Friday, June 17, 2011

6/17/11

0 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 9
By Nichole Beard



            They reached an abandoned trench where bloody sand covered the marred bodies of British, Indian, and Turkish. They stood for a moment of the precipice of a potential fate. Melbourne felt Nettie sway against him. She turned and pointed suddenly to the left side of the trench. The armored carriage lay on its side, wedged between the banks.
            “Kanishka!” She called, but rubber distorted his name. She haphazardly dropped into the trench, stepped around the bodies whose mouths spilled foam and vomit. The men who had not been prepared against a Spider attack. Melbourne followed, tried to help Nettie with the door of the carriage. He pushed the sand and dirt from the window, only to be met with darkness on the other side. He knocked on the glass. Nettie rested against the filigreed door, her small form now convulsing with dry heaves.
            The hum of a zeppelin lulled overhead; provided a voice for the disembodied soldiers as if it were really their lost souls now hovering above them. Obviously shaken by the sound, Nettie returned to her task. Taking the butt of her rifle, she began ramming the window. A sunken face emerged from behind the glass and caused Nettie to stop, motion it away, and then continue. Kanishka’s eyes appeared nearly swollen, thin lines of blood traced the curves of his cheekbones. He shook his head. Melbourne thrust his hands out to catch Nettie’s arm, stopping her from breaking the glass. He pointed to his own mask, then hers, then at Kanishka and shook his head. He must have lost his mask amidst the chaos.
            The gas would kill him instantly if Nettie were to break the window. She slung her rifle over her back and turned to the bodies spread before them. Frenzied, she began pushing upon limbs and ammunition boxes with her boot. She stopped and knelt to a fallen Indian solider. One dark hand loosely held an unused mask. He’d only been a few seconds too late from salvation. Nettie’s head drooped as she pressed a gloved hand to the man’s chest before. She gently took his mask.
            Melbourne nodded when she turned back and signaled Kanishka to move back. The Captain pulled a low-impact detonator from his ammo-belt and fixed its sharp, crab-like legs to the glass. Setting the timer, he grabbed Nettie’s hand and raced out of the trench to take cover behind Ophelia.
            After the bang had rippled down each side of the trench, sending gray smoke to mingle with the yellow, Melbourne and Nettie returned to the wreckage. Nettie plunged within the smoking cavern of the carriage and affixed the mask over Kanishka’s swelling and reddened features. Melbourne pulled him out while Nettie supported from below.
            Kanishka’s tarnished body lay contrasted against the unchanged filigree. Melbourne supported his head while Nettie examined the limp wrist for a pulse of life. His eyes, nearly sealed, stared desperately out at them.

            After several minutes of rest, the rain began again. The gale came quick and heavy—sent steam curling from the ripped guns, tank shells, and vanquished Spiders. The putrid yellow clouds began to slink away, a defeated monster of man. The auburn-maned wolf pulled the mask from her face.
            Scanning the area that had cleared of smoke, Melbourne found that the battle had ended. Only discarded bodies and broken machines lay mangled in the wet sand and dirt. Shaking, Kanishka’s hand rose. Nettie grabbed it abruptly, not wanting him to remove his mask just yet. But he released her grasp and held out his wrist flat as he stared at something behind Melbourne’s shoulder.
            A nearly charred mech-pigeon landed on his wrist. It smudged his skin with ashes. One eye bulb hung loosely from its aluminum head by an almost uncoiled spring. Melbourne pressed the flashing red light at the base of its neck and a British voice escaped the now skeletal jaw of the contraption.
            “Kemball has secured right flank. We have run the Turks out of Sheikh Sa’ad. They are fleeing via the left flank and drawing back toward Kut. General Alymar orders are not to pursue. I repeat, do not pursue until all forces have reconvened.”
            Melbourne stared at the charred messenger. He didn’t recognize the voice, although it was probably one of his men who had rendezvoused with the rest of Alymar’s forces.
            Kanishka carefully sat up as Nettie supported his frame. He pulled the mask off slowly. His eyes still brightly bore the damage. Nettie took a silk bandage from her coat pocket and gently wrapped it around her brother’s head. He moved his wrist perch toward Melbourne. The Captain was not certain if a fragment of a smile was spreading across the man’s lips or not.
            Nettie shook her head in disbelief and amusement. “He thinks we should pursue.”
            “We can’t go without the rest of The Court and my men.” Melbourne started.
            “We’ll send this pigeon out to find your men. Ophelia has a tracking device. The Court will be here soon, I’m sure of it.”
            Melbourne paused, took the pigeon from Kanishka’s wrist and pressed a button on its belly to erase the message. Pressing the top button once more, he spoke. “Men, report to left flank. Follow The Court here if you see them. We are in pursuit toward Kut.”
            He released the button and propelled the pigeon skyward from his cupped palms. Turning his gaze from the fleeting skeletal contraption, Melbourne returned to Nettie’s surprised expression.
            “Disobeying orders? I must be a bad influence.” Nettie grinned through her teeth.
            “Let’s ride with the Valkyries.” Melbourne grabbed his rifle and motioned toward Ophelia.


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Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Thursday, June 16, 2011

6/16/11

0 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 8
By Nichole Beard


            Near evening and the battle dwindling from motion, Kanishka’s crackling voice emanated from the pack set. Melbourne grabbed the receiver.

            “Hello? Can you hear me?”
            “Yes. Are you both okay?”
            “Fine here, why?”
            “I’m in a bind—I’m near Younghusband’s side. We can’t take the left trenches. We need you over here.”
            Nettie grabbed the receiver from Melbourne, her gray eyes wild. “Kanishka what’s going on over there?”
            “Half our Spiders have been taken out. Younghusband is maneuvering his men like they’re lining up for a retreat.”
            Nettie squeezed the receiver tighter in her small hand, “Out of the question. We will press on. Stay put, Kani, we’re coming.” She placed the receiver back with surprising gentleness. For the first time that day, she pulled the snoopy cap from her head and let the dark auburn locks spill over her shoulders. Melbourne kept silent and held is concentration upon the smoke rising from the left flank. Ophelia’s control cavity had suddenly become quiet with the exception of Ride of the Valkyries, which now caused him discomfort and a twinge of embarrassment of Nettie’s behalf.
            The Queen stood still, fixed her cool gaze to the murky horizon point out the top window.  “The British just throw the Indians down here because they can.”
            Melbourne didn’t turn, kept his finger ready at the firing trigger in case of ambush. His throat became hard and tight when he noticed her balled fist, rigid at her side.

            “They don’t care about this campaign, why should they? We’re thousands of miles away from merry old England.” She turned to him, half-smiling half-wolf again. “To be honest, you and your men are the first actual British I’ve seen this far out.”
            Melbourne swallowed, trying to formulate the most tactful answer. “I didn’t expect to be sent out here when I enlisted. But I’ll do my duty.” A wave of sour guilt coated his heart, made it beat faster when he recalled his detest of the place upon arrival. Even now he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
            Nettie looked back out the window and leaned against Ophelia’s innards. “I know you don’t care about this place, you don’t have to wrap yourself in a flag to convince me.”
            Melbourne remained silent, gave a barely visible nod. He pulled the tank over behind a rock formation.
            “What are you doing?” She made for the controls. He stopped her, braced his hands on her jacket-drowned shoulders.
            “Nettie, I may hate this place, but I do care about helping those people.” He fought to keep her cold stare.             Static from the pack kit broke their gaze. Nettie picked up the receiver and tried to make out the white noise. Simultaneously, a thunderous explosion ripped through the left flank.
            “Oh my god. Go!” Nettie commanded. Melbourne hit the steam. When they arrived on the scene, Younghusband’s men were either scattered around the sand or nowhere to be found. He had already retreated. A few masked Court members battled the last of the Turks who were still holding the line. Flame pistols sparkled in the rippling air between them. Nettie pulled a helmet from a bag on the floor and made for the hatch.

            “Wait! Spiders have been out there!” Melbourne pulled two narrow, alien-faced gas masks from his pack and handed her one. Her auburn hair radiated from the mask—an alien wolf. Melbourne retrieved two flame rifles and threw open the hatch.
            Yellow fog swept over them like a tidal wave. Melbourne grabbed Nettie’s arm as they climbed over the edge the tank. Gunfire and explosions flashed off the man-made yellow clouds. They kept low, followed the rumbling of the guns still positioned within the Turkish trenches.


- - -
Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Wednesday, June 15, 2011

6/15/11

0 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 7
By Nichole Beard


            Turning away from the periscope, Melbourne spoke first. “If all the units have gotten here on time, Younghusband should be on the left flank and Kemball on the right.”

            “I watched some film my mech-pigeons recorded yesterday—it seems Younghusband attempted to relieve Kut. He’ll need our help today. We will have to cross the river and attack at the base of the U formation of the city.” Nettie scribbled calculations into a small notebook as the tank lead The Court and British soldiers to the point of conversion. There was no other way to the besieged soldiers than through Sheikh Sa’ad.
            Melbourne looked out the small window to find Kanishka rumbling along beside them in the armored carriage, steam billowing behind him like a banner. Melbourne mused that despite the carriage’s delicate gold inlay, it was still a ferocious sight to behold based upon the two flame guns mounted on each side.
            Craning his neck to see behind their tail, Melbourne made out the figures of Court members on motorcycles. The Ride of the Valkyries, playing on loop, propelled the machines onward. A few of Melbourne’s men operated Spiders, and every so often an aluminum leg would crash down to the side of the tank. Melbourne and Nettie took turns popping out the hatch to scold the inexperienced drivers to mind their way.
            “Crescent tank, dead again.” Nettie peered through the periscope and gripped the controls in front of her. Ophelia rippled, convulsed with a low grumbling noise followed by the smell of acrid steam. Popping the hatch just enough, Melbourne caught sight of the enemy tank, now a flaming shell.
            “Take the controls a moment.” Nettie shifted past him, her rosewater-smell was enough to erase the steam. He continued firing, this time at a line of Spiders now forming on the horizon. Melbourne quickly looked to his side to find Nettie crouched in the corner, a wooden box of wires between her knees. She wound a lever on the side and placed a black receiver to her ear and another to her mouth.
            “Hello—Kanishka? Get the men to spread out. We’re sitting mech-pigeons all bunched up like this.”
            Melbourne heard a muffled response from the receiver and turned back to the periscope to find a Spider directly in their path. Ophelia’s abrupt swerve sent Nettie flying into him. The pack set box tumbled from her grasp.
            “Blast! I thought you knew how to drive this thing!” She pushed herself away.
            “Sorry! What’s happening?”
            Nettie climbed the ladder to the hatch and positioned her elegantly heeled boot to the right of his ear. Explosions contorted the sky, sent the flat ground into motion. A shot ricocheted off the hatch and snapped the door closed. Nettie ducked.
            “Are you trying to get killed?” He yelled, firing at the entrenched guns.
            “We’re nearly into Sheikh Sa’ad. Looks like Younghusband’s having some trouble breaking through on the left.” She pressed her goggles against the window before signaling Melbourne to relinquish his position.
            Contentedly hitting the controls, Nettie began to hum along with Ophelia’s Wagner theme that was no doubt being heard by the enemies. “How do you like that, Goltz?” She bared her teeth, wolf-like.


- - -
Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Tuesday, June 14, 2011

6/14/11

0 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 6
By Nichole Beard


            Melbourne and Kanishka stood outside the cave overlooking the valley below. The sun was coyly rising over the still-wet plains. The mirage had already set in—rippling and distorting the Tigris.
            “Good thing the rain has stopped, as it would appear that the scout reports are accurate.” Kanishka announced, one finger pressed to the side of his goggles.
            “How do you know?”
            “Telescopic lenses.” He removed the goggles and handed them over. “See for yourself.”
            Melbourne carefully held the contraption, pulled them on and let the elastic band snap against the back of his head. Instantly, Ottoman troops rushed forward and sat beneath his nose.
            “Use the side knob to adjust the view.” Kanishka’s voice sounded beside him. Melbourne obeyed, but accidentally switched to night view. He turned and stumbled in doing so, Kanishka an indistinguishable blob before him. The goggles were pulled from his head with a laugh. “I’m afraid they don’t have a manual.”
            Melbourne’s eyebrows rose, he shook his head. “From the look of those troops--”
            “I know. We will have enough. It may not look like it here, but I sent mech-pigeons out last night to relay to the scouts and allied gangs that The Queen was in need of their assistance.”
            As if on cue, a loud sizzling noise penetrated their ears. The earth began to shake beneath their feet. Kanishka smiled while Melbourne dropped to the ground to take cover. Ophelia rolled around the corner from a nearby rock formation. A copper phonograph speaker, which Melbourne had not seen before, perched atop the tank singing Ride of the Valkyries. Melbourne stood slowly, marveling at the sight.
            Ophelia stopped abruptly. The hatch was thrown open to reveal Nettie clothed in a leather Snoopy cap, goggles, and an oversized British-Indian army jacket. Where military insignia had once been above the breast pocket now sit several pinned cameos of varying size and color. Nettie gingerly climbed to the barrel of the gun and let her knee-high leather heeled boots dangle over the side. “Ophelia is mine today, sorry little brother.” 
            Kanishka threw his fist into the air in jest. “Come on, Nettie! You take the carriage!”
            “No, you take the carriage. Melbourne and I will take Ophelia.” She pushed her goggles onto her forehead and looked pointedly at the Captain. “You do know how to operate a tank?”
            “I’ve had some experience.” He grinned, climbed onto the tank, and offered his hand to Nettie as she returned to the hatch.
            “We approach from the south, my men are awaiting my signal. See you on the other side, Kanishka.”


- - -
Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Monday, June 13, 2011

6/13/11

0 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 5
By Nichole Beard


            Melbourne gripped the hot glass between his hands, watched her lips. “You needn’t continue, Nettie. ‘Tis a personal matter, I understand, as do I comprehend your reasons for relieving Kut.”
            She gave a slight nod accompanied by a shy smile. Her shoulders sank, evidently relieved from having to divulge her presumed assorted history.
            “So other than the tank, what other toys have you got?” Melbourne asked with a kind of enthusiasm that could erase any damper.
            “You like her, aye? Ophelia was a hard one to build out here, but I finally traded enough gowns and English silver for the pieces I needed. I based her on the Hornsby & Sons tractor design—though more advanced, of course.” A proud smile pulled the corners of her lips, as if she were referring to her child.
            “You built her?”
            “Well, Kanishka would have you think otherwise since he insists on driving it most of the time.” Her jaw muscles flexed, her knuckles turned a shade lighter as she gripped the glass. “But as far as other toys go, we have acquired several machines of destruction from our travels.”
            Nettie stood unceremoniously and headed for the wardrobe. She opened the door, rummaged around for a moment, and then returned with a thick, dog-eared ledger. Nettie placed the tome on the lace tablecloth and pulled thin wire-framed spectacles from her breast pocket. “Kanishka requires me to keep record of all our machinery.” She flipped through the ledger quickly, presumably looking for a page in particular.

“Ah, here it is. These may be of interest to you. We have ten Spiders, an armory full of flame pistols and rifles, a mini-zeppelin (out on loan as of March, unfortunately), eight turret guns, and an self-driven armored steam-carriage.”
            “My god. Did you make the carriage too?” Melbourne leaned forward on his elbow to get a better look at the list accompanied by pencil illustrations.
            “Dear no. It was a gift from a Russian engineer.”
            “You seem to have a lot of gifts.” Melbourne sat back, took another sip of bitter tea.
            “I make a lot of friends.” She said shortly before slamming the ledger shut. A puff of dust escaped the pages, mingled with the steam from the samovar—tarnished the air.
            Melbourne eyed her curiously as she quickly returned the book to its place. Rosy patches now tinted her cheekbones. Her sudden frenzied motions gave him the impression that she had said too much. He continued sipping the tea nonchalantly, not wanting her to notice his piqued interest at her behavior.
            She returned and stood at the table, spectacles clamped between her thin hands. Taking it as a sign for him to rise, Melbourne nodded and did so.
            “Thank you for your assistance, Queen—Nettie. I will tell my men to be ready by morning.”
            “Very well. Goodnight, Captain Melbourne.” She gave a shallow courtesy. He bowed and disappeared behind the damask curtain.


- - -
Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Sunday, June 12, 2011

6/12/11

0 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 4
By Nichole Beard


           Melbourne jumped when he saw Kanishka appear in the mirror behind him. “The Queen is ready to see you now.” He extended his hand down the cave hall that had been funneling the sweet harp music to him earlier. He could still hear it now, faint.

            “Thank you.” Melbourne nodded and set out down the narrow passage.
            Melodious harp strings plucked with his steps. He became aware of the thin copper pipes running along the ceiling. Small Phonograph speakers extended from the ends of the pipe.
            At the end of the hall, the Captain was met with a deep purple damask curtain. “Captain Melbourne…reporting.” He gulped, not knowing exactly how to present himself. The lyrical harp plucking abruptly stopped. He heard some rustling within followed by a composed “come in.”
            She sat in a Moroccan-style bed, fit comfortably between two large silk-cased pillows. Two hand carved bookcases flanked the bed. A chestnut wardrobe towered on the adjacent wall. The Queen was braiding her dark auburn hair over her right shoulder, studying the plait rather than the door. 
            “Captain Melbourne, I would like to apologize for the actions of my men earlier.” She looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time. Gray-blue eyes burned back at him, contrasted against the light brown skin kissed with freckles. She tied her hair with a strap of leather and paused before approaching him, suddenly rigid.
            Shapely hips accentuated beneath a cream and black striped tailored suit stopped before him. She extended a thin hand and looked at him expectantly beneath the brim of her tiny, off-center toque.

Quickly, almost fumbling, Melbourne took her hand and brought it to his lips. It was soft, smelled of Rosewater. He thought her palm might have made a finer cup than the porcelain.
            “Apology accepted, Queen.” He stumbled over the words, unsure of what to call her.
            She smiled at him knowingly. “Please, call me Nettie. ‘The Queen’ is just something my brother made up so that the men respect me.” Melbourne marveled at her impeccable English and suspected that it was indeed her native tongue.
            “My brother tells me you are on your way to relieve Major-General Townshend at Kut.” Before he could respond, she continued and turned to sit on the bed. “Are you not aware that Ottoman forces commanded by General Goltz wait to intercept you at Sheikh Sa'ad?” She stared up at him, gray-blue eyes piercing, challenging.
“My scouts would surely have told me of this.” He stood just inside the door, uncomfortable with intruding on her private quarters.
            “Well, Captain, I have scouts too—who know this land by heart. As do I have mech-pigeons, which one can always count on because they can’t get gassed like a scout can.” She paused, motioned to the silver Russian samovar sitting on the table at the corner of the room. “Would you mind?”
            “My pleasure.” Melbourne took a plain glass cup from a nearby tray and studied the floral-ingrained contraption. The fact that he had only seen a picture of a samovar was irrelevant when proving attentiveness to a Queen.

            “Here.” She appeared beside him, noticeably fighting a smile. She placed the cup beneath the spout that had been in front of him the entire time and released the dark steaming liquid. “It was a gift from the Cossacks.” She took another glass and poured him one.
            Nettie took a sip and licked her licks. “It’s quite bitter. Too bad our mech-goat doesn’t produce milk.” She said thoughtfully. So there had been a mech-goat involved after all.
            He sat stiffly in a nearby chair. She sat down across from him, thinking. His eye caught the lace collar complete with a bone-carved cameo. The chunk of green amber dangling between her collarbones strangely complimented it.
            “You will need our help tomorrow. I see you have guns and Spiders, but not enough.”
            “I couldn’t ask—Kanishka gave me the impression that The Court did not get involved in these matters.”
            “Normally, no. Unless there’s money or loot involved, quite frankly. But this is different. Those are not British soldiers besieged at Kut, but Indian—6th Division.” She carefully placed the half-empty cup on the table, visibly troubled.
            “Kanishka and I acquired The Court, you see, throughout our travels. I’m sure by now he has told you enough for you to understand that it was hard for us to find a home. We were born in India, schooled in England, and returned to our father’s land upon our mother’s death. Her family didn’t want us.”


- - -
Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Saturday, June 11, 2011

6/11/11

1 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 3
By Nichole Beard


            Melbourne found the cave surprisingly warm. The Court, who Melbourne learned was the name of the gang, was exceedingly hospitable. The women of The Court, clothed in a cross between tribal regalia and the latest Paris fashions, floated stoically about the cave with tea trays and books from the West.
            Melbourne sat in front of a fire as he nursed a cup of Darjeeling tea. The floral porcelain of the cup felt cold and hard on his lips. He would have preferred the soft, pliable feel of a primitive water bladder. Shadows danced on the cave wall, pointing him to the ornately carved bookshelves resting against the stone. The glow from another fire, further down a passage off the main cave room, flickered on the wall. Sandalwood incense carried on the light notes of a Harp escaped from the passage.
            “What is this place?” One of Melbourne’s men asked. Young and nervous, he clung to his flame rifle.
            “From what I can gather, a little piece of civilization in the middle of nowhere.” Melbourne took another sip of tea.
            “But how did they get here? How did they get all this stuff?” He motioned to the bookcases, to the marble statue of Venus, to the Persian rugs, to the bust of Socrates sitting snuggly within a wall indentation. 
            Melbourne carefully placed the teacup on the ground beside him and shifted his legs to the side. “They’re raiders, they’re traders, they’re black-market dealers. Something. Think about it.”
            The young soldier, about to ask another insufferably annoying question, froze upon the sudden arrival of Kanishka. “Good evening, Gentlemen. I trust you are finding your accommodations adequate?”
            The boy nodded quickly and scrambled to the other side of the cave to join his cautious, yet intrigued comrades. Melbourne snorted, “Sorry about that. And yes, your base is very…nice.”
            Kanishka smiled wide, sat down cross-legged beside him. His goggles and face covering removed, a completely different man now faced Melbourne. The firelight shown bright enough to reveal the stranger’s olive skin flecked with unexpected patches of freckles. Melbourne found his features exotic; especially with the long dark hair bore highlighted with auburn. Instead of the black-brown eyes he’d expect to see on a dark-featured person, Melbourne was startled to find light hazel eyes where the rain-covered goggles had once been.
            “This is why I stay covered most of the time.” Kanishka said.
            “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” Melbourne abruptly felt heat in his cheeks. He returned to his tea, trying to diffuse the awkward moment.
            “My mother was English, my father was Indian.”
            Melbourne desperately tried to pull words from the damp cave air, but nothing came to him. He had never heard of such a thing.
            “The Queen would like to meet you.” Kanishka offered. Melbourne was sure the man had been grasping at the same air.
            “Of-of course.” Melbourne took the last swig of tea; it burned his throat. He drank it too fast like he used to do as an impatient child.
            “One moment. Let me see if she is ready to receive you.” Kanishka stood and disappeared into the sandalwood-perfumed passage.
            Melbourne stood and dusted off his trousers and coat. He turned to a baroque, gold-framed mirror on the adjacent cave wall. Started by his disheveled reflection, Melbourne ran a hand through his half-damp flaxen hair. He leaned closer to find his cerulean eyes red-rimmed, seemingly irritated from the sandy air. His face looked ruddy, dirt-smeared. He felt he was in no condition to be put before a Queen, even if she wasn’t the real thing.


- - -
Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Friday, June 10, 2011

6/10/11

0 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 2
By Nichole Beard


            A band of black-cloaked marauders had formed a synchronized border around his men. They cradled flame rifles in their arms. Behind them, to the east of the unit, loomed a steam- tank. Taken by the enchanting iron vehicle, Melbourne admired its side--adorned with gold-painted symbols he did not understand. His heart felt ticklish when his eyes discovered the tiny colored lights wreathed around the barrel of its gun.
            Feeling a jab in his spine, Melbourne instinctively raised his arms above his head. The rain made his hands cool; sent droplets down his sleeves and into his armpits. He shivered. The unknown assailant spat a slightly muffled command from behind his clothed mouth. Simultaneously met with a sharper prod, the Captain advanced toward his quietly taken unit. His officers shot him scowls as if to say, “How could you leave us to be captured, you stupid, stupid man?”
            Melbourne pursed his lips. It wasn’t quite his fault. The wind and rain must have deceived him; placed ethereal hands over his ears to leave him oblivious to the chaos that had occurred behind him while questioning the native. Melbourne cursed himself for not recognizing the set-up earlier. The stopped caravan, the native’s strange smile and gait. Melbourne was sure the peasant was in on it; was probably paid off with a black-market mech-goat. 
            “English, yes?” A voice sounded from the top of the ornamented tank. Melbourne looked up to find another marauder leaning out the hatch. Droplets of rain collected on his goggles and Melbourne wondered if the man would even be able to see him—to remember him if something were to happen. Melbourne gave a shallow nod to the question when he was met with a third poke.
            “Forgive me.” The man, who appeared to be the leader, climbed out of the tank. He pulled a crimson handkerchief from a silk waistcoat none of his marauders had the privilege of wearing, and rubbed his goggles most carefully. “My gang and I are only taking the necessary precautions, you must understand.”
            Melbourne stared at him flatly, but was inwardly surprised by the smoothness of his voice. He sounded like any gentleman he’d have met at the opera or a London café.  “I don’t know if I can understand a blatant attack on the British Empire.” Melbourne replied smugly.
            The man brought a gloved hand forward and extended it out while giving a low bow. “I am Lord Kanishka. Ally to my people, enemy of war.”
            Melbourne, now feeling emboldened, lowered his arms and crossed them over his chest. He grinned, “Lord?”
            Kanishka’s eyes flicked from the insignias on Melbounre’s coat. “On the contrary, Captain, I have just as much a connection to England as I’m sure you do.”

            Silent, Melbourne calculated about where he was located in relation to the point where he had been separated Alymar’s forces. He wondered if the other unit might be close enough to hear gunfire if a scuffle were to start.
            Kanishka placed a hand on Melbourne’s back, motioned the jab-ready guard back, and began propelling the Captain forward. He spoke in a low voice, “I truly extend my apologizes, Captain—“
            “Melbourne.”
            “The Queen demands me stop any who pass through this road, whether he be British, Ottoman, German, or Indian.”
            “So you are loyal to the Queen?” Melbourne divided his attention between Kanishka and his own men, who were now resting against the Spiders and cautiously accepting hand-rolled cigarettes from their assailants.
            “Not your Queen.” Kanishka began. Melbourne studied him, debated whether or not to take the man on at the edge of the riverbank. “The Queen is but a name. She is my sister—and I merely do her bidding. What do you English say--“the brains and the brawn?”
            “I see.” Trying to remain still, Melbourne carefully reached for his flame pistol. The holster was empty. He should have known.
            “I will take you to her. There is nothing more you can do today. The rains are too heavy. Your superior should have never sent you at this time of year.”
            “Kut is under siege. The starving people there can’t wait.” Melbourne shot back.

“We will allow you to continue your mission. Don’t worry, The Queen has been sending food to Kut. She has her ways. The town will hold until you and your men commence a most valiant rescue.”
            Melbourne continued with a mix of offense and interest. “I was under the impression you didn’t take sides.”
            “Humanitarian aid requires no side, Captain.”
            “We need to get our machines out of the rain.” Melbourne shifted the topic quickly.
            “Of course. We will take you to our base. However, I’m afraid we must blindfold you and your men.”
            “I suppose I should have seen that coming.”
            “You are a fast learner, Captain.” Kanishka grinned. He paused, pulled something from his coat and smacked it into Melbourne’s hand. His flame pistol. Kanishka turned and made his way back to the waiting warriors, leaving Captain Melbourne dumb-founded on the bank of the raging river.


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Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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Thursday, June 9, 2011

6/9/11

1 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Mech-Maiden of Mesopotamia
Part 1
By Nichole Beard


January 1916, Mesopotamia


            The rain beat into the sand, creating circular patterns at his feet. Captain Melbourne, under the command of General Alymar (whom he had been separated from earlier that day after a skirmish), had been traveling along side the Tigris for two days. The rain now threatened to disrupt the fragile banks, allowing the river to surfeit as it pleased.
            “Cover those guns, men! And the Spiders!” Melbourne yelled as he lowered the brim of his hat to protect his eyes from the displaced sand granules. He had been in the heathen land of the Ottomans for only a week, yet had drawn the conclusion on his second day that he would have preferred France or Belgium in lieu of such a desolate landscape. Maybe he would have preferred to sit in muddy trenches and wait for the Spiders to come over the sides. Leading his comrades, the Captain would ignite his flame-spewing pistol and singe the eight aluminum legs from the bodies of the mustard gas-spitting creatures.
            British forces in Belgium had captured a German unit full of Spiders and had subsequently shipped the prized war machines throughout their campaigns in the East, hoping t turn the tide. Melbourne often mused at how quickly the Allied forces might be able to win the war if they had had German military technology on their side all along.

            His feet throbbed; felt simultaneous warm and cold as a soaked boot battled sore, swelling flesh. The fog further up the road parted to reveal a caravan. Pulling the damp, ink stained map from his coat pocket, Melbourne motioned the unit to stop while he advanced ahead. He had expected to be at Kut the day before and must now take advantage of a native’s knowledge of the land.
            “British?” The native called. As Melbourne neared, two alarmingly close-together eyes, embedded in russet leathery skin, confronted him.
            “Yes,” He saluted to the native out of habit. “Captain Melbourne.”
            Melbourne extended the map toward the native.  He pointed to a precariously constructed sign off the road, adorned with twisting, foreign characters.  “What does this say?”
            “Ali Al Gharbi.” The leather-skinned man replied while calmly stroking the wet fur of his donkey.
            “Where is Kut?” Melbourne flared his nostrils and shrunk further within the protection of his coat collar. The native looked at him confused; eyes seemed to move closer together upon bewilderment.
            “Kut.” Melbourne enunciated. The feel of the hard K-sound hurt his mouth, sent a chill through his bones like a sneeze.
            The man stared at him for a moment, then began studying the map. Melbourne realized the characters on the English map must hold the same foreign mystique for the man as the sign he had seen, although not as twisting and elegant, but precise and hard-edged.
            The man’s skin-flaked finger traced the blue Tigris line northward before overenthusiastically poking the point on the map where Kut presumably lay. He bobbed his head, which Melbourne took for a nod. “Thank you.” He took the map from the chapped hands and gave a gracious nod. The man flashed a three-toothed smile and returned to his donkey with a lopsided swagger.
            Melbourne cocked his head, puzzled by the native’s behavior. Perhaps he should have studied the social customs of these people more extensively before his departure from England. Spinning on his heel, Melbourne suddenly froze upon seeing his unit.


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Nichole Beard is in the process of earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. She is a little too obsessed with Star Wars and most other things deemed nerdy. She is working on her first novel, a historical fiction piece.

 

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