Over a decade ago, I used to frequent Google+. Probably not a good idea, but it had been fun for a while. One thing that the writers on G+ did was a weekly event called “Saturday Scenes”. It worked there because G+ would let people post long text posts. I think I had managed to get the entire Project Gutenberg ebook of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein into a single post, as a lark.
It worked as one might expect; on Saturday you’d post a scene from whatever fiction you were working on, or a bit of flash fiction, or an outtake. I actually wrote the following during the week while taking a break at my day job. You see, I sometimes write fight scenes when I’m bored.
"You think I can't be broken," said Morgan Cooper, his hand hovering over the hilt of a sword he still refused to draw, for doing so would signal that he had abandoned all hope of a nonviolent resolution. "I am broken. I am constantly broken. I had no mother or father; I was built in a lab and given to a couple as part of a psychological experiment. I was never allowed to escape the knowledge that I was made to be a weapon. I have been told, time and again, that my only purpose is violence. But I rebuild myself. By my own will am I resurrected, time and again, sacrificing myself to myself so that I might become stronger and more truly myself. You think there's nothing more to being a man than dominating others and taking what you want with impunity? Try that with me, if you dare. Or, if you still value your lives, surrender. Stand trial, face judgment for your crimes, and make restitution. I get paid the same either way, though I'd be lying if I pretended that I would not welcome an excuse to put every last one of you would-be rapists to the sword. All it would take is for one of you to pick up a weapon and take a step forward, and it'll be closed casket funerals for the lot of you. So, is anybody feeling suicidal today? I'm here to help."
One of them picked up a Kalashnikov. "Man, you sure like to talk for somebody standing alone against a couple dozen men. Who are you trying to impress, bringing a sword to a gunfight?"
THIS IS CONTROL, the message came to Morgan through his implant. SUSPECTS' RESISTANCE IS ON RECORD. ALL WEAPONS FREE. USE ALL NECESSARY FORCE TO PRESERVE YOUR OWN LIFE AND THOSE OF INNOCENTS.
That was all Morgan needed. He could have drawn his sword faster than any of his enemies' eyes could track, so that the black blade seemed to have sprung from the scabbard of its own accord as if it were forged of antichristium and possessed of its own demonic will instead of being a weapon forged by human technology with a matte black finish for stealth. Nonetheless, he refrained.
It was not enough for these gunman to know the fear of facing a swordfighter who had defied mass gunfire and lived to brag about it. It was time these boys learned what it meant to face not only one of the Phoenix Society's sworn Adversaries, but the only Adversary created by the AsgarTech Corporation's secret weapons program, the Einherjar Initiative. It was time they learned what it meant to face one who could stand alone against all odds. "By all means, gentlemen. Fire at will. There will be time enough to water the tree of liberty with your tyrannous blood while you try to reload."
"You and what army?" said another youth as he picked up a rifle, as if this were still kindergarten.
Childish as the question was, Morgan had hoped somebody would someday ask it, so that he would have an excuse to use this long-rehearsed rejoinder. "No army. Just me." Though Control had proclaimed that all weapons were to be brought into play, Morgan not only left his sword sheathed, but slung it across his back and peace-bound it so that it would not get in his way; it would be more fun to take these two dozen foes before him bare-handed, and with care they might all still live to face trial for their crimes. "I am more than enough for the likes of you."
The fusillade came. It always did, no matter how many times the tale of one Adversary facing a mass of armed men escaped the control of the Phoenix Society's propaganda department. For surely a single man could not stand alone against many and win unscathed. Nonetheless, Morgan stood untouched against the assault. No bullet could reach him, for his defiance was such that even the laws of nature yielded for a time to his implacable will. Hundreds of rounds hung suspended in the air, thirty each from twenty-four rifles fired on full auto, and fell clattering to the floor.
When the lead curtain parted, Morgan stood before them, the middle finger of his left hand before his lips. He blew them a kiss over its tip, just to rub it in.
This vulgar display of power would cost him hard -- for mitochondrial overdrive was not to be casually fucked with even by those built to wield conscious control over every cell of one's body -- but right now he was out of control and playing the ultimate role; this was what lit his fire. In the thunder and heat, here he was: a hellraiser weaving his spell. Though he was not on stage with Crowley's Thoth here, he was still a rock star, a tiger in the spotlight with all eyes on his performance.
Seeing that their guns had no effect, the assailants reached for knives. That suited Morgan equally well; none of their blades would cut or pierce him, but only a few could attack him at a time; he would incapacitate each in their turn, wondering when somebody would finally have the bright idea of trying mistletoe against him, as if he were Baldr himself. It would not work, of course, but it would still amuse Morgan to know that somebody else had been reading their Norse mythology.
The first assailant came, stabbing wildly, and Morgan dismissed him as if he were the attacker's father: with the back of his hand and sufficient force to send him sprawling without doing lasting harm. If his friends were here, they might remark that like his sword, Morgan's pimp hand never ran out of ammo.
I had recalled Saturday Scenes because an old friend from G+, Lisa Cohen recently got in touch with me over Signal after recently starting to pull my RSS feed. She’s got a new novel out herself called Litany for a Broken World. I’ve only read a couple of chapters so far, but what I’ve read is at least as good as her first novel, Derelict. She cites L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz as an influence, but there’s an organization involved that reminds me of a rather more sinister version of Michael Moorcock’s “League of Temporal Adventurers”.
As for Saturday Scenes: if you want to participate on your own website or blog, consider this your invitation. If enough people email me about it, I might compile a list of posts.