http://clampfix.fanworks.net/guests/quake-p.txt </head><body><pre> LITTLE EARTHQUAKES: Prologue Moonlight should be silver, he thought. Moonlight could be crayon yellow, pale white, harvest orange, or even rust red. But there were only a few places where moonlight was truly silver, sharp and crystalline against a backdrop of onyx. The wind of one such place blew, tranquil and bitter cold, in his memory. A barren place with nothing alive, only the stars, the wind, and the silver moonlight, above an endless sea of clouds. * * * It must be the breeze, she thought. The air in this place was subject to the daily fluctuations that defined the lifecycle of the local plants and animals, and now it was cold, cold enough to freeze any water not in constant motion. But the breeze, the stirring of air that caressed while draining warmth from the body; the _vitality_ of the air was different. Yes, the air tonight is _alive_, she thought. As am I. * * * He stared, unseeing, at a screen full of text and arcane symbols. He had lost track of how long he had been sitting here, bathed in the roar of air conditioning and the hum of fluorescent lamps. He drew a deep breath, noting the dullness in his lungs that was so different from the night air of his recollection. "Kanojo ni...misetai," he thought. "Kanojo..." His right hand, resting atop a mouse, clenched into a fist. The moonlight there would match her hair. * * * The sounds of the forest were all around: the shrilling of crickets, the calls of tiny mammals searching for food amidst the foliage, the rustling of leaves in the fitful breeze. And softer, ever so much softer, the flight of the birds. The common sparrows, wrens, and other songbirds of this place were asleep or departed for other lands; the large hawks and eagles resting snugly in their eyries. But birds were aloft, gliding between the hoary trunks of trees on silent wings, invisible but discerning all with their luminous eyes. The owls were solitary, preferring the company of the wind and the night to the warm companionship of home. They killed because it was necessary, because such was the path that fate had charted for the lords of the night sky. * * * A muted beep, and a flurry of motion on the screen, and his gaze became diamond hard, lingering for many heartbeats before he finally reclined back into his chair. His smile embodied not so much satisfaction at a job well done as a sort of gratitude for being allowed to retire to bed. Returning both hands to the keyboard, he typed a few commands in rapid succession and stood, stretching his six-foot frame as the screen went black. "Bastard," he muttered, hefting a dark green backpack and slinging it over his shoulders as he made for the door. The sultry air outside filled his nostrils and throat. He looked up into the night sky. * * * She felt a kinship with these feathered creatures, exquisite in form, express in purpose, and elegant in action. Such beauty, she thought, such a pity that such creatures did not inhabit her homeland. In her vision, the owls were dim red outlines against the striations of blue and black that defined the wintery night sky; crimson shadows, with violet eyes. Had she allowed herself to be seen, the owls would have made the same observation about her eyes, would have seen the violet fire, might have found kinship in her gaze, in the grace of her movements. Such a pity, she thought, that the world did not permit freer association between the emmisaries of darkness and light. Perhaps that could change, if things worked out. Perhaps as early as tomorrow. * * * The moon was crayon yellow. "Bastard." </pre><p><a href="./">Back</a></p><p><a href=http://www.dreamhost.com/donate.cgi?id=216><img border=0 alt="Donate towards our web hosting bill!" src=https://secure.newdream.net/donate1.gif></a></p></body></html>