The exercise:
Write something which has to do with the number: seven.
Mostly because Max turned seven today, on the seventh day of the month.
... actually, only because of that.
He had a good day with family. We're doing a party at the bowling alley with some of his friends in a couple days as well.
2 comments:
Happy Birthday Max! Seven already? I'm sure that doesn't make you feel old, but maybe if I point out that he'll turn eighteen in 2030 that will? :)
Seven
“Narusheteli.” War finished Famine’s sentence with heavy tones. He was frowning, and his normal glow and aura of enthusiasm and life had dimmed. He looked around him, at Scuff just starting to sit up on the floor, at the near-liquid remains of the guard, at the other Incarnates, and no smile cracked his lips. He ran a hand through his mane of blond hair and scratched his scalp as though it offended him. “So it wasn’t just coincidence that she was awake.”
“Or that she ate Villameriel,” said Famine.
“Or that. That was the whole plan, and the Infanta is just a diversion.”
“Or a back-up plan.” Scuff’s voice was oddly wet-sounding, as though he were recovering from waterboarding, and Pestilence winked at him. He swallowed, trying to remember that he only experienced what he wanted to. “If whatever he’s trying with Narusheteli fails, it might not hurt to have the Infanta in his back pocket.”
“Pretty big back pocket, fam,” said Famine. “That woman could eat. If you got her hungry enough she could put me out of a job.”
War looked over the edge of the ledge again. Down below the mortals, now seven of them, were shuffling around, rather aimlessly to his eyes, but the procrustean bed had been set up again the side of the caldera and cables attached to it. They snaked away, orange sinuous lines across the green of the floor, hard to look at because of the contrast, towards the tunnels where the generator presumably sat. The rotten coffin pooled water beneath it, and now and then a lump of decayed wood broke away and splintered on the rock.
“Let’s go look at that generator,” he said. “I don’t buy the back up plan idea, but we stood and chatted to Narusheteli and didn’t make the connection. Let’s go make sure we’re not overlooking anything else because we think we know what’s going on.” He looked at Scuff. “You coming? Or having another nap?”
“I’m coming,” said Scuff. He stood up. “I feel odd, but I don’t think that’s psychosomatic any more. I think there’s something weird going on down here and I want to know what it is.”
“Attaboy,” said War, grudgingly. He started to move, then paused. “Seven,” he said thoughtfully.
“Twelve,” said Famine in his most helpful tone. “Eighty-two. Four. One-hundred and nineteen. Thr-“
“Shut up,” said War. “What are they anyway? Your bingo numbers?”
“You’re saying random numbers, so I thought I’d help,” said Famine, grinning.
“It’s not random,” said War. “That’s the problem. There are seven mortals down there now, and that’s a magic number for some.”
Pestilence tapped a finger on his arm, forgetting that he was holding Hilda, and she tried to bite him. He dodged. “Fate likes the number seven,” he said. “Let’s go check that generator out quickly then, before things go really bad.”
Greg - hah, great. Thanks for that.
And the intrigue continues... I enjoyed the dialogue in this one, as well as all the details you sprinkled throughout.
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