mistersmith_tm: (smith up)
New Years Eve Reflections: Over the last year, did things go pretty
much as you'd expected or planned, or did your life take a significant,
unexpected turn? Overall, was it a good year or one that you want to
put behind you as fast as you can? (canon or fanon)


Reflections )
mistersmith_tm: (smith smile)
It was nearing midnight and the dawn of a new year.

Mister Smith sat on the lush grass of the temple garden where it always seemed to be Spring, his back resting against the trunk of Aille's favorite tree. Stars twinkled high above in a crystal clear sky.

The twins were sleeping on a soft blanket nearby, not at all concerned that they were going to miss the turning of the year.

At his right side, Aille leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand toying with a button on his shirt. Rose leaned against him on the left and struggled to keep her eyes open. Midnight was well past her bedtime but she was determined to stay awake and share it with her family.

"What time is it now, Daddy?" asked Rose.

He glanced at the pocket watch resting on the grass and smiled. "Ten more minutes."

"Will there be fireworks when the new year comes?"

"There might," he said. "We'll see in a few more minutes."

With his arms around his ladies, he gave them both a hug that pulled them even closer. "Thank you for making this the best year of my life. I love you."
mistersmith_tm: (Default)
Kindness. The kind of word you don't hear very much. Or see happening. I don't know about before the Big Death, but after? Kindness is like hope. Most people have lost it. They're too busy just trying to survive.

Maybe 'lost' is the wrong word. 'Misplaced' is better. Because I think everyone has the ability to be kind. Some more than others.

Like the Sisters. Kindness is more than an emotion or the occasional good deed to them. It's an action. An ideal to live by. It's one of the building blocks of Hope and the change for a brighter future.

I don't know how the Sisters came together. I don't know how they found each other or when they started the School. The Tellers probably know the details. Or ask Sister Hannah. She was there at the beginning. And before. She's old. Older than anyone I've ever met. Fifty, I think. I haven't asked. It's not polite. But the school might have been her idea. She was a teacher, before the Death. She's a teacher still, but so much more.

The school didn't start out that way. It started as a haven for the Sisters, hiding from a younger world that might not understand why they had been spared after so many of their generation died. Their home. But it wasn't enough to be safe. It wasn't enough to sit and wait out the storm. They felt there was something more they could do. Some reason why they had survived the Virus. They found their calling the day a 15 year old girl nearly dropped dead on their doorstep of exhaustion. A girl about to give birth.

How could they turn her away? They couldn't. And wouldn't. She became their purpose, and others like her. Unwed mothers, desparate, hungry, alone, and with no place to go. The Sisters took them in, cared for them, and helped them to care for their babies. Protected them from the terrible despair and desparation the Death had left behind. And when the babies began to walk and talk and grasp things like higher math and physics long before they were out of diapers . . . the Sisters realized that they were witnessing a miracle. This was their true calling. The future hope of the world. Out of the mouths of babes.
mistersmith_tm: (man of mystery)
Dear Smith,

Words alone cannot describe the terrible changes that lay ahead. What the world will become. Worse than anyone can imagine. Soon. Sooner than anyone expects.

The world is going to change. In a month, maybe two, it will become as alien to you as your world is to me now.

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing – Stop! Look around you. Remember all that you see. No detail is too small. No item insignificant. Look at your room. Your favorite toy. Your favorite book. Look at the faces of your family. Is your mother there? Your father? Do you have brothers? Sisters? A cat or dog? Maybe even a goldfish? Look at them. Hold them in your heart but, more importantly, hold them in your mind.

Because the world is about to change. And you with it. Remember your home. Remember your family and friends. No matter what happens, hang onto those memories as if they were a lifeline.

Most of all, remember you. Your dreams and wishes. Your loves.

Your name.

There's hope in memories. And in the world ahead, only hope can overcome despair.

Sincerely,

Mister Smith

p.s. – Learn how to swim.
mistersmith_tm: (smith woods sitting)
Dawn. A rosy glow on the horizon, pushing back the velvet night.

It found him curled up on the cold, damp ground, his threadbare jacket serving double duty as a blanket. He had not slept well, but then, he never did. Sleep was a necessary evil. And a dangerous one. The post-Big Death world was filled with feral animals or worse - people. The lost, angry type of people who would do anything to survive. Anything. He'd learned long ago to always keep one eye open.

Sitting up with a quiet groan, he rubbed the kinks out of his back. His limbs were stiff and sore, protesting the movement. The worn backpack lay close at hand, never beyond reach. Pulling it closer, he opened the flap and rummaged around inside. His questing fingers encountered a small steel can with faded label but passed it by. Instead, it found a scrap of cloth wrapped around a bruised apple. Breakfast. He took three careful bites from the rotting fruit then rewrapped it tucked it safely away. There was no telling when or where his next meal would come from, so every morsal was precious.

Pushing himself to his feet, he relieved himself where he stood. There was no one to see. No modesty to protect. He wouldn't be coming here again. It was just another stop on the road to survival.

The dawn of a new day. A day like any other, promising struggle and hunger and pain. Sore feet and a heavy heart. Another day of life.

Setting off on his path to nowhere, not for the first time he wondered if waking up was worth it . . .
mistersmith_tm: (i walk a lonely road)
Setting his knapsack down in the damp grass, he moved to the edge of the embankment and stooped down. Dipping his cupped hands into the frigid river, he drank his fill before splashing his face with water. Ringlets moved outward from the disturbance and were quickly swallowed by the current. Rubbing his face with his hands, he scrubbed away several days worth of grime before running his damp fingers through is hair, combing it into shape.

His reflection combed its auburn hair as well with liquid fingers. Like it's twin, a young man with clear hazel eyes, boyish features, and clothed in shabby castoffs.

The mirror image rippled and undulated, at first clear and bright then lost in shadow as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.

Which is the real me?, he wondered as he reached a hand toward the reflection. It's ghostly hand moved up to meet his.

Thin. Insubstantial. Sometimes solid and standing on firm ground, yet other times -- most times, these days -- lost and forgotten within himself. Disappearing one inch at a time into the fabric of the world. Until soon all that must remain is a shadow of the man that once was . . . and would never be.
mistersmith_tm: (i walk a lonely road)
He stood on the quay, his expression uncertain. The water was gun metal gray, making it hard to tell where the horizon ended and the overcast sky began. The last time he'd seen water that color, he'd been falling . . .

"Well? You comin?," demanded the ferryman, meaty fists planted firmly on his hips.

Mister Smith continued to look out across the water, unaware that his fingers were fiercely gripping the strap of his knapsack as if it were a lifeline.

"Ya listenin'? I ain't got all day!"

He nodded, acknowledging the boatman's impatience but making no effort to move forward.

The ferryman cursed under his breath, then snapped, "Do ya wanna get to High Tower or not?"

"I do. But . . ."

"But what?"

"I can't swim."

The cry of a gull soaring overhead sounded like derisive laughter. It was surprisingly familiar. Not the gull, but the laughter.

"I've changed my mind," said Mister Smith, and took a step backward. A step closer to dry land.

"Yeah?" The ferryman threw a nod over his shoulder, toward the tall outline in the distance. "How the hell ya gonna get over there if not by boat? And if it's the price you're scoffin' at, none of the rest of these sots are gonna give ya any better than me."

"Thanks. I'll walk."

"Walk? Around this? You're talking going more 'n 80 miles around instead of straight across! It'll take ya days!"

"Almost three and a half days. Maybe four."

"So why walk when you can ride?"

Mister Smith glanced once more at the steely water and shuddered. "Because you can't drown in the woods."

Shame

Oct. 26th, 2005 07:43 am
mistersmith_tm: (i walk a lonely road)
Talk about something you did that made you feel ashamed of yourself afterwards.

Shame )
mistersmith_tm: (Default)
sage
SAGE

You are the Sage, the mysterious
wise one or shaman. Sages dedicate their lives
to the pursuit of knowledge. They are very wise
and are good with philosophy and theology. They
make good teachers, counselors, and
advisors.

Color: Gold
Animal:
Raven
Gem: Topaz
Symbol:
Pen

Image:
http://www.deviantart.com/view/5258606/


Who would you be if you were a character in an epic fantasy? (beautiful pictures)
brought to you by Quizilla

Maybe.

Meme

Oct. 23rd, 2005 09:37 am
mistersmith_tm: (i walk a lonely road)
I want everyone who reads this to ask me 4 questions. Any 4, no matter how personal, dirty, private, or random. I have to answer them honestly. In turn, you have to post this message in your own journal, and you have to answer the questions that are asked of you.
mistersmith_tm: (smith alone)
Need to forgive? I know there are people I should forgive. Like Libby. She wasn't a bad person. She wasn't evil. I think there's a part of her that genuinely loved Jeremiah. But she didn't believe in Jeremiah or what the Alliance was trying to do. She thought that Daniel's way was what would restore order to the world. And Jeremiah . . . I don’t need to forgive him for hating me. There's nothing to forgive. I mean, I killed Libby. I didn't want to! It was in self defense . . . but that doesn't change the facts. So I don't blame Jeremiah for hating me or even wanting to kill me himself. He was in love with Libby. If I were in his shoes, I'd probably want to kill me to.

Come to think of it, I didn't do too good of a job of it last time.

Maybe that's the answer to the question. The person I need to forgive, but know I never can.

Me.
mistersmith_tm: (smith smile)
Mister Smith stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself off with a fluffy white bath towel. He was feeling better than he had in a long time. Not just physically, which was a welcome change from the past few weeks he'd spent bedridden, but also emotionally. He'd had long talks with Aille, Rose, and Bliss -- or rather, they'd had long talks with him and made him realize just how much his actions had hurt and worried them.

From now on things would be different. Things would change. Had changed. The Voice was gone. Really and truly gone. And with it had gone the urgent demands for him to deliver messages and to walk into danger. He was free to make his own choices and fight his own battles. Or avoid them, if he wished.

Right now, all he wanted was peace and quiet and time to spend with his family and his friends. In fact, he'd already started and had spent a wonderful afternoon with Bliss working on the new playhouse behind the Temple.

Dropping the damp towel into the hamper, he donned a fresh pair of briefs and trousers then realized he'd forgotten to bring in a clean shirt. As he opened the bathroom door, steam billowed out, fogging the sight of the figure standing near the bed.

"Aille?"
mistersmith_tm: (mark)
Rose had not been happy with him. Not at all. And she let him know exactly how upset and worried she'd been about his getting himself hurt so badly -- again! -- right after she hugged him and kissed him and squealed with glee to find him up and about. Rose hadn't been very surprised to find him suddenly (miraculously) healed literally overnight or that the Voice had finally gone, and that worried him a little bit. Even more than her scolding him. Still, there'd been a lot of crying and apologies followed by more hugging and kissing. And promises, of course. Promises that he meant from the bottom of his heart and would keep as best he could. Rose accepted them on faith and love and, as far as her little 6 year old mind was concerned, that settle everything.

Except. Mister Smith still needed to find Bliss and apologize to him as well.

He passed quite a number of surprised (and apparently relieved) servants, none of whom expected to see him out of bed for a month at least, but not Bliss. Apparently the god had gone out early that morning to attend to some business.

"But," said Samual, trying to hide how happy he was to see the young man up and walking around, "You will probably find him out by the playhouse. He hasn't stopped working on it since . . . before."

The playhouse he and Bliss had started over a month ago had grown considerably since last he saw it. Bliss must have been working on it every day, and that made Mister Smith feel even more guilty and sad. It was hidden from childish eyes by a glamour but Smith could see it clearly. Just as he could see his best friend standing off to one side, mixing a bucket of bright blue paint.

"Can I help?" he asked a bit hesitantly.
mistersmith_tm: (i walk a lonely road)
He was sinking through brackish waters, the sun long since vanished from the surface into darkness. Sharp pain blossomed through his chest as his lungs filled with liquid, forcing out the air and starving his blood of oxygen.

He thrashed about in the silent world, strength ebbing away with breath. With consciousness. Peaceful. Calm. Thoughts and breath and life floating away . . .

(
Not yet), said a Voice within his mind. (Not yet. There's still work to be done.)

He knew that Voice. Knew it from long association. Knew it and resented it. It had changed his life, for good and ill.

Read more... )
mistersmith_tm: (man of mystery)
Libby. Everyone in the Mountain knew her. Not just as Devon's assistant or as a survivor of Valhalla Sector. They knew Libby because Libby went out of her way to know them. Sometimes she helped out in the cafeteria, greeting the refugees with a smile and a warm meal as they poured into the Mountain, fleeing from Daniel's tyranny. She was always the first to offer an encouraging word but sometimes she simply sat and listened and let them unburden themselves of fear and dread.

Libby was great at that. Listening, I mean. Always concerned and attentive. She didn't miss much. People tended to want to pour their heart out to her. She even listened to me, and that's saying something. Not many people do. At least, not as if they care. But Libby cared. She always seemed to know the right words to say at exactly the right time.

Everybody loved Libby, so bright and alive and caring. Especially Jeremiah. He didn't just love her. He was in love with her. She'd managed to touch a part of his heart he thought was dead. She gave him hope and something to fight for.

It was all lie. All of it. The kindness. The caring. But not the listening. That was real. Because everything she heard was something she could pass on to the other side. Information. Because knowledge is power.

What's the old saying? Know thy enemy. Libby got pretty good at that.
mistersmith_tm: (smith bed hurt cu)
(Continued from here)

Mister Smith was sitting up in bed. It had hurt like hell but he finally managed it with help from Samual who carefully propped up against the headboard with soft pillows. His chest was still tightly wrapped in bandages and probably would be for some time to come. But there was progress. It didn't hurt to breath quite as much and he couldn't feel his heart lurch in his breast every five minutes or so.

He was healing much faster than was possible for a mortal. By all rights he should be dead several times over. Any one of the wounds he suffered would have killed a normal man outright. Irrefutible evidence that forced him to finally admit what Bliss and Aille had been telling him was true. The golden apple he'd eaten had the power to bestow immortality and had done exactly that -- to him.

Unfortunately, the fact that he'd survived these mortal wounds didn't mean that he was out of the proverbial dog house. It seemed that everyone in the temple was quietly angry with him, and that hurt more deeply than the physical injuries. He would have preferred that they all yell, scream, shout, or throw things instead of their mute disapproval. He hadn't gone out of his way to get hurt. It wasn't as if he deliberately tried to jump in front of bullets or crossbow bolts. He didn't have a martyr complex and he never wanted to be the cause of their fear or worry for him. Yet somehow he always managed to succeed in doing just that.

I don't deserve them, he thought sadly. How would he ever make it up to them? Could he ever make it up to them?

"Are you sleeping?" asked Rose, peeking through the doorway.

"Sound asleep," he assured her solemnly.

"No you're not. Your eyes are open."

"They are?" He blinked at her. "Why, so they are! Or maybe I'm really asleep and having a very nice dream about a very pretty young lady."

Read more... )
mistersmith_tm: (smith bed hurt)
(Continued from here).

He was floating in pain and darkness haunted by brief, fleeting images of illumination. Delirium. Bliss lying on the floor of the temple, soaked in sweat, his feathers molting. And darkness. Kurdy, arms folded across his broad chest, glaring at him in defiance and disgust. Calling him a madman; just another basketcase who believed he heard voices. And darkness. Joan in the arms of the Devil, jeering at him. Darkness. Sister Hannah slamming the doors to the school in his face. He was nothing but trouble. Where we walked death followed. Shades of grey. Rose, pulling away from his embrace. Afraid and angry. You're not my Daddy! I want my real Daddy! Swirling shades of red and black. Aille raging at him, a heavy clock in her hand poised to throw at his head as she screamed her anger. How she never wanted to see him again. How she didn't love him. Had never loved him. He wasn't worthy of her. Had never been worthy . . . Darkness and pain, deep and cold and soul biting. His heart broken in a million pieces. His mind scattered and . . .

Babies crying. The soft brush of tiny wings against the palm of his hand. Twilight through red pain. A gentle voice and cool, soothing touch on his brow. Twilight, high above. Murky, as if seen from a great depth. A small hand slipping into his, squeezing gently. Wake up, Daddy. I know you're in there. Glimmering motes of light, thinning twilight. Voices. Many voices. Sometimes together but sometimes alone, coaxing. Pleading. Encouraging. And her voice, speaking to his heart and his soul. To the very deepest part of him. In frustration. In love. Guiding him closer to . . .

A glimmer of light, as thin as a razor's edge. The Voice. In his mind, always in his mind, but distant. Sympathetic. Almost apologetic. And proud.

Pain, sharp and red and angry and alive filled his body like a fragile vessel, making him moan. The thin white line became a growing dawn on the surface of the darkness as . . .

Mister Smith's eyes fluttered and weakly opened to the living world.
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