China Plates and Peas
un et seul
"Shut the fuck up! I am trying!" Kiera yelled, her muscles straining.
"Well you're obviously not trying hard enough Sterling, or something would be happening!" Sergeant Green boomed, slapping his gun against the inside of his thigh in an understated gesture of his impatience.
Kiera growled, redoubling her efforts to lift the tiny pea that sat in front of her on the white china plate. Her arms were tied tightly behind her back, the rough hessian rope cutting into her wrists where she pulled against them in an attempt to move something. Anything!
The pattern on the china was really beginning to piss her off now.
A gold rim covered the outside edge, and in the centre out sprung overly exuberant fairies, hyper enthusiasm spilling from their faces as they danced round a crimson toadstool. They seemed to look straight at her and laugh, pointing fingers at the useless determination that still creased her forehead.
"Arggh!" She screamed, the pea not budging a millimetre, even from the outward rush of air her shout had expelled.
"You're using your body still Sterling! You need to use your head!"
The Sergeant, a thin, bony man of perhaps fifty, was used to the behaviour of first recruits, though it didn't make his tone any less patronising. Neither did it lessen his internal desire to hit every Private sharply round the head with a book for the incompetence they showed. He had mastered Telekinesis on the very first day of training. The average private in this troupe took two years.
Intent on not releasing Sterling until she had succeeded in moving the pea, however slightly, Green settled down on the high-backed chair set opposite the private and the table. She was resting for a brief moment, flat chest heaving as she panted for air.
The one damned thing about the army, thought the sergeant, was the flat-chested women. The regime just didn't allow for bouncing bosoms. He settled down in a daydream of Mrs Green, a woman gracefully blessed in the breast area, zoning out the noise of the rifle range and private Sterling.
Kiera struggled for a moment, taking deep breaths to calm her fluttering heart. She hadn't known sitting still could take so much out of you- and she hadn't even moved the bloody pea. She'd shove it up the sergeant's behind if she could. She knew she could move it, knew it was just a matter of accessing the right part of her mind, shoving aside the non-existent barriers of reality which she herself had erected years ago.
She looked up briefly through the window, at the range ahead of her. Privates lined up together, aiming weapons at the pinprick targets that lay on the distant horizon. Trying to gain the sense of peace she recalled from shooting, she closed her eyes and pictured her target; the pea.
Outside, Private James Kitchman was waiting for his turn on the field. He was always last, a miserable penance for being born into the gentility. He never understood why the others wouldn't let it go- for some reason the fact that he had insisted on starting at the bottom seemed worse than the idea of going straight to officer with a commission. He balanced the .38 Johnson on his palm, tossing it gently in the air and then spinning it round his trigger finger. At least Sterling was half decent to him. Then again, most of the girls were. It was enough to make the guys think he was gay.
He really wasn't.
He mused on the idea of walking in on Sterling naked, and decided that with that girl still alive, there was no reason for him to swing the other way. Whether she'd have him was another matter.
He levitated the gun with his thoughts, a drop of sweat trickling from his brow at the effort. Sometimes he doubted whether telekinesis was that big an asset for the corps, when they could barely lift their own guns. For god's sake, they practised on peas! Kitchman knew he was well above average on the count, though it didn't lend any help to his reputation.
"Kitchman! Was that you?" roared an Officer a little down the field.
"What ma'am?" he yelled back, the gun dropping to the ground in his confusion.
"Levitating the bleeding targets, that's what!"
"No ma'am, it wasn't," Kitchman replied, standing as the Officer stalked closer.
"If you're joshing with me..." she growled, brown eyes narrowing.
"No ma'am!" he repeated.
"I should hope not. And stop with the ma'am. It's sir regardless of my anatomy," she hissed.
"Yes ma- I mean sir, yes sir."
The officer gave him a last glare, then stalked away. Several wolf-whistles filled the air, surely aimed at the officer and not Kitchman.
"Owned!" shouted Ryans, a popular young Private, over his shoulder to Kitchman.
Kitchman fumed silently and picked his gun back up from the ground. He wiped it against his shirt sleeve, the shiny chrome dulled by dust. He sat back down on the wall, watching the targets in the distance, where they sat just as still as before.
Ryans took aim and fired.
With a jerk, the wood and straw discs shot several metres in the air, the round of bullets missing them by metres.
"Kitchman!" yelled Ryans and the Officer simultaneously.
"It's wasn't me, I swear!" he cowered, dropping his gun for the second time.
"I saw you glaring at them!" Ryans retorted, purple rage spreading swiftly across his face at the idea that his perfect average would be spoilt by a single shot.
"Put them down now!" shouted the Officer, pointing to the targets that still hovered in the distance.
"It's not me!" Kitchman pleaded.
"Well then who is-"
The entire corps turned to look at the mess hall, where Private Sterling was being tested for Telekinesis. A scream of frustration echoed towards them, then the booming voice of Sergeant Green as he admonished the 'dreadful' attempt.
A second scream replied to the remonstrate, and with the noise came a shattering moan of timber and concrete. As if the entire compound was crying out, the mess hall shuddered. The originally solid timber structure shattered, sending a high-pitched squeal across the pitch. The severed pieces of timber hung in the air, floating metres apart but still in perfect ratio of position. With a wrench, each private on the pitch found himself a metre above the ground, cushioned by seemingly solid air.
"Oh," came the surprised voice of Sergeant Green, as he found himself in a similar predicament.
Kitchman's mouth dropped, as he saw Sterling perched strenuously on the edge of her chair, eyes pressed tightly closed in concentration.
The pea remained as it was on the hideous china plate.
"Well you're obviously not trying hard enough Sterling, or something would be happening!" Sergeant Green boomed, slapping his gun against the inside of his thigh in an understated gesture of his impatience.
Kiera growled, redoubling her efforts to lift the tiny pea that sat in front of her on the white china plate. Her arms were tied tightly behind her back, the rough hessian rope cutting into her wrists where she pulled against them in an attempt to move something. Anything!
The pattern on the china was really beginning to piss her off now.
A gold rim covered the outside edge, and in the centre out sprung overly exuberant fairies, hyper enthusiasm spilling from their faces as they danced round a crimson toadstool. They seemed to look straight at her and laugh, pointing fingers at the useless determination that still creased her forehead.
"Arggh!" She screamed, the pea not budging a millimetre, even from the outward rush of air her shout had expelled.
"You're using your body still Sterling! You need to use your head!"
The Sergeant, a thin, bony man of perhaps fifty, was used to the behaviour of first recruits, though it didn't make his tone any less patronising. Neither did it lessen his internal desire to hit every Private sharply round the head with a book for the incompetence they showed. He had mastered Telekinesis on the very first day of training. The average private in this troupe took two years.
Intent on not releasing Sterling until she had succeeded in moving the pea, however slightly, Green settled down on the high-backed chair set opposite the private and the table. She was resting for a brief moment, flat chest heaving as she panted for air.
The one damned thing about the army, thought the sergeant, was the flat-chested women. The regime just didn't allow for bouncing bosoms. He settled down in a daydream of Mrs Green, a woman gracefully blessed in the breast area, zoning out the noise of the rifle range and private Sterling.
Kiera struggled for a moment, taking deep breaths to calm her fluttering heart. She hadn't known sitting still could take so much out of you- and she hadn't even moved the bloody pea. She'd shove it up the sergeant's behind if she could. She knew she could move it, knew it was just a matter of accessing the right part of her mind, shoving aside the non-existent barriers of reality which she herself had erected years ago.
She looked up briefly through the window, at the range ahead of her. Privates lined up together, aiming weapons at the pinprick targets that lay on the distant horizon. Trying to gain the sense of peace she recalled from shooting, she closed her eyes and pictured her target; the pea.
Outside, Private James Kitchman was waiting for his turn on the field. He was always last, a miserable penance for being born into the gentility. He never understood why the others wouldn't let it go- for some reason the fact that he had insisted on starting at the bottom seemed worse than the idea of going straight to officer with a commission. He balanced the .38 Johnson on his palm, tossing it gently in the air and then spinning it round his trigger finger. At least Sterling was half decent to him. Then again, most of the girls were. It was enough to make the guys think he was gay.
He really wasn't.
He mused on the idea of walking in on Sterling naked, and decided that with that girl still alive, there was no reason for him to swing the other way. Whether she'd have him was another matter.
He levitated the gun with his thoughts, a drop of sweat trickling from his brow at the effort. Sometimes he doubted whether telekinesis was that big an asset for the corps, when they could barely lift their own guns. For god's sake, they practised on peas! Kitchman knew he was well above average on the count, though it didn't lend any help to his reputation.
"Kitchman! Was that you?" roared an Officer a little down the field.
"What ma'am?" he yelled back, the gun dropping to the ground in his confusion.
"Levitating the bleeding targets, that's what!"
"No ma'am, it wasn't," Kitchman replied, standing as the Officer stalked closer.
"If you're joshing with me..." she growled, brown eyes narrowing.
"No ma'am!" he repeated.
"I should hope not. And stop with the ma'am. It's sir regardless of my anatomy," she hissed.
"Yes ma- I mean sir, yes sir."
The officer gave him a last glare, then stalked away. Several wolf-whistles filled the air, surely aimed at the officer and not Kitchman.
"Owned!" shouted Ryans, a popular young Private, over his shoulder to Kitchman.
Kitchman fumed silently and picked his gun back up from the ground. He wiped it against his shirt sleeve, the shiny chrome dulled by dust. He sat back down on the wall, watching the targets in the distance, where they sat just as still as before.
Ryans took aim and fired.
With a jerk, the wood and straw discs shot several metres in the air, the round of bullets missing them by metres.
"Kitchman!" yelled Ryans and the Officer simultaneously.
"It's wasn't me, I swear!" he cowered, dropping his gun for the second time.
"I saw you glaring at them!" Ryans retorted, purple rage spreading swiftly across his face at the idea that his perfect average would be spoilt by a single shot.
"Put them down now!" shouted the Officer, pointing to the targets that still hovered in the distance.
"It's not me!" Kitchman pleaded.
"Well then who is-"
The entire corps turned to look at the mess hall, where Private Sterling was being tested for Telekinesis. A scream of frustration echoed towards them, then the booming voice of Sergeant Green as he admonished the 'dreadful' attempt.
A second scream replied to the remonstrate, and with the noise came a shattering moan of timber and concrete. As if the entire compound was crying out, the mess hall shuddered. The originally solid timber structure shattered, sending a high-pitched squeal across the pitch. The severed pieces of timber hung in the air, floating metres apart but still in perfect ratio of position. With a wrench, each private on the pitch found himself a metre above the ground, cushioned by seemingly solid air.
"Oh," came the surprised voice of Sergeant Green, as he found himself in a similar predicament.
Kitchman's mouth dropped, as he saw Sterling perched strenuously on the edge of her chair, eyes pressed tightly closed in concentration.
The pea remained as it was on the hideous china plate.