A Whateley Academy Tale

Tea and Tears

by

E. E. Nalley

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
And I wish I was special
You're so fuckin' special
Radiohead, Creep

October 29th, 2007
Dawson House, Beacon Hill, Boston

Daniel sat in his study and felt the walls closing in around him. He didn't see the rich, yet understated furnishings of master craftsmen, nor the wealth that was collected in a small library of books that had always comforted him in times of trouble. He saw none of his favorite fowling pieces that hung on one wall, nor the mounted marlin that was nearly six feet long and the pride of his career as an amateur angler.

Nor did the view out of his family town home in the most affluent area of Boston comfort him as it once did. Whereas once it had been a sanctuary to rest from and plan for the next adventure of life with his love, now it was barren walls and empty furnishings. He no longer heard the laughter of his daughter echoing through time in the hallway, nor felt the slow boiling anger at being kept from his grandchild.

Nothing mattered except for the phone held listlessly in his hand and a text message that began 'We are sorry to inform you...'

Exploring the World of the Whateley Academy

The Last Ride of

"Black" Jack Kingston, United States Marshal

And His Immortals

by E.E. Nalley

Being a True Account of the Eureka County Mine War - Carlin, Nevada 1874
as told by James Howard "Gentleman Jim" Hallowell

September 1st, 1874
The Crystal Palace Theater and Saloon, Carson City Nevada

Looking back on the days of my misspent youth, and the passions that are the want of young men, I find myself in continuous marvel to have lived to see if not the autumn of my life, at least late summer. And desiring of nothing more exciting than an interesting hand of poker to allow my wallet to continue to fund the lifestyle to which I have grown accustomed, a wiser man would likely have known that fate would arrive to settle accounts at such a moment.

So in September of the Year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy four I found myself a customer of the fine hostel The Crystal Palace Saloon in Carson City Nevada, engaged in a lively game of my profession with a thespian eager to part ways with his cut of the evenings box office draw, a pair of cattlemen fresh with their pay from a drive who fancied themselves card players and the owner of the local chronicler of journalism the Daily Nevada Tribune.

Now poker is a game of odds, those interested in the newly forming science of prognostication, or statistical prediction, note that out of a deck of fifty two cards, the chance of getting any specific combination both increases and decreases with the number of cards in play in any given hand. Thus, if one has any kind of a head for numbers, one can calculate the strength of a given hand not only in its ranking vis-a-vis the rules of the game, but against the statistical likelihood that any of the other players has a combination capable of besting said hand. Likewise, if one is a student of the subtle motions and expressions of ones fellow players, a fair living can be made at the game, and I possess, if nothing else, a fair head for numbers and a keen eye of observation.

So it was that I should be holding three of the four ladies of the deck when in through the front door strolled an old war horse and law dog of my acquaintance, 'Black' Jack Kingston. Now, there are to my knowledge at least a dozen dime novels and God Himself only knows how many Penny Dreadfuls and lurid pulp magazines all scandalously sensational fabrications if not out right fictions about my friend Jack Kingston, but if ever a man could be said to be larger than life, he most certainly qualified. He was a mountain of a man, better than six and a half feet in his boots as he slowly entered, appraising the room. He still wore his union mantled frock coat, much faded now from his cavalry days.

A Whateley Academy Story

Imp 7: Imp-ervious to Reason

By Morpheus

Part 2

New Jersey, Monday morning, Nov 12^th 2007

New Jersey. The Garden State. Home of Tony Soprano, the Jersey Shore, the Toxic Avenger, and Fiddleback. In other words, the place was a complete dump. Then again, the Sopranos are pretty cool, so Jersey couldn’t be all bad.

Fiddleback’s lair didn’t look like much from the outside. It looked like a normal commercial building, though without any real windows. There was a sign out front that said, ‘RECLUSE VIOLIN MANUFACTURING’.

“At least it’s not a warehouse,” I commented. Some villains could be so unimaginative when it came to lairs. Any villain with real taste knows to use a nice comfy condo.

I carefully made my way around the building, keeping my distance as I did so and avoiding the cameras. The Shielders were nearby, along with Ryan, all waiting on my signal. They couldn’t do their jobs and play hero until I’d done mine.

“Just like any other heist,” I mused to myself. “Only with less time for planning.”