana fought her way back to her friends. He looked bad. He looked really, really bad. Raff was completely pale. Blood was everywhere. She could see it coming out of the wound. His face was a rictus of pain, and every breath clawed inside him. She could feel it. Dr. Lokin was pumping him full of enough kolto to re-blood a rancor, but it wasn’t taking.

Jeana grabbed Raff’s hand. She called on the Force to heal him, do something. His hand was slack. “Raff. Look at me. Hang on, babe.”

Dr. Lokin was saying to someone, “There’s too much shrapnel. Everything that heals is getting cut open again. We have to get him out of here.”

Raff’s eyes were open. He was looking right at her. He even tried to smile. She could see it. But he didn’t say anything. She could feel him slipping away. She shook her head. She kept staring into Raff’s eyes. “No. God, no. Not you.” He kept looking back at her. He was afraid. He was trying to hold on. He felt like thinnest thread.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Cartog. She shoved it off. “Jeana,” he said. “They’re gathering again. We need you.”

She ignored him. Lokin gave Cartog an expression that made her want to cut his head off. She could hear the roar getting louder. The wave was huge this time. Hundreds.

Cartog said, “Jeana, I’m sorry. There isn’t time.”

“You promised me,” she whispered to Raff. Dinner on Alderaan. Candles. Dancing under the stars, and hours… days, he’d said… of sweet love after. “You’re making good on that promise. Do you hear me?”

Cartog left her. She heard him giving orders through a fog of love and pain. The blasters opened up. Lokin broke out his emergency stasis unit. The blasters and pulse detonators rose to a roar. Lokin looked past her, to where the hungry flood came for them. “This’ll hold him for a while… but I don’t think it’s going to matter.”

Jeana let go of his hand. She stood. Jaesa felt it first. Then Raina. Both of them looked at Jeana.

Enough of peace. The planet would die. Her friends would die. She loved them too much to let the darkness consume them. Jeana could die bloody or die in her heart, so what did that matter?

She remembered her mother’s final fight. Jeana understood what she had fought for.

“No,” Jeana said, answering Dr Lokin. Her body quaked. She shook her head. “Not today.” Her hands clenched into fists. Red rage surged through her body, from her heart out through the tips of her fingers and toes.

“Master, no!!!” Jaesa shouted. Raina just screamed.

They still had one siphon that could draw the Dark Side of the Force.

Jeana screamed a sound that would have shaken the hearts of ten thousand warriors. She leaped backward through the air. Some of the others didn’t realize what they were seeing. Even Cartog thought it was a missile.

She struck the ground with the force of God’s own hammer. She landed on two dark ones, one foot each, and smashed them into paste. A pulse of Force power sent bodies flying.

Jeana roared. Her eyes flared blue. Every dark one within sight of her cowered or ran screaming.

Another rush of them came at her. She reached out her hand, choked them all, then threw their broken bodies into those behind them.

If the Light Side is life, then let me be death.

The power poured into her and flowed right back out in symphony of destruction. Blood ran in rivers. Jeana leaped from one side of the valley to the other, never letting them get close to her, her lightsaber cutting scissor slashes. She flung bodies with a wave of her hand, a death goddess in rage.

Every time more of them came, Jeana grew stronger. Their deaths fed her power now. Cartog and the others could barely even see her. She lost her lightsaber. It didn’t matter. Force power reached out beyond her body. By the time the last dark ones were falling, Jeana could feel the power of stars reaching into her. She lifted into the air. To the demon inside the Well, she was an angel sheathed Force light. It screamed at the sight of her.

Jeana flew into it at the speed of a hyperspace dart. Thunder cracked. She flew through it, slicing it in half, and struck the bottom of the Well. It exploded, then consumed itself. The demon’s death rattle vanished in a choking sound, that gradually faded away to nothing.

The Force power faded. Jeana stood at the bottom of the Well, feeling smaller and smaller. Whispers of the Force that felt like gratitude from the galaxy itself touched her ears.

She looked at her hands. She had drunk from the Well. Would she become demon, too?

That was something for Jedi healers to tell her. As she climbed, hand and foot, out of the shattered remains of the ancient structure, she felt only human.

This scene was inspired by one of my favorite scenes in scifi: River Tam fighting the reavers in Serenity. Jeana’s a Light Side Sith, but I wondered, what would make her use the Dark Side? She would do it to save someone she loved.

JS-fire-mt-vernon

Josh Sisk photography

Smith didn’t think he could trust Anderson and Trinity. He knew the agents would destroy him given the chance. Smith leaped into the air, punched one agent and kicked the second into the third. Bodies went flying. Smith landed on the sidewalk. “Your move, Anderson,” Smith said.

Trinity leaped over the street. Anderson flew up high into the air, then came down like a missile, ramming one of the agents a foot deep into the concrete.

“That’ll leave a mark,” Smith said.

The other two agents showed up. One was tall, the other short. Damned upgrades. He didn’t know their names. Tall said, “Smith. Submit to deresolution. Your program will be reloaded into the Matrix as an upgrade.”

Smith was about to tell him to get lost when he felt a jab in the base of his neck. Smith’s muscles spasmed. He twitched like he was being tased. His body turned to jelly. Smith clenched every muscle in his body. No. He wanted to live. Damn it, he wanted to live.

In his ear, he heard an agent saying, “Deresolution initiated. The program is resisting.”

“Increase data flow,” Tall said. He looked behind Smith.

Anderson took the agent attacking Smith and threw him into a wall. Smith dropped to his knees. Tall and Short ran past him. Smith could hear them fighting Anderson. Smith felt woozy. His code was unstable. Smith felt bursts of strength, then it faded away.

The police and fire fighters didn’t know what to do. Smith found an unconscious officer on the ground with tear gas grenades. He opened all of them and threw them in random directions. “This is a private party,” he said. People started running. He picked up the officer’s baton and rifle.

The other agents kept Anderson busy but he made them look foolish. At any given time, one of them was always getting thrown through the air. Smith caught one and snapped his neck. Anderson made short work of the other. The agents started to re-form in other humans.

Smith’s strength started coming back. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “One conversation, Anderson. That’s all I ask.”

“My name is Neo!” Anderson snarled.

Smith rolled his eyes. Neo. What kind of name was that?

Agents came at them again. Neo fought Tall. Smith shot Short and dodged a shot from the third agent who still needed a name. The world slowed down. The Matrix was allocating more resources to this area. “More agents are coming, Neo. You need to get out of here.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Now?”

The agents came at them again. Smith counted four. Smith bullseyed three gas tanks and sent them back into the green data bits they came from.

Neo spun him around, pointing a gun at his head. Smith couldn’t have gotten out of the way before; he wondered if he could, with his infected code.

“Now!” Neo said.

“I need your help.” There was nothing else to say.

Neo shot two agents that appeared behind Smith; Smith shot two that appeared behind Neo. The two of them looked at each other. Smith entertained pointing his rifle at Neo, but there wasn’t much point. The human was faster than Smith could even imagine, and he knew it.

Neo said, “I’ll be in touch.”

The ground under Smith’s feet wobbled. Neo flew straight up into the air. He was gone before Smith had counted three. Smith chuckled. Neo left him there to fend for himself. The son of a bitch had style, but he certainly didn’t have any sympathy.

Sympathy? Smith wondered if he had any of his old code left in him at all.

Five agents walked towards him. Day was turning into premature night due to lack of system processing power. Smith hefted his rifle. He asked, “Don’t you have better things to do?”

The agents cracked their knuckles. Smith calculated trajectories and likely dodge angles. Ammo supplies dotted the area from unconscious humans. Power lines would serve as webs and strangle wires. More unexploded gas tanks awaited his touch.

“Just remember, I tried to be nice,” Smith said.

Say It to Someone Else

Posted: July 30, 2013 by writingsprint in Drama
Tags: , , , ,

hideAs Amanda finished dressing herself for the third time, John left the bedroom, closing the behind him. Normally she would hear him walk down the stairs, pick up his keys, and walk out the front door, in that order. Sometimes she would hear him ruffle through the mail or grab his bottle of water, too. Not today.

Amanda wanted to walk after him, but she couldn’t stop buttoning her top. She had to finish it first. “Is everything all right?” she called.

“Everything’s fine,” he said. He was standing on the other side of the door.

She stopped while picking up her suit jacket. This was weird. Amanda moved to pick up her broom to sweep off the door, so she could walk into the hall and talk to him. It wasn’t on the doorknob. “Where’s my broom?”

“I’ve got it. I’m sorry, honey.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Dr. Kuhlman said I had to do this, as a test for going off your OCD meds.”

Amanda felt like her insides had just been screwed into the world’s tightest knot. The squeeze was suffocating her. She had to think. “John, we’re going to be late.”

“Not if you walk through the door without sweeping it first.”

“This is your brother’s wedding!”

“All the more reason for you to walk through.”

“What are you going to tell them if I can’t do it?”

“You can do it. I know you can.”

Amanda picked up her cell phone and tried to call Dr. Kuhlman. The call went to voice mail. “Dr. Kuhlman, this is Amanda. My husband took my broom so I can’t sweep the door. Did you put him up to this? Because tomorrow I’m either firing my doctor or divorcing my husband.”

The meds were working. She had times when she would walk through a door and had totally forgotten about the broom. This was bullshit!

“Are you still there?”

Amanda took a step toward the door. She saw spots of dust on it. Her lungs began to itch. She wanted to put on a gas mask before she took one step closer. Amanda balled her hands into fists. She moaned.

“I’m really sorry about this.”

That did it. “Sorry? Sorry is a broken dish! Sorry is missing a concert!” Amanda walked up to the door, opened it, and slapped her smiling husband’s face as hard as she could. “Say it to someone else!”

This post is brought to you by the prompt “door sweeper” from Inspiration Monday at Be Kind Rewrite.

This was a great opening for a scene that I read in a short story once. I’m going to borrow it for tonight.

Say goodnight

Say goodnight

“Dammit get down!”

Sergeant Francis had me by the collar and threw me to the ground before I could drop myself. I felt a sensation like dozens of knives just brushing my face. The air was sliced open with a hail of dozens of bullets. The wall behind where I’d been standing exploded with holes, so many that I couldn’t read the movie poster that used to be there.

“Fuck,” I said.

“That’s your only freebie,” Sarge said. He shoved me onto my belly. “Crawl over there and get some fire on the aliens behind the dumpster.” He went back to the radio and tried to call in fire support for another squad. It sounded like artillery was busy.

It looked like a giant, mushy, gray spider. No, two. They would pop up from behind the dumpster and belch the flechettes at us. It didn’t like the sting of bullets. I saw Jimenez lay a few rounds into one of them; it flinched and shrank back. They both glowed, their skin bulged, then both of them fired a whole cloud of darts at Jimenez. He took three in the helmet and one in the face and fell screaming. Alive. He was still alive.

The hell with this. I had an opening and used the M203. Don’t waste the grenades, they said. Yeah, well, I’m not dying with them, either.

Quote of the Day #1

Posted: January 6, 2011 by writingsprint in postaday2011, postaweek2011, Quote of the Day
Tags: , , , ,

One of my favorite exercises: take something cool or funny that you heard today, and turn it into a scene.

I sat in the kitchen with a bag of frozen peas over my right eye. It kept the throbbing down to something like mezzo-forte. The cold, beady pellets were starting to mush, and I decided I’d give the bag a few more minutes before I went digging for something else in the freezer. Alas, I was a bachelor, and there weren’t many veggies in my fridge.

The door to the apartment slammed and my brother came right into the kitchen, jacket still on. “You okay?” I raised my head and he hissed. “Nope. Not okay.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen the other guy,” I laughed. Ow. The little split in my lip just widened. A glob of blood wept out and ran down my chin.

“Jesus Christ… chin.”

“Yeah, I got it.” I wiped it off with the heel of my hand. Now it was covered with a red splotch shaped like Abraham Lincoln.

I gave him the lowdown. It was a regular night at the bar, when my ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend decides he’s heard one too many good stories about me, or who knows what. I’m dragging a trash can out to the dumpster when he comes out from behind the kitchen door and sucker punches me.

“Did you really get any shots in?”

“A couple. He took off when Alejandro and two of the bouncers ran out to help.”

I changed the bag of veggies for a plastic bag filled with ice cubes. Kevin hung up his jacket. He grabbed himself a beer, and handed me a glass of Jack & Coke. I pushed it away. “No thanks.”

“It’ll help the pain go away.”

“Then I’ll be tasting blood and Jack & Coke.”

“Trust me.” I drank the glass. The bitter, smoky taste was a good change from feeling angry and burned out, so I drank the whole glass. Kevin smiled. “Atta boy.”

He hadn’t sat down yet. “You’re looking like you’re ready to go out and look for the guy who clocked me.”

“Not yet. Not tonight, anyway. But I think we should make some plans to teach him a lesson.”

A more peaceful guy would blow the whole thing off, say that revenge wasn’t worth it. After all, the jerk was banned from the bar now, and between the bouncers and some of the saltier customers, a lot of people had my back. But I was in my younger days, and I wasn’t a more peaceful guy.

“So I set myself up as bait. When he jumps me again, we’re ready.”

“And then he dies bloody. Wearing his own small intestines as a muffler.”