The Lords of the Middle Air

This is the half idea that came to me this morning for the Stage. It's not very good, it's not finished, and it doesn't really tell you anything. But maybe it'll spark some controversy and some other ideas. Inspiration comes from everywhere, right?

She was late. She should have been there at least a half an hour ago. The Dawnwalker was going to be very upset with her when they finally met, but she couldn’t have helped it, really. She had taken the advice of that idiot Silversmith and rode a ship through the Inter’verse Winds. He had assured her that it would get her to her destination faster, but it had been a catastrophe. Next time, she’ll just walk, thank you very much.
She couldn’t wait to get her hands around that moron’s neck. He was going to regret lying to her. He was going to regret ever meeting her.
Her hair was a mess, her scarf was askew, and her jacket didn’t sit right on her back anymore. Not to mention, her shoes were drenched.
She stalked down the rusted, crumbling hallway, passing door after door. None of them had any numbers or significant markings on them—they all looked the same. This was one of those places where you could only get to where you were going if you knew your way around. The Walkers liked it that way because they hated being bothered by strangers.
When she came to the appropriate door, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open. She didn’t knock or announce herself. There wasn’t any need. He knew who she was and why she was here. And he would probably be angry if she interrupted his procedure.
He sat in the middle of the room, kneeling down on his shins. The floor was covered in small candles, all lit up, in no particular order or pattern. He chanted a whispered mantra about the contrasts of light and void.
About a foot and a half away from him was a girl, trapped inside the invisible barrier of a large arcane circle. Enochian symbols were written on the floor and on the ceiling above her head, outlining the poor girl’s prison walls.
The young girl starting screaming at her to help, to get her out of there, but she didn’t move. She could see the girl’s mouth forming words, could see the terror and desperation in her eyes, but no sound was heard.
“You’re late,” the Dawnwalker spoke out loud. He turned his head and looked up at her, treating her to the full sight of his strange, scarred face. Meaningful lines and tattoos covered his features (even his eyelids), and his smile was ghostly.
She stood her ground, refusing to show how unnerved she was. Dawnwalkers creeped her out, no matter how much she used them or spent time around them. There was just something so wrong about beings who marked up their own faces that badly.
“I know,” she replied. “Got caught up in the Winds. That’s why I don’t look as pretty as I usually do.”
His smile grew ever so slightly wider as his eyes scanned down her body. Ew. She mentally shuttered. She shouldn’t have said anything. She needed to learn to curb her tongue better.
“Okay. Let’s get on with this.” She huffed a breath and took a few steps toward the girl in the circle. She was pretty, the obvious perfect sacrifice.
This was a new venture, a path as of yet unexplored by the general population. Using Dawnwalkers was common enough, but there were few people willing to brave a chat with the Ones that she would be chatting with.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said to the girl. “I know that doesn’t count for much, but under the circumstances, it’s really all you got.”
The girl’s lips moved fast, asking questions.
“Look, it’s nothing you did,” she replied to the silent inquiry. “It’s not like this is about you. It’s just the way things go sometimes. I need to talk to someone extremely larger than this dimension and we need a conduit.”
Now the girl was crying and pleading.
“If we hadn’t chosen you, we would’ve picked another girl, and she would be going through the same thing you are. That doesn’t really change anything in the grand scheme of things, does it? It’s nothing personal. I promise to make them kill you quick.”
The girl lowered her head and cried, running one of her hands across her face.
“If it’s any consolation,” she whispered. “I’ll make your death mean a lot more than your life ever had.”
Then she turned around and walked to the other side of the room, rubbing her mouth. She had never done this before. Maybe this was the one road she shouldn’t follow. Maybe she should just call this whole thing off.
But, no. She couldn’t. She had to make this work, had to have an answer. There were a lot of people counting on the results of what was about to happen.
The Dawnwalker was staring at her, reading her thoughts like the pages of a book. His grin reached from ear to ear, and she wanted to smack it right off him. But that would require her touching him.
She waved her hand in their direction, a motion for the séance to begin. He turned around and proceeded with his magic.
It was a few minutes before everything started to take effect. Contrary to popular belief, nothing in the room glowed or flew around or shook. Nothing outside the circle seemed to be changing at all. There was no sound. Which was eerie and ominous, in and of itself. She might’ve preferred to see a little chaos.
Inside the circle, however, was a nightmare. The girl was screaming and writhing and gripping her head. She threw herself against the walls and kicked at nothing. Her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers twisted oddly.
There was a few seconds that passed that seemed like she was trying to peel something off her skin, or wipe away a substance that was adhering to her body. Then she breathed in a huge gulp of air and froze—eyes shut, legs separated, arms at her sides, fingers stretched out as far as they could, everything straining.
The Dawnwalker turned back to his client and said, “The sound-barrier is severed. You may converse.”
She took two steps closer to the circle and eyed the girl. “Who are you?” she asked.
The girl spoke with a slack-jawed expression, her eyes still closed. “We have many names. We are known by many peoples and many generations. They all speak of us, yet they do not know us or know that we are one and the same.”
“I’ll ask again,” she said. “Who are you?”
“We are the dark. The shadows at midnight. The Secret Scions of Limbo. We are the Caretakers of the Unborn and the Banished. We hide between the walls of the Inter’verse and watch all those who go there and never return. We are the Lords of the Middle Air.”
There. That was what she had been looking for. She would’ve smiled at her triumph, had it not cost her so much already. “Good,” she replied. “Then you can help me.”

Being a Writer Is Like Standing on the Edge of Sanity and At Any Moment You Could Fall

I have an idea.
To those of you who are fellow writers, I’m sure you understand the dire, irritating situation this puts me in. It’s not abnormal for me to have an idea, mind you, otherwise I wouldn’t be a very good writer. In fact, ever since I was thirteen years old, I’ve been working on at least five different stories at a time.
I have plenty of ideas on a daily basis. Anything from a movie quote to the title of a book can set off an idea; they’re a dime a dozen. If I ever feel a little useless and I need some inspiration, I can Google ideas or plots or what-have-you and find whatever I need.
But sometimes, writers can get caught and strangled by their own lifeline. Sometimes we get ideas that sink into the crevices of our brainpans and burn themselves into our minds like acid. They come at us sideways out of nowhere and sit on our shoulders for days, constantly nagging us to work on them.
If you have nothing better to do and you really need an idea, then this little goblin monster on your shoulders is your friend. He will stay with you during the midnight hours and fill up your notebooks with surprising, engaging story-material.
Unfortunately, writers like me never have a shortage of stories. Which means, me and this idea are at odds with each other. I do not have time to focus on it right now; I don’t know if I can give it the attention it needs.
Don’t glare at me like that, small little goblin creature. I am trying to carve out the format for the rest of my life! I don’t know where I’m going to be in five months! You are an awesome idea, and I would love to work on you, but you deserve to be free. You deserve a writer who is free.
Stop giving me the puppy-dog eyes!!
Another big problem with this particular idea is that it’s not something I can work on alone. The entire foundation for it is based on the accountability of other people—-namely, my friends. If I’m going to work on this, I’m definitely going to need all of them.
And they lead very busy lives, especially now. Everybody’s trying to find a job, half of them are leaving for college at the end of the summer, and the rest of us have a ton of school. I know almost better than anyone the demands of life and the downfalls of being involved with too many things.
Plus, scheduling is a major concern. This idea is on a pretty big scale and it’ll have some serious variables. I’m hoping to get as many people as I can to join—-friends and friends’ siblings and friends’ friends—-and it’s practically impossible to get them all together at once.
And I don’t even know if anyone will find this idea interesting. It’s almost not even an idea at all, it’s a idea-skeleton. I couldn’t really explain it to them because I don’t have it formatted yet. It’s not concrete enough to sell. It’s mud.
But the whole point of the idea is collaboration, so therefore I can’t format it without their help. I can’t move any further than I already have without ruining the idea. Which is part of the reason why I like it so much.
I like it because it would be fun. It might be educational. It would show talents in a new light. It would stretch imaginations and utilize everyone’s career paths. It would bring all my friends together in uncharted territory, forcing us to trust each other, with the main goal in mind.
It could be the next step in Wasted Paper’s evolution—-or at least, one more thing to look forward to. For me and a few others, it could be our senior project.
But I don’t even know if it’ll survive everyone’s scrutiny. In order for a bill to become law, it has to pass through both the House of Representatives and the Senate, and all their committees. Before it can be signed and presented to the public, it has to be rewritten to everyone’s approval, voted on numerous times, and be signed by the President (who could still veto it). This is much like the process I envision this idea going through.
But it’s a really good idea, I think. I can’t stop my mind from wandering back to it, imagining how it would pan out, what everyone would say, and what I would do if they liked it.
It’s okay if they don’t think they’re up to it, though. I wouldn’t force it on them. This idea strictly forbids that. I’m going to bring it up to everyone next Friday at Wasted Paper, so don’t freak out. You’ll find out soon enough.
I just sort of have this idea.