Hi! My name's Kiki. I normally write X-files Fanfiction, but I just ADORE
Samurai Jack. This show rocks. So, to that end, I decided to write a
story. What I'm going to try to do is mimic the bold, stark style of the
show's art in my writing.
Translation? "Hemmingway on acid." I'll be straight with you --- this might be good, and it might suck. You be the judge. Please R/R or send some feedback to kcabou@hotmail.com.
Disclaimer: I don't own jack.
Category: Story/Adventure/Drama
Summary: Jack gets help when he really needs it, and then nobly repays the favor.
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
THE VILLAGE AT THE END OF THE EARTH
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
***
Part One: "Snow."
***
White.
Powder in his face. Freezing needle pricks against his squinting eyelids.
Scratching wind. Biting cold.
Head bent, Jack trudged through the blizzard. His gi sleeves met in the middle, and he hid his face like a prim geisha. He stumbled forward.
He was nowhere. He'd been walking steadily for three days now. His feet were blue. He was lost and freezing, but too tired to admit to either condition.
Finally, he stopped. His will was giving out. Spots were dancing before his eyes. He lowered his sleeves and let the wind whip him in the face.
The sun was bright overhead. Dead trees, dark stains against the pale sky, surrounded him on either side. He was walking through a forest that time forgot. That life forgot. There was no sound around him except the rush of snow.
His senses would have been on alert, had he not been so tired and hungry. The small food pouch on his hip was empty. He could feel the bones in his pelvis move under his skin when he walked, now. Hardly a good sign. His bread had run out that morning. The blizzard had robbed him of opportunities to forage.
So Jack stopped to catch his breath and looked at the frozen earth beneath his sandals. He did not see the cluster of orange eyes peering out from between the dead trees.
Whoosh!
The first bandit swooped in, tackled him, and threw him to the ground. Jack tried to gather his wits, but it was too late. Another was already on him, and another, and another. They were large and ugly, feathered and screeching.
Crows. Huge, vicious birds, the size of men. Orange eyes. Sharp beaks. And massive, nasty-looking wings, with the feathers sticking out in all directions.
Jack's world of white exploded into green and red and blue as they hit him. Across the face. In the back. The side. The leg. Finally, one grabbed him by the neck, and demanded money from him.
"I . . . I have none!" he choked out, and spat blood.
"Balderdash!" shrieked the head crow. He dropped Jack and pointed at him. "Take!" he yelled at his minions. "Take what you will! The man is dead anyway!"
And they took. Jack felt his gi snatched right off his back, his sandals ripped from his feet. One yank and his long tresses fell down into the snow. They'd taken his hair tie.
But the glint of the sword scared them. They didn't touch it. They left his obi, and his underwear, and pawed through the pockets of his clothes. He lay in the snow and let the world swim.
They poked holes in his garments with their beaks, trying to see if he had a coin purse. Minutes passed. They turned Jack's possessions inside out. They found nothing. And they grew angry.
They released their frustration on Jack.
One bird grabbed the helpless man and hefted him up. With an ear-piercing screech, he hurled Jack into the nearest tree. The warrior hit the trunk, then bounced off and landed on the ground. The others set upon him like lions upon a wildebeest.
Feathers flew. Pale limbs danced. Loud, angry noise filled the wood.
Finally, they threw Jack's tattered clothes over him and left, cawing and clucking over their misfortune of finding someone poorer than they. And they flew away.
Jack lay in the snow under the bushes. He was barely breathing, bleeding from the attack.
But one of his feet was sticking out in the road.
"Nee me ah wa neh, neh, Oh me ah wa neh, neh," came a wobbly voice.
A wild-looking woman, fat about the belly and wise about the face, came clomping through the snow. She wore gray rags and a huge shawl. Her dark hair was graying, long and bushy, and stuck out in all directions. The sun had kissed her one too many times. Her skin was the color of baked earth. Her brown eyes, set deeply in her wind-whipped face, shone like beetle backs. She walked with a limp and carried a basket of herbs.
Around her neck she wore a simple necklace of shells. And a small pink bottle dangled between her sagging breasts.
"Nee me ah wa neh, neh," she chanted, searching the path ahead with her eyes. Then she stopped, excited.
"Ah ha," she said, in a rumbling alto, rubbing her hands together.
She shuffled towards a clump of bushes and began plucking some dead twigs off. She added them to her basket. Then she looked at the ground further up ahead. Something pale and not plant was sticking out of a bush.
She hurried to investigate, and peeked around the dead leaves.
"Ay ya!" she screamed.
She knelt with a grunt next to Jack, and considered what to do. Finally, the decision was made. She tore off her shawl and tied it to him like a cape. She looped his shredded gi through her waist sash. Put his sandals in her basket. Hooked the basket to her belt.
She grunted and groaned and finally stood, with Jack draped over her like a hide. His head hung limply over her shoulder. The shawl protected his bare back. The woman leaned her face into the biting wind.
And she began to walk back the way she'd come, carrying her burden. Chanting all the way.
END PART ONE.
Well, whaddaya think? Weird? Good? Both? Neither? Please R/R.
Translation? "Hemmingway on acid." I'll be straight with you --- this might be good, and it might suck. You be the judge. Please R/R or send some feedback to kcabou@hotmail.com.
Disclaimer: I don't own jack.
Category: Story/Adventure/Drama
Summary: Jack gets help when he really needs it, and then nobly repays the favor.
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
THE VILLAGE AT THE END OF THE EARTH
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
***
Part One: "Snow."
***
White.
Powder in his face. Freezing needle pricks against his squinting eyelids.
Scratching wind. Biting cold.
Head bent, Jack trudged through the blizzard. His gi sleeves met in the middle, and he hid his face like a prim geisha. He stumbled forward.
He was nowhere. He'd been walking steadily for three days now. His feet were blue. He was lost and freezing, but too tired to admit to either condition.
Finally, he stopped. His will was giving out. Spots were dancing before his eyes. He lowered his sleeves and let the wind whip him in the face.
The sun was bright overhead. Dead trees, dark stains against the pale sky, surrounded him on either side. He was walking through a forest that time forgot. That life forgot. There was no sound around him except the rush of snow.
His senses would have been on alert, had he not been so tired and hungry. The small food pouch on his hip was empty. He could feel the bones in his pelvis move under his skin when he walked, now. Hardly a good sign. His bread had run out that morning. The blizzard had robbed him of opportunities to forage.
So Jack stopped to catch his breath and looked at the frozen earth beneath his sandals. He did not see the cluster of orange eyes peering out from between the dead trees.
Whoosh!
The first bandit swooped in, tackled him, and threw him to the ground. Jack tried to gather his wits, but it was too late. Another was already on him, and another, and another. They were large and ugly, feathered and screeching.
Crows. Huge, vicious birds, the size of men. Orange eyes. Sharp beaks. And massive, nasty-looking wings, with the feathers sticking out in all directions.
Jack's world of white exploded into green and red and blue as they hit him. Across the face. In the back. The side. The leg. Finally, one grabbed him by the neck, and demanded money from him.
"I . . . I have none!" he choked out, and spat blood.
"Balderdash!" shrieked the head crow. He dropped Jack and pointed at him. "Take!" he yelled at his minions. "Take what you will! The man is dead anyway!"
And they took. Jack felt his gi snatched right off his back, his sandals ripped from his feet. One yank and his long tresses fell down into the snow. They'd taken his hair tie.
But the glint of the sword scared them. They didn't touch it. They left his obi, and his underwear, and pawed through the pockets of his clothes. He lay in the snow and let the world swim.
They poked holes in his garments with their beaks, trying to see if he had a coin purse. Minutes passed. They turned Jack's possessions inside out. They found nothing. And they grew angry.
They released their frustration on Jack.
One bird grabbed the helpless man and hefted him up. With an ear-piercing screech, he hurled Jack into the nearest tree. The warrior hit the trunk, then bounced off and landed on the ground. The others set upon him like lions upon a wildebeest.
Feathers flew. Pale limbs danced. Loud, angry noise filled the wood.
Finally, they threw Jack's tattered clothes over him and left, cawing and clucking over their misfortune of finding someone poorer than they. And they flew away.
Jack lay in the snow under the bushes. He was barely breathing, bleeding from the attack.
But one of his feet was sticking out in the road.
"Nee me ah wa neh, neh, Oh me ah wa neh, neh," came a wobbly voice.
A wild-looking woman, fat about the belly and wise about the face, came clomping through the snow. She wore gray rags and a huge shawl. Her dark hair was graying, long and bushy, and stuck out in all directions. The sun had kissed her one too many times. Her skin was the color of baked earth. Her brown eyes, set deeply in her wind-whipped face, shone like beetle backs. She walked with a limp and carried a basket of herbs.
Around her neck she wore a simple necklace of shells. And a small pink bottle dangled between her sagging breasts.
"Nee me ah wa neh, neh," she chanted, searching the path ahead with her eyes. Then she stopped, excited.
"Ah ha," she said, in a rumbling alto, rubbing her hands together.
She shuffled towards a clump of bushes and began plucking some dead twigs off. She added them to her basket. Then she looked at the ground further up ahead. Something pale and not plant was sticking out of a bush.
She hurried to investigate, and peeked around the dead leaves.
"Ay ya!" she screamed.
She knelt with a grunt next to Jack, and considered what to do. Finally, the decision was made. She tore off her shawl and tied it to him like a cape. She looped his shredded gi through her waist sash. Put his sandals in her basket. Hooked the basket to her belt.
She grunted and groaned and finally stood, with Jack draped over her like a hide. His head hung limply over her shoulder. The shawl protected his bare back. The woman leaned her face into the biting wind.
And she began to walk back the way she'd come, carrying her burden. Chanting all the way.
END PART ONE.
Well, whaddaya think? Weird? Good? Both? Neither? Please R/R.