Writings of a Geekboy

The kelpie's skin was smooth like a seal, but cold as death. Yet the child could not remove his finger from the black surface. "Let me go!" he cried.

"Foolish babe." The kelpie's voice was hollow, as if from a deep well. "Weren't you warned to never touch what you don't own?"

The kelpie's delay to speak allowed the child to take his pocketknife and cut off the finger. The pain was terrible, but he would live.

Years after, the kelpie's numbers dwindled. Did they leave for Tir na nOg, or was it because of a human's need for revenge?

She said she was leaving on the fifth. Today was the fourth.

"Do they always send you on these business trips on such short notice?" John asked Denise, who was some kind of consultant for a company that did something for someone, but he wasn't exactly sure what that something was for, nor did the knowledge of who the someone was exist in his memory. Her tone made him think it was all a big secret. Naturally, this perked his curiosity even more.

"I'm afraid they do, John," she replied as she packed. At least two suitcases worth, with lots of business suits. Denise didn't like to wear women's clothing—she preferred instead to play the game by the men's rules. "It's not usually this bad, though. Must be pretty important to send me there at the last minute."

John leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his stomach. "So what is it you gotta do?"

"Nice try, John. You know I can't tell you."

John shrugged. "I had to try, yeah? My curiosity gets the best of me when I'm faced with a secret."

Denise laughed at that. "Oh now, I wouldn't call it a secret."

"Oh?"

Denise smirked. "It's more like classified, need to know information."

"Now you really have me curious." John moved over to sit on the edge of the bed and watched her pack.

"Well, tell you what, lover." She closed the second suitcase, and moved both onto the carpet. "You can either try and get the proper clearance for this information," she said as she rested on her side, followed by a smile in John's direction, "or you can snuggle with me until I have to leave."

John decided that curiosity wasn't his style after all.

The sinking of the sun always deadens my mood as the skies turn red. It's a reminder of all the blood I have spilled and will spill again. The waters are calm. Too calm. There is no wind today, and I've a bad feeling there will be no wind tomorrow. The men will suffer many splinters as they row to our goal, and perhaps they will also suffer many lashes on their backs if they are slow.

My fingers drift down the lengthy scar on my cheek. A souvenir of a mutiny long ago, and the man responsible long escaped. There have been rumors he is on the island, looking for the very treasure we seek. If this is true, then I shall have satisfaction on two counts.

The sky is now almost dark, the blood drained from the heavens to leave us an almost pleasant starry sky. The moon is starting peek over the horizon, and it's a full moon, like the time of the mutiny. An omen? Perhaps, but I've never been one for too many superstitions, only the ones that benefit me.

The cabin boy is sneaking around again, thinking I must be deaf if I can't hear his clumsy footsteps on the deck. Perhaps I'll give him a taste of the lash, or perhaps I'll be merciful and just grant him the gift of a swift kick to his ungrateful rump.

Wait, no. Easy now, Captain. The boy's sneaking around to do his duties because he knows how your mood is during twilight. Save your punishments for the one who tried to betray you, the one you'll soon find and give him scars of his very own. An eye for an eye, a scar for a scar.

Speaking of which, I think I'll use the whetstone on my favorite blades, perhaps my knife. I want it to sing when I slide it out of its sheathe, and I want it to be able to cut that traitorous dog's flesh with such ease he won't even know what happened until he starts to bleed.

My heart's starting to beat heavily against my chest like it's a thing independent of me. Maybe it is. I don't feel the excitement of the chase, nor do I feel anything from thinking thoughts of revenge. I must already be dead, and my heart's a stupid thing that doesn't even know the rest of me's long gone.

Perfectly all right, since someone else will soon be truly dead. Maybe then the twilight sky will no longer deaden my mood, and I can live again.

For now, I think I'll leave orders for the men to start rowing, then go to my room to sharpen my blades, then drink my way to sleep. I can only hope I meet that filthy traitor in them, as I could use some practice for how I'll get my revenge.