Finding Inspiration

I drew another drag from the cigarette. I was caught between savoring the moment of a long earned victory or preparing for another crushing defeat. I grabbed the keys and opened the door. I tossed the remainder of the cigarette on the damp ground. As it hissed in protest, I pulled my old coat a little tighter against the cold.

I looked up at the imposing cathedral; the heights of her spires were obscured in the fog. Despite the fact I had never been there before, the entire scene was familiar. The feeling was comforting and eerie. I checked my watch, 3AM. I reached for the worn brass handle of the door hoping that this would indeed be the last night of the hunt.

"It's the hour of the wolf," A woman's voice echoed from the darkness, "I find that appropriate, don't you?"

It was her. My heart skipped a beat knowing I was that close to my goal. My mind quickly tempered my excitement with the knowledge that she had given me the slip before and could do it again. I looked at the inside of the cathedral. It was mostly dark, but the candles had been lit. Long shadows hid most of the room. The altar was lit in a soft glow. She was sitting on the steps to the altar. Then it struck me why it was so familiar. It was the cathedral I had always seen in my dreams.

She was wearing a light green shirt and tight jeans. Her hair was wet. She had been out in the rain earlier. She stood up and lightly descended the remaining steps. I could almost see pale gray wings behind her before she stepped into the shadows. I heard the measured clicks of her steps on the stone aisle.

At first the sound came tantalizingly closer, but then it began to move away in the darkness. It was all I could do to not sprint after the cadence.

"You know, because we've been dancing around each other for so long, now," there was a tease in her voice, "Finally making the catching me in the hour of the 'wolf'. A certain poetry, I think."

It brought a wry smile to me in the darkness. Then her footsteps stopped, I heard the sound of flowing water. I walked at a deliberate, controlled pace to the water. I pulled out another cigarette and my silver lighter. In the flashes of the flint and steel strikes I could see that she had led me to the baptistery. I could see snapshots of her face in the bursts of light. The wick finally caught the flame.

"In a church?" She asked. I couldn't tell whether she was amused or annoyed.

I shrugged. Pulling another cigarette halfway from the box, I held it out to her. I stared at her fiery green eyes.

"I don't," I was fairly certain she was both amused and annoyed, "They're bad for you, you know."

I shrugged again as I put the still lit lighter down on the white marble of the cistern. I briefly looked at the way the ripples in the holy water caught the firelight. Looking back at her, I saw she now had amber eyes that were bright in the dim firelight. I must have given away some of the confusion by way of expression because before I could say anything she had a knowing smile cross her face.

"Magic," She said mysteriously, playfully.

I felt a half smile cross my face as I shook my head; I hadn't believed in that for a long time. I almost chuckled at it. Almost.

She sighed, as if she knew I was holding something from her. She put a slick black phone on the marble next to my lighter. When I looked back into her now captivating, purple eyes, her gaze now bored into me.

"You may have finally found me, but you can never really hold me down, catch me. I am that which I am," She grinned at the last part. I was sure she reveled in the quote in that place. She returned again to the sprightly tone I had become accustomed to hearing from her, "But, my implacable pursuer, you've earned something for your determination."

She pointed to the phone, "You can use that to call me. I'm the only one listed in the contacts. Leave it on. You never know when I may use it to call you."

I heard a quick breath. The flame flickered and died. All the candles died, leaving my in darkness except for the ember that burned by my mouth. I didn't hear a single sound in the darkness, but I knew she was gone. I returned the lighter to its place, and slipped the new phone into another pocket. I left the cathedral with a small sense of satisfaction and pride. At the same time, though, I wondered what, if anything, had actually changed as I walked back out into the foggy night and toward my car.

The Shot

Twelve minutes on scene. It's about 0700 hrs; the sun may have been up, but it wasn't visible through the light grey overcast. I looked at the man through the telescopic sights on my Remington 700 rifle. I opened the bolt partway and pressed down on one of the 7.62 by 51 milimeter rounds to make sure that it was loaded properly; it was. I looked down from my rooftop roost at him. They rarely knew I watched them. I could see hadn't slept recently. I could see the scared, cornered look on his face. He was probably only beginning to understand the situation he had trapped himself in. I could see the blockade of cars around the block, the mobile command center, a line of men in military BDUs ready to break into the building. My world narrowed down to that one man, then to a fixed spot on that man. We all waited.

One hour on scene. He is on the phone. I see him wave a pistol in the air. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he seemed upset. He was tired, frustrated, and starting to get desperate. My muscles were beginning to ache from being in the same poised position. Only my arm still felt relaxed. My eyes ached, but it was an ache I was used to. It felt like playing the longest staring game in your life, only if you blinked at the wrong moment someone could die. I continue to watch and keep the crosshair on the man. We all continue to wait.

One hour twenty three minutes on scene. He had a hostage. He finally pulled her out from the bedroom. I geuss she'd been in there the entire time. He dragged her to the window to show her to the guys on the ground. I geuss the phone conversation wasn't going so well. I felt a surge of adrenaline. Its a strange thing, most people get that high and want to run and do something physical. For a rifleman it gets conditioned to more stillness, more focus, more deliberate steady action. I rest my cheak on the familiar groove of the rifle. Everything seems to slow down a little. My finger moves to the trigger and rests just before touching it. The word doesn't come. He doesn't do anything immediately dangerous to the hostage. My cross follows him as he continues to move. He slams the phone's receiver down. I still watch.

Two hours sixteen minutes. Its feels like I've been laying here forever. Something tells me someone won't survive this. Its that sixth sense you get after a while. My hand hasn't moved. The man is getting more eratic. He hasn't been on the phone again. He just keeps pacing, sometimes slowly, sometimes like a caged animal. He must know his options are running out. I see him pull the slide back on his gun and put a round in the chamber. My partner radios the others. I feel the muscles in my neck go stiff. I try to get them to relax without moving. I breath a little deeper, a little slower as I make the cross follow an increasingly desperate man.

Two hours twenty one minutes. The entry team is going given the okay to go in and take the man into custody. The man has gone pale. He looks exhausted and more worked up with every moment. He is sitting on the couch just staring off at a point on the wall. The radio traffic says the entry team is getting ready to make a move for the door. Suddenly the man gets up and looks at it. My world tunnels to just that man. I see him raise the pistol at the door. In a moment I apply a light touch to the trigger of my rifle. I feel it kick against my cheek and I see the man fall behind the spidered pane of glass. Reflexively, I move the bolt on the rifle. The shell makes the familiar metal sound as it hits the concrete and the room fills with men. I radio the ground, "Sierra Seven, suspect down." I feel the aching muscles all over relax. I blink and it feels like I hadn't done so in hours, though I know I have. I picked up my Remington 700 rifle and the one casing. My partner and I turn for the stairwell.

The Prophet

I saw the prophet.
He was unassuming, normal
Not what I expected to see.

Then he gave voice
He spoke, and I heard
His voice, his message
Entered into me

I saw
I listened
I heard
And his voice
His message
Stilled my soul

Summary

Brief summary: I'll be using this blog to play around with language. I'll be posting my short stories, longer stories, and poems. I'll also invite others to participate. I hope you enoy.