Rough draft – skyrates RP

March 13, 2009 - Leave a Response

Anton slouched at a carrel in an isolated aisle of the Echo Library. A swathe of papers, mostly growing yellow and brittle with age, lay before him on the work surface. In the center lay a leather-bound book, slightly larger than pocket-sized. On the cover was a gold-embossed date – 180 A.U. – barely visible now that the gold leaf had worn away. Anton drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and sighed. He looked up toward the dingy window set high in the wall. Dust motes traced erratic paths in the beam of sunlight. The angle told him it was growing late in the afternoon. Soon time to leave. He started sorting the papers into two piles – one to return to the archives, one to take with him. A bluebottle fly buzzed against the window, distracting Anton from his task. He sat back in his chair, watching the insect bump fruitlessly against the glass pane. “Damn,” he mumbled out loud, “damn, damn, damn.” He picked up the book, turning it over in his paws as he tilted the chair back at a precarious angle. Lips pursed, he opened the book to a page marked with a red ribbon. He’d read the pages many times already, but still, Anton was almost instantly absorbed in the words formed in a neat copperplate hand.

12 Unobtarius, 180 – Civil unrest is high – we’ve been deployed to help keep order in the city. The govt offices are nervous – they should be, the people are not happy with Svendheim. Hope nothing goes wrong, I worry about my troops getting mobbed while on guard duty.

23 Unobtarius – Thank Magnus, a peaceful day in the city. No protests, no incidents. Best of all, my wife will be able to visit the skyland and I think I can get my duty covered for the day. Frick owes me a OOD.

2 Islo Major – What a wonderful night. Elena and I had the most magical day together. I hate how military life keeps us apart. I wish she’d just live on base with me, but she won’t. That’s the only thing we ever argue about. There was word of a big protest this morning, but it never materialized. We marched a company up and down Grand Boulevard in front of the Palace, and there were overflights all day, really low. I hear Admiral Fuseli’s fleet’s been recalled.

10 Islo Minor – Fuseli’s fleet arrived. The Crimson Dawn’s a helluva ship. Looks even bigger and meaner docked that it does out in the sky. The Bolos from his CAP are all over the sky. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were under martial law. Lots of ugly talk in the bars about that, too.

13 Islo Minor – More pronouncements from the Palace in this morning’s paper. CWO Smythe dropped a copy on my desk this morning, didn’t say a word, just walked off. Headline read “Assembly Restricted: Martial Law Imminent!” Dammit, we’re going to be stuck making that work. I wish Elena were still here, but I’m glad she’s home with Mother too. I miss her.

15 Islo Minor -Got a letter from Elena today. It was a breath of fresh air. Such a relief to hear she got home safely as well. You never know about those pirates out there.

19 Elstinapeia -Routine patrolling on the street. No trouble to speak of. Three men on sick leave, though. Must remember to check with the flight surgeon and confirm they’re not malingering.

Here Anton made a face, anticipating the words to come. The next entry, the last in the journal, was not written neatly. It was hastily scrawled and dotted with stray blobs of ink, betraying the agitation of the writer.

23 Eltsinapeia – Dammit, dammit, dammit. There we were, the whole company on guard duty in front of the palace when that damned mob showed up. And then Svendheim came out on the balcony and they went nuts. Next thing you know, they’re shoving up against the first rank, and I have to order bayonets fixed. I… I hate to put this down, It’s my ass if anyone reads it. But I’ve had sealed orders to fire on any civilians threatening the Palace. Thinking about it now, I guess Smythe read them and resealed them. Or maybe he got his own orders. I don’t know. All I know is one minute I’m standing right behind the first rank, watching those greasy protesters back away from the bayonets, and the next second Smythe barks out like I gave him the word “Ready! Aim! Fire!” And dammit, the boys did… and then we had to keep shooting, because the crowd went crazier than they were before. I looked up, and through all the gunsmoke, I saw Svendheim step back into his room off the balcony. I can’t believe we killed all those people out front of the damned Palace.

That was it. The moment that sparked everything… an eyewitness account. Anton had found the journal, belonging to a Captain Joshua Fenwicke according to the name on the inside cover, tucked into a cardboard box labeled “Personal Effects” in a lower-deck storage room in the archive department of Fuseli. It probably belonged in the Secret or even Most Secret rooms, but had been mis-filed. Or even more likely, not read at all. Anton’s mind turned once again to the question that had troubled him since he’d first read that last page: what to write about this Captain of the Commonwealth Air Forces? Anton had taken on the task of writing an official Armada history, and was woefully behind in his project. Other than hysterical newspaper accounts of the time, and the terse official notations in squadron documents, little survived of the time. The main facts were well-enough known. Civilians had gathered at the Palace, and CAF troops had fired on them, killing 31. Admiral Svendheim’s regime (there was no doubt it was his regime, despite the pretentions to representative government) had apparently ordered the violence, which was widely denounced. Among the most prominent protestors was Admiral Fuseli, until then a rising star in the CAF. Fuseli’s protest led directly to his posting at a remote supply depot, and not long after, to armed rebellion. Admiral Fuseli’s personal papers were off limits to Anton, of course, and even though it was a scant 33 years since the clash outside the Palace, not many records survived the intervening warfare. Anton had scrounged up a few personal letters from airmen to their families, and culled a few telling details from standard military forms and records, but other than this journal, he’d found nothing to shed light on how the Factions (well, the Armada, Hand, and League, at least – the Order and Court were decades away from arrival at the time) came into being, and overthrew the Commonwealth. Nothing until this journal. Anton looked up, suddenly cognizant of the silence – the fly had landed somewhere, or possibly expired as he read the journal. The chair legs scraped against the floor tiles as Anton rose. He scooped one stack of documents into his satchel, along with the journal, and took the rest in a paw. He strode down the aisle, through one late-afternoon beam of sunshine and after another, leaving swirls of dust motes in his wake. He mumbled to himself as he walked toward the librarians’ desk, “I wonder if any of the other factions have what I’m looking for… hell, I wonder if any of ‘em have anything at all? Who to ask… who to ask…” Anton was composing a cautiously-worded letter of inquiry in his head as he exited the library, headed for the Echo Airfield.


A-Team/Matlock fanfic. Yeah, I don’t know why either.

September 23, 2008 - Leave a Response

Hannibal sat out on the small deck in the team’s latest hideout, savoring a cigar in the evening air. Inside the dingy Cape Cod home, B.A. and Face played a desultory game of gin rummy. Thus it was that Hannibal was the first member of the A Team to see the young woman approaching. She looked nervous, and clutched her purse to her chest.

“Um, are you Mr. Hannibal?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he replied, removing his cigar. “Is there some sort of problem, miss?”

“Well, I, uh, I was told that you could… help people with unusual problems.”

“Who told you that?” Hannibal asked, leaning forward on the railing. Face emerged from the front door, and smiled at the young brunette.

“Dianne!” he exclaimed. “How are you? Do you still have that problem you told me about at the health club?”

Just then, B.A. appeared behind Face. “What’s going on here?” he grumbled.

Hannibal grinned around his cigar. “Why don’t we all go inside and discuss this matter?” he suggested.

The quartet sat around a battered table in the small kitchen and Dianne poured out her tale of woe.

“ I’m having a party,” she began.

“I love a party!” interrupted Face.

Dianne gave him a pained look, and he looked abashed and motioned for her to go on. “I mean, I’m having a party right now. I’ve been having it for three days now, and I can’t…” She broke off, beginning to cry.

Hannibal placed a fatherly hand on her arm. “It’s okay, honey. Tell us what the problem is. Maybe we can help. For a fee.”

“It’s this one… guest. He just. Won’t. Leave. He showed up two hours early, ate all the appetizers, and now it’s three days later and he just sits there, rambling on and on. Every time I think he’s drifted off to sleep, he opens his eyes and tells another rambling story about some case or other… it’s awful!” She burst into tears again, clearly at the end of her tether.

Hannibal exchanged a look with Face and B.A. They nodded back to him. This was a job for the A-Team.

The first order of business was to break Murdock out of the mental hospital where he resided. Next, Face adopted several disguises while the rest of the team drugged B.A. and dumped him unceremoniously into a helicopter, which Murdock flew somewhere for no apparent reason.

In no time at all, the A-Team found themselves at the “party,” facing their adversary: an elderly man in a light grey suit, telling rambling stories about his exploits as a simple country lawyer.

“Friend, I’m giving you fair warning, it’s time to leave this party,” said Hannibal, flanked by Face, B.A., and Murdock. Dianne hovered nervously to one side.

“Way-el, I don’t know about that,” replied Ben Matlock (for that was who the long-past-his-welcome guest was) “I think there might still be a few hot dogs somewhere. And I don’t believe you boys are in possession of the full facts of the case, neither.”

“We’ll just see about that,” said Hannibal with his trademark cheery grin. The A-Team gathered around in a huddle at a signal from their leader. “We’ll need a plan,” whispered Hannibal. “Face, you go don another disguise and flirt with some generic blondes. B.A., you weld some shit to a tractor or something. Murdock, bark and pretend you’re a dog and fetch a bunch of machine guns, and meanwhile, I’ll be avuncular and keep an eye out for colonel Decker. Then, once you all get that done, we’ll stand about five feet away from the old bugger and shoot the hell out of everything but him while B.A. drives his armored John Deere around in circles. Got it?” The team nodded their assent.

Meanwhile, Matlock dispatched his investigator to the kitchen and stalled Dianne with legal anecdotes and folksy wisdom.

Just as the A-Team burst back onto the scene, firing wildly and flanked by a John Deere lawn tractor outfitted with armor plate and a turret, Matlock’s investigator came running into the room.

“You were right, Matlock! There were still hot dogs in the kitchen! This changes everything!” he yelled, and everything came to a halt. Matlock accepted the hot dog brandished by Tyler Hudson, his investigator, and took a big bite.

“Mmmm. That’s a good hot dog. Tyler, I do believe we can take our leave of Miss Dianne now,” Matlock said with a smile. He rose slowly to his feet and shuffled out the front door.

“I love it when a plan comes together,” said Hannibal, lighting a fresh cigar amid the bullet-riddled wreckage of Dianne’s living room.

“I pity the foo’ got to listen to that old man talk,” exclaimed B.A. while Murdock barked and Face took Dianne’s hand and kissed it.

Motors and Misery: a duel thing

June 26, 2008 - Leave a Response

The first day, the sea air was bracing, the motion of the ship a constant thrill. Anne Geraghty walked the railings until the stewards herded the steerage passengers belowdecks. The portholes were opened in the calm coastal waters, and the briny tang permeated even to the lowest decks. The first night, the clank-tump, clank-tump of the steam engines and the whummm-whummm of the propellers was a thrill; the life of the ship stirred the soul of even the most jaded sailor, and its effect on the passengers was electric.

Anne sat upon her narrow bunk in the gloom, fingering the rosary her mother had pressed into her hands at the dockside. Across the room, a mother no older than herself chivvied her two daughters into their bed, above Anne’s head dangled the feet of a sullen dark girl who only muttered that she was a Dubliner and named Sally before turning resolutely inward. So strange, to hold the beads between fingers that didn’t ache from the spinning wheel, the crucifix cupped in palms not blistered by a garden hoe. Anne smiled to herself, still full of ham and potatoes and butter from her “wake” two nights before.

The last day, Anne lay in her bunk, in a fog of stale air. The girl above her hadn’t moved in days, except to lean over the side of her pallet and puke. The two little girls had dissolved from giggling waifs into whining shin-kicking brats before succumbing to the malaise that gripped the older women. Their mother, pale with dark smudges under her eyes, had ceased to do anything but the most mechanical tasks of parenting.

The clank-tump, clank-tump and the whummm-whummm shivered through the iron bones of the ship. Anne dreaded each breath of the miasma in the cramped berth, and she kept her left hand pressed against the cool iron bulkhead. Her thoughts meandered far from gloomy berth, far from the grey stone house of her childhood. She thought instead of the golden streets of New York, where every newspaper was filled with ads for positions open to smart young women. She imagined buying (with her own money!) dime novels about lasses and lads who made themselves into respectable citizens through honesty and hard work.

The whumm-whumm ended abruptly the morning of August 6, 1904, and then the clank-tump, clank-tump ended on a solitary clank. Anne’s heart held still for a long moment as well, then thudded. She sat up in her bunk and touched the quiet iron bulkhead once more.

Anne Geraghty. 23 years of age, female, single. Embarked: Ballinasloe, Ireland, aboard the Campania, bound for New York City. One of thousands.

Reconquista v.1

June 11, 2008 - Leave a Response

Ah… once his, and rightfully so again soon, by the grace of God and Santiago. She lay spread out before him, and he could see in his waking dream the crenellated folds, the rolling curves blending into a sensual whole that existed as much in his mind as in his eyes. The air shimmered in the heat of the midday sun, making him glad of the shade. A rich country, once known and now to be rediscovered. Retaken.

He saw her now as a woman, ripe for seduction… his lips formed words, and he knew not if he spoke them aloud. “He regresado, mi amor…” I have returned. “He venido para usted…” I have come for you.

Then in a rush of color and soft rustling, an ecstatic vision so vivid he was ready to hear an angel’s voice, it was as if she rose, a vision in tan and olive and the bright shimmering blue of a stream in the summer sun. He was frozen where he stood, unable to even drop to his knees in adoration, as she swayed away from him. His heart yearned to follow her, straining against the cage of his ribs. It leapt anew as the vision returned, closer, ever closer.

As soft music from his past began to sound in his ears, he saw her lips, and they formed words, and the words were, “Claro que sí.”

A voice, gentle and sweet, arose within the tune… “I met my old lover on the street last night. She seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled. And we talked about some old times, and we had ourselves some beers, still crazy after all these years.”

The lips touched his, and he once again lived within her.

Reconquista v.2 – a duelling thing

June 11, 2008 - Leave a Response

Ah… once his, and rightfully so again soon, by the grace of God and Santiago. She lay spread out before him, and he could see in his waking dream the crenellated folds, the rolling curves blending into a sensual whole that existed as much in his mind as in his eyes. The air shimmered in the heat of the midday sun, making him glad of the shade. A rich country, once known and now to be rediscovered. Retaken.

He saw her now as a woman, ripe for seduction… his lips formed words, and he knew not if he spoke them aloud. “He regresado, mi amor…” I have returned. “He venido para usted…” I have come for you.

He sensed the armor that was a part of him ever since he was cast out, a burden willingly borne. It was a protection in his time away. Time spent too long in the wilderness, too long among those who did not understand his devotion. A bead of sweat stung his eye and he roughly dragged a hand across his brow. He inhaled, and the heady earthen scent of her filled his chest. Inchoate memories swarmed through his thoughts and he was lost.

Then, a rush of color and soft rustling, an ecstatic vision so vivid he was ready to hear an angel’s voice. He saw her rise, a vision in tan and olive and the bright shimmering blue of a stream in the summer sun. He was frozen where he stood, unable to even drop to his knees in adoration as she swayed away from him. His heart yearned to follow her, straining against the cage of his ribs. It leapt anew as the vision returned, closer, ever closer.

As soft music from his past began to sound in his ears, he saw her lips, and they formed words, and the words were, “Claro que sí.”

A voice, gentle and sweet, arose within the tune… “I met my old lover on the street last night. She seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled. And we talked about some old times, and we had ourselves some beers, still crazy after all these years.”

The lips touched his, and he once again lived within her.

A word-duel thing, on the theme of “Commitment.”

June 5, 2008 - Leave a Response

His hand shook slightly, giving him pause.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered under his breath. “You know how to do this…”

The sunlight streaming in through the window twinkled on the steel tray at his side. He wiped his brow on a sleeve, careful not to touch his hand to anything at all. It was hardly a sterile field, he knew, but at least it was sanitary. So far.

“Need to do this. Has to be done. No one else to do it.”

These thoughts streamed through his head, an endless loop riding a current of anxiety. The scapel held lightly between rubber-sheathed fingers steadied.

The blade met with slight pressure at first touch, then slid through the flesh, tugging the skin slightly before parting it. Ruby fluid welled up in its path, less than he had expected. He chuckled a bit to himself, realizing that he’d imagined spurting blood everywhere.

He withdrew the scalpel, setting it on the tray, where the blood seemed to absorb the sun. The sight transfixed him briefly, before the urgent job before him reclaimed his attention.

“So many years… do I count high school? Residency?”

He pondered, trying to imagine when he hadn’t dreamt of this, of holding a blade above a damaged being, ready to excise a malignancy or repair a flaw. He’d relied on this dream many times to pull him through dark moments and long nights. But more often, he’d relied on his faith, the faith that guided his every action. This faith, exercised in a physically perfected body, might pave the way for spiritual perfection.

“No more distractions.”

A second deep inspiration of breath steeled his resolve. Taking up a set of forceps, he nosed into the incision and carefully probed for what he knew to be the problem. The forceps opened, gripped, and he rotated his hand, freeing the mass from its fragile mooring within the cavity. He pulled, holding the forceps with just enough pressure to maintain a grip. The skin spread around the ovoid, meaty mass as he tugged it gently through the incision. A single thread of tissue trailed behind it, and once he’d laid the mass on a towel next to the incision, he reached for the scalpel and severed this last connection.

He wiped more sweat away, dabbing at his nose with the sleeve of the white gown he’d donned for the procedure. “Oh, Lord, I know that we are never given more than we can handle…” The words, often repeated, sounded in his ear as though they came from his mother’s lips.

“Mother knows, she knows.”

She had known of his dream to become a physician, even before he had, it seemed. “To serve as a physician,” she had always put it. Once more he’d have to enter the wound, probing for the second mass, excising the tissue, and once more he did. “Finally free, finally free…” he thought as he placed a pair of stitches into his scrotum with shaky hands. “Finally free.”

How We Fly

May 8, 2008 - Leave a Response

How We Fly

“It’s really simple, actually. The balancing of four forces: lift, drag, propulsion, and gravity. Five, if we’re talking about lighter-than-air flight, which adds in buoyancy as a factor. Lift is produced by the airfoil moving through the air.” The instructor taps his pointer on the chart. “Drag is the result of air resistance,” Another tap. “Propulsion propels it forward,” Another tap. “And gravity… sucks.” He waits for the students to laugh, which they do, hesitantly.

The ground school continues, the instructor going by rote, and the students tolerating his nasal drone. Yaw, pitch, and roll, and the actions of control surfaces… ailerons, rudders, elevators, pitch, attitude, stalls, p-factor, torque… all these terms, and many more, are recited and copied down into notebooks. The air hangs heavy in the small room behind the hangar. A solitary housefly buzzes at the one dingy window, ticking against the glass.

Finally, by mid-afternoon, the instructor , now slightly hoarse, finishes his lecture. The student rouse from their lethargy, and file out onto the tarmac. There they are chivvied into line by a second instructor, and old, grizzled dingo dressed in a flight suit complete with leather helmet, goggles, and silk scarf. He stalks up and down in front of a row of training aircraft, glaring at the twelve would-be pilots.

“So!” he barks at last. “So, you think you are going to be pilots…” The students stand at a sloppy approximation of attention, startled by the abrupt declaration.

The instructor stalks up the line, and back down it, before wheeling on the students once more. “Well? Do you?”

“Yessir,” comes the ragged chorus of replies.

The instructor answers with a skeptical snort. “We’ll see about that. You might all fly planes someday… but we’ll just see if there are any pilots among ya.” With a final glare up and down the line he barks out “Diiismiss!” and nods to a group of junior instructors lounging by the hangar doors. The junior instructors, tasked with primary flight instruction, arise and mill among the students, pairing up with them. Each pair traipses off to a waiting biplane, where quiet conversations are held.

“So… any flight experience before you got to Echo?” asks a lanky fox, smiling at his student.

“Um… just a little. My older brother let me hold the controls once in a while,” replies the young monkey, blushing a little. She shuffles her feet nervously. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

“Nah… just have to ask is all. I’m Reggie, by the way.”

“Abigail,” she replies. “Nicetameetcha.”

“Same here. Lemme show ya what we’re gonna do.” The fox indicates the wing on the right side of the old biplane. “Just step on the black part there… that’s it, and climb into the front cockpit and have a seat.” He waits for her to do so, then assists her with the seatbelt. “Ok. Now. The controls. Here’s the stick. That controls the elevator and ailerons. The pedals down there by your feet… “ he leans into the cockpit from his vantage point on the wing, pointing down into the footwell, “…move the rudder. They’re just like the handlebars on a bike, you push the right side to go left, and the left side to go right. Go ahead and try it. You can see the rudder turn if you look behind you, or in the mirror up there.” He points at a small convex mirror mounted on the trailing edge of the top wing. “Good. Now, the throttle is here, “He points to a lever with a round red knob on the end on the left side of the cockpit. “And that’s your primary flight controls. Any questions so far?”

The fox goes on to explain the instruments and engine controls, and points out a laminated checklist for the preflight and engine start procedures. He quizzes the young monkey, all the while keeping up a calm, encouraging demeanor. After going through the engine start checklist one more time, he climbs into the rear cockpit, and leans forward. “Okay, put your headphones on…” He does the same, and then says into his microphone. “You got me?”

“Yes, I hear you, do you hear me?” comes Abigail’s soft voice over the intercom system.

“Gotcha.” Reggie leans out and waves to a waiting mole. The mole steps up to the front of the plane, and waits. Reggie sets the mixture, turns on the fuel petcock, and cracks the throttle, and then yells, careful to cover the microphone with a paw, “Contact!” The mole grabs a propeller tip with his powerful claws and gives the big wooden prop a swing. A gentle coughing comes from the engine, which wheezes to a stop. Reggie looks up and catches Abigail’s eyes in the mirror. “No worries,” he says over the intercom. He then leans back out and nods to the mole. “Contact!”

Once again, the mole gives the prop a swing, and this time the engine coughs, coughs again, and catches, the propeller spinning almost instantly into a blur. Reggie gives the young monkey another smile in the mirror, and watches as the mole pulls the wheel chocks away. Across the field, the other biplanes are sputtering to life as well. Reggie selects the tower frequency, and presses the push to talk button. “Echo Three Four, ready to depart, primary training flight,” he says crisply.

“Echo 3-4, you are cleared for takeoff, runway 9,” crackles the answer over the radio. In the front cockpit, Abigail looks around, wide-eyed, as the biplane begins to bounce across the turf to the runway. Upon reaching the edge of the runway, Reggie stops the plane. “Now, remember, always stop at the hold short line, scan for traffic, and make your departure call,” he tells Abigail over the intercom, then radios, “Echo 3-4, departing runway 9 to the practice area, Echo 3-4.” The engine roars as the throttle advances, and the craft lurches into position. Reggie calls out the airspeed as the plane begins to rumble down the runway. “30, 40, 50, we bring the tail up,” He presses forward on the stick, and the tail rises obediently. “60, 65, and we ease up a bit and let her fly off.” He lets the stick back slightly, and the plane lifts gently into the air. “We’re still in ground effect now, so we let the airspeed build a little, 70, 75, there we go, and now we’re at our best climb.” Reggie looks up again, and sees that the young monkey is looking out and down, watching the ground fall away from them. Reggie chuckles to himself.

Once they reach an altitude 1500 feet above the skyland, the fox calls over the intercom. “You ready to take her?”

The monkey’s eyes widen. “R-really?” she stutters.

“Sure… you’ve held the stick before.Remember how we transfer control? I say ‘you have the airplane,’ you take the stick and say ‘I have the airplane,’ and I let go and say ‘you have the airplane.’”


“You have the airplane.”

“I have the airplane.”

“You have the airplane.”

Abigail takes the controls, while Reggie relaxes his grip on the stick. She holds the joystick tightly in one paw, feet firmly on the rudder pedals, and other paw resting on the throttle. “Is that okay?” she asks.

“You’re doing fine. Now, let’s try a turn to the left. Just push the stick a little to the left, and once the wings tilt, center it again.” She complies, and the biplane banks left, revealing the green fields below. Reggie gently coordinates the turn for her with the rudder pedals, explaining what he is doing as he does so. They make a series of gently turns, and Reggie demonstrates slow flight, with the nose pitched up and power added to maintain their altitude, while Abigail looks down to see how they are barely making headway across the skyland below. He performs stalls for her too, grinning as her giggles come over the intercom when she feels the plane drop abruptly as the wings lose lift. He lets her fly through a stall herself, assisting with the recovery.

After two hours of boring holes in the sky, Reggie takes the controls from his student and brings the craft back to the training field for a landing. The prop slow and stops, and the fox climbs out first, then helps the young monkey to the ground. She’s wrung out but ecstatic, and nearly bouncing on her feet as she stands next to the tail. Reggie smiles at her, and says, “And that, Abigail, is how we fly.” She grins, and scampers across the turf toward the dorms.

Later that evening, in the hangar office, the instructors are turning in notes on their students to the chief instructor. As Reggie passes the clipboard to the old dingo, he remarks, “This one, whassername, Abigail? She might just be one of your ‘real pilots.’ You’ll wanna watch her.” The dingo grunts noncommittally, and Reggie shrugs his shoulders. The fox walks away, trotting to catch up with the gaggle of fellow instructors. “Hey, Bob, your round first, right?” He claps a cat on the back, and is greeted with laughter from the others and a snort from the cat named Bob. Their cheerful chatter fades into the darkening sky as they make their way down the lane towards the local pub.

hardly working

April 4, 2008 - Leave a Response

The Wayward Skyrate

March 29, 2008 - Leave a Response

Wayward Skyrate Demo

Here ’tis… “The Wayward Skyrate,” as written by Akia Tsume, with music by Anton Knappekat.

Best sung with grog in hand, in the company of skyrates.

Hello Skytopia!

March 29, 2008 - One Response

I s’pose, what with everything happening in my life… I ought to be keeping a diary. So here it is. “Dear Diary…”

[note: This is the diary of Anton Knappekat, a Skyrate flying the friendly and not-so-friendly skies of Skytopia, a world of water, sky, and a very few scraps of land floating in mid-air…]