Originally posted on worldpen:
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Well, just a quick announcement. I will not be posting on Pack for the next few weeks at least.
My family is moving back to the United States, so it’s a bit of a hectic time. I’ll need a few weeks to settle in and all…
On another note I’m a bit lost in Pack. I don’t know where I’m going–I’ve past the point that I planned…and that is making writing very difficult. Anyway–
I’ll be working on other things until I get a feel for Pack again.
But just a question. What have you thought of Pack so far? Has it seemed to wander a bit?
My mind and heart are wandering ones
They will never be at peace
Destined to live a thousand lives
Under a thousand suns
Life and death are mere passages to me
One to another a gateway
A new journey begun
New worlds and ways to see
I have known the worlds of lies
Some more real than the truth
A multitude of endless thoughts
The knowing’s and the why’s
Both a subject and master
Of Fate, Destiny, and Chance
Writing Fate and living it
Reality by my mind is cast
Things have grown beneath my words
Forests, planets, and caves
Magic, treachery, and things of love
Have felt my thought and heard
Those who plod say, “Nothing new under the sun”
For them I feel great pity
For I have lived a thousand lives
And they will live but one
Originally posted on worldpen:
“Shhh. No. No. Shut up. Write. No. Shut up. Write!” -Brevin Anderson
“When I’m trying to help people discover writing, I make sure and tell them that their first story will be horrible and barely worth reading (or writing). But the second story will be a bit better. And the third will be be even better…
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It came together with speed that only unsatisfied youth can create.
Hundreds of young men and women, across all fifty states and beyond, responded to Justin’s call.
He hadn’t told the whole truth; just what would be useful to tell. His capture and discovery of his true enemies—but kept the reason to why they wanted to kill to a simple case of ‘knowing too much’.
And then there were things that were obviously suspect: the subway fight; the deaths and injuries of SWAT members on unsanctioned movements; the covered up deaths of two foreign nationals; the fact that Connor Halling, though officially not yet again a politician, had the mayor of New York City in his pocket.
He had struck chords. Now it was a thrilling song. Justin knew how Connor felt—a spider in his web.
His mother didn’t know he was alive. He hadn’t called her. Connor, with his resources, would be watching her. If she were to know anything she would be in danger. Better to let the late-night news stories run their course—a teenage fugitive who helped to blow up a subway station in New York, they said.
It couldn’t be helped. Not yet. But the time was coming.
The plane ride was long—but at least the autopilot functioned. Francisco had kept that much working.
As the small plane bucked and jerked in the air currents above the east coast, the two passengers sat in silence.
Both were thinking, planning.
The young man was the first to speak. “We’re not like them. I can’t disguise myself like he could.”
“I can’t fight like he could.”
“Neither can I.”
There was quiet again.
Then: “What happens…what happens when a human pack member dies?”
“The companion is sent into the void—waiting until they come to a human. It’s painful. Iridess barely spoke for months after she came to me.”
“Daldion seemed fine.”
“He’s a strong one. He was an outsider, even before they came to earth.”
“So where is he?”
“Mourning. Can’t you feel him? Iridess is doing the same. They’ve known Buncombe and Francisco a long time.”
“But Rigel and Zerihun?”
“Alive…somewhere between. They’ll come to a human soon enough. We’ll have to find them.”
“So they’re just…around? Can the wolves ever die?”
The plane jerked. Justin wondered how it could possibly be healthy for the plane to be jerked around like it was. How it stayed in the air. The conversation drifted.
“We can’t be like them.” Justin shook his head.
“They’re all I knew. They taught me all I know.”
“We have to be different. We need to be ourselves, I think. Buncombe…he was from a different age.”
“He was a great man.”
“He was. But he wasn’t used to this…just look at this plane. Connor. He’s what Buncombe was up against.”
“I see what you mean. A modern man—he changed with the times. He’s up for president next year.”
“You think we’ll stand a chance against him when he has the CIA, the FBI, and all branches of the military at his beck and call.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Justin. He doesn’t even know we’re alive.”
“He will soon enough. If Sarai tries to sense us, she will. We’re not Watchers. We can’t block her. Even when we find whoever it is that will take on the role, we’ll need to operate differently. When you can’t beat them, join ‘em.”
“No. Some other guy. But we don’t need a pack—Connor’s not going us on them anymore. It’s not eight on eight. It’s him and all his cronies against us.”
“I used those men at the coffee shop.”
“We need to think bigger. We need a network.”
Amber sighed, her drink—a warm Coke—spilling as the plane jerked yet again. “And where do we find one? We don’t have experience in this sort of thing.”
Justin pulled a laptop from the seat beside him. Using the cash Buncombe had given him “just in case something happens” he had purchased a computer and a few accessories.
He powered it up and plugged in his wireless modem.
“Actually,” Justin said, logging onto his conspiracy website, “I do.”
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