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Monday, November 28, 2011

Hey everyone who reads this!

I don't really post here anymore but if you follow me on protagonize you can read my new stuff there.

Thursday, June 23, 2011


The first of two prologues of a new story called Broken.

Prologue One: Walking

Beneath wet beads of sweat and cold drops of rain, he face is a twisted mask. Pain is there, obvious and up front, furrowing her visage with definite hurt. Under this, less obviously, desperation lurked, a little harder to make out. Lastly, invisible to all but those with the most trained eyes, a glimmer of hope lay, hidden in the vast shadow of the other darker emotions.

It is dark in the field, and she has been walking through it for hours. Exhaustion decorates the way she walks, a stumbling almost lost sort of lumber. Her left arm is twisted at a grotesque, impossible angle. There is a smear of blood around the twist, just under the elbow. Her right arm holds a bundle of blankets, and inside the blankets lays a small child. The child is screaming and crying but it is inaudible against the deafening pounding of the storm. A noise comes from her lips, an involuntary sort of grunting, breathy noise, a noise of absolute pain.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

The woman walks through the muck, slipping and sloshing her way through black mud, pushing apart the tall grass. She is so unbelievable tired and every instinct in her body tells her to stop and lay down in the mud, but she knows if she does this she lets the storm win and she lets it claim her life and that of her child’s forever.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

The rain increases its intensity. She continues to walk, struggling on. She is fighting a vicious, fierce battle with the heavens themselves, a battle she knows she might not win.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

She breaks out of the field onto a rural asphalt road and sighs a small sigh of relief. The solidness of the ground freshens her, much better then the soft, sucking sludge. She knows headway had been made in the war, but also knows this conflict for her life and her child’s is still a long way from an ending.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

It does not take long for the renewal that the road gave her to wear thin. Soon the dull throb of pain begins to slow her again, the exhaustion creeping back like a disease. Her eyes drift close, then snap back open with a jolt. Never in her life has she been so tired, never before has she wanted, no, needed the lovely reprieve of sleep so badly.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

There are no cars on the road, it is very late, most people lie sleeping in warm beds.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

One foot in front of the other, a steady, stable rhythm that lasts forever. Not as easy as it sounds. After a while, your tired legs begin to stiffen, become awkward boards, your feet become numb bricks. It feels like nothing else exists but the walking, and you want to stop but you can’t. After a while, the walking becomes hell.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

Finally, she rounds a turn and sees the lights of a city. She almost falls down in relief, then catches herself, reminding herself yet again that the fight is not over. She resumes her walk, towards the shining stars of civilization.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

At last, the city. An eternity has passed since the muddy field, and two have gone by since the crash. The woman is on her last legs, falling to and fro like a wandering drunk. She looks around as she enters the city, but there are only darkened suburban houses, no one is awake. She continues to walk, and sobs of absolute desperation rock her. Has she really walked this far for nothing? Will they find the bodies of hers and her child’s in the morning, curled up and cold? No, she tells herself and presses onward.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

There, a figure. He or she or whoever it is is hurrying through the downpour, running for shelter. The woman yells, screams but she might as well be whispering, as her cry is silent in the thunderous storm.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.”

Then she looks down at her child, and all the hope rushes out of her. Because what she has seen is the worst thing in the world, a cold, unmoving form that is no longer screaming and crying. The woman falls to her knees, unaware of the sharp pain the ground brings with the sudden contact. Then she lets back her head and lets go a guttural inhuman howl that reverberates in the air. Every bit of energy she had is spent now, and she falls face first onto the hard concrete, the body of her child rolling away. The last thing she sees before the darkness takes her is the figure, having heard the howl kneeling in front of her, glowing star in hand.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

The Storm Two

The first two scenes from the storm, re-written.
I'm going to re-write what I have so far and see how it turns out
Chapter One: The Hitchhiker

The glowing light that displayed the time, 6:00 am, on the dashboard was not normally bright, sometimes it was hard to make out, but right now in the reflected dark light from the consistent rain it was easily visible, seemingly bright in contrast of the almost-darkness outside and inside the grey truck. The truck in question was speeding down Route 1, through dark morning rain, nearly alone on the road.

The man driving was a twenty-six year old named Noah Lawrence. Noah was around six two, weighing around two hundred pounds and had come out surprisingly successful and healthy in comparison to the rest of his family. The only one who was still alive was his mother, Ellen Lawrence who was still living in the house Noah grew up in, a small apartment on Fort Washington Avenue, in the Hudson Heights district of Manhattan. She was completely down on her luck and jobless, Noah had to send her consistent money to keep her from, as Noah hated to think about, prostituting herself on the streets. She had been a chronic drinker ever since his father, George Lawrence, a former dealer had been shot in an argument over half an ounce of weed. She had almost killed herself, but had passed out from too much vodka before her alcohol strangled brain could get off the child-safe cap on her Ibuprofen. Noah always had prided himself on shutting all this out while he was growing up, and had done well in school even as his father had started dropping hints Noah could start to assist him in the “family business.” He had moved out at seventeen, got a reliable job and apartment in a couple years, then lost both of these when both his father died and his mother attempted suicide, from the hospital bills to the consistent absence from work to the funeral bill to the therapy costs.

He had moved to Harrington, Maine, a small town, and had loved it there. He had got a job that he liked, and bought a small house. Everything was perfect for a while, a reliable money flow but recently, he had made a big mistake at his work and had been fired. In the last few months, as he scraped his resume together for applications, had realized it wasn’t very impressive. As rejection after rejection piled up, he began to get more desperate, more tired, more scared of failing to find a job until his savings, however substantial, ran out. That was why he was driving now, the twenty minute drive to Machias from Harrington through the cold morning rain.

Noah’s dark hazel eyes were accented by dark half-circles, he was very tired. No, tired was not the word for it, weary fit better. He was sick of looking for work, sick of it, sick of it, sick of it. The rain increased, as if his growing despair was fueling it. He flicked the button on the side of the wheel to increase the speed of the windshield wipers across the windshield, to combat the rain’s increase in ferocity. It spattered out a rhythmic, continuous beat that echoed through Noah’s body like the deep thrum of a base drum.

Dark clouds loomed overhead, and even darker ones lay on the horizon, like gigantic sleeping monsters. There was a flash, a zig-zag of lightning spiderwebbing across the sky and after Noah counted, one, two, three-there was a massive BOOM that drowned out everything for a moment.

“Three miles,” he said, to no one in particular. He said it again, enjoying the sound of his voice, something complex and sophisticated in the face of the monotonous rhythm of the rain.

The storm was growing, and to Noah, the beat of the rain and the darker clouds that he was speeding towards made him feel like this was just the beginning, the fledgling infant of something much bigger and much harsher. He stared out of the windshield through the droplets at the barely visible road, continuing his drive to Machias, towards the monsters on the horizon, diving ever-deeper into the growing storm.


The rain fell from the dark sky onto the tops of the trees, splattering against the leaves and continuing on to to run down the the dark pillars of bark and wood, finally hitting the earth to soak into the soil and saturate the ground. The weak morning light was already almost completely shut out by massive dark grey clouds and the overhead branches made it almost impossible to see down on the forest floor.

A tall, thick man was breaking through the forest, sprinting forward, dodging between trunks and crashing through small branches, arms up to shield his face, not worrying about tripping or falling, only focused on getting the fuck away from whatever he was running from. He was wearing filthy worn out jeans and a soaking maroon college sweatshirt which the hood of was covering his face. He was running as fast as he could, and he was starting to tire. His breath was coming faster now, his heart pumping harder, his ears throbbing. His thighs were burning and his neck and chest were on fire. But even as every part of his body was desperately trying to tell him to stop running he knew there was no way he could, not after he had evaded them for so long. He couldn’t hear them behind him anymore, but he knew they were there. They always were. And to stop now, to let them catch up meant certain and absolute death.

All of a sudden, the man broke free from the trees, snapping a web of thin branches to get out. His heavy boots were no longer wading through pools of dead leaves and underbrush but crunching on sharp tan gravel. The gravel continued about twenty feet out, and then abruptly ended in a sharp cliff. The man skidded to a halt, throwing gravel up into the air. He walked swiftly but cautiously to the edge and after checking behind him peered over. Nothing could be seen, a grey fog obscured the space beneath the cliff. It could have been a gigantic canyon or a short crevasse, there was no way to tell. There was a distinct noise of rushing water but was it at the bottom of the cliff? Was it deep enough for a dive that could ensure his survival? The man stared down into the opaque abyss, contemplating his options. The few he had could all easily end in a messy death.

He cocked his head, listening intently. And then he heard heavy footsteps, the sound of two people crashing through the thick forest. Then, the man made a decision.

A moment later, two men burst from the tree line. Both of them wore plain clothes that were stained with mud and soaked with rain. Both carried nine millimeter Glock semiautomatic handguns, and were brandishing them with a sort of air that described a mastery of this specific weapon. An air that described they knew exactly what they were doing.

They ran up to the cliff edge and looked over. “You think he went over?” asked one of the men, in a raspy voice that was like the gravel they were standing on.

“Yeah,” said the other, in a similar raspy tone, “I mean, where the fuck else could’ve he gone?”

“After all that time I don’t even get the satisfaction of putting a bullet in him? That’s it?”

“Wait. Listen.” The silence brought the noise of rushing water into focus, what the man was trying to hear but also unintentionally made another soft noise audible, the rustling of someone moving through the forest, unsuccessfully trying to be quiet. A glint exploded in the eyes of the men, and then a smile grew simultaneously on both of their faces.

“Leo?” one called out, and suddenly his voice was all charm, “come on out, we’re not going to hurt you,” he winked at the other man, showing he had every intention of hurting Leo.

A laugh exploded from the forest, surprising the men and making them both raise their handguns.

“You think we’re Leo?” the voice was fluid, slipping into the men’s ears like water, “No” -the laugh stopped- “We work for Rain.”

“Oh,” said one of the men on the gravel, “have you come to help us?”

“No,” said the man in the forest, and as he said it gunshots rang out, numerous bullets shooting out of the forest and slicing through the men, cutting them down, and as the lifeless bodies fell over the edge to land in the water with a sizable splash it said, to the dead men, “We’re replacing you.”

Monday, May 2, 2011

Scarlet: What I have so far

Its a little rough around the edges and definitely needs some work but I can see it developing into something:
Prologue: When she left

Even though I experienced it through a haze of sleepiness, the scene is quite vivid in my mind to this day. I remember everything clearly, from my thoughts at the time and her reactions. I can see the little strange ticks in her behavior now, and I can remember my tired brain disregarding them.

When she froze, stiffening as I spoke her name in the darkness, she had obviously been trying to attract no attention, but of course at the time I didn’t realize that. The fact there was no trace of exhaustion in her voice, when she explained about how she was unable to sleep and was going to make herself a drink and read a book on the couch. Even the sound of her footfalls, as they curved softly around my apartment, towards the door.

All of this meant nothing to me at the time, all I wanted was to fall back into the dreams I had been awakened from. The only thing, the only thing that registered in my foggy brain was the click of my door closing. I remember this as the one thing that penetrated my want for sleep and made me think about how unusual the whole scene was, made me go against what my body needed badly to get up and walk naked out into the brightly lit apartment.

As I realized I was alone in the room I had walked to the door, a little more awake and a tad frantic, hoping the mad realizations my mind was coming up with at the time were false. I remember cracking the door open a couple inches, just enough to slide my head out but not enough to reveal my nudity.

I looked down the hall and saw her in the elevator, the steel doors shutting. Right as they were about to close she looked up at me, saw my head poking through the door. She gave a sad smile, and a small wave.

And then the doors shut.

I shut my door and then walked back into the apartment. I remember confusion, and then panic when, a couple minutes later I realized that my wallet, containing my credit cards and ID, and my car keys were missing.

The next day, after chatting with the police and my bank, I found out that my car had been found on the side of a road hundreds of miles away, the engine left running and all my bank accounts had been cleaned out.

This all happened almost two years ago, and I’ve been after her ever since.

Chapter One: ...And yet so far

“Have you seen her since then?” asks the man in the bar stool next to me. A look in his eyes told me he wasn’t quite believing my story, but I continued on anyway.

“Seven weeks ago, in that building,” I said, pointing with my beer out the window at the apartment across the street, “I broke down the door and she was there waiting for me with a snub-nosed revolver in her hand. Shot me four times in the chest,” I pointed to a spot on my chest two inches below my heart, a place that still ached with pain, “Last one went in right here, two inches higher and I woulda been dead,”

“Jesus,” he said, but with the air that he still wasn’t believing me. Luckily for him, something unexpected happened that made him believe.


She walked in. It surprised me, I thought she was smarter then that. But then I realized, there was no one hunting her anymore. I was dead, having fallen two stories onto concrete trailing blood from four separate bullet wounds.

But there she was. Red boots, red dress, red lipstick. Oh, silly me, not red, scarlet. Green catlike eyes that you could lose yourself in like I had, a thousand times over. Perfect hair, silky and smooth and perfect. All of this, which was making men all over the bar swoon all just made me angry, a red, or scarlet, if you will cloud descending on my eyes.

“Damn,” said the man sitting next to me, “Who is that? She’s smoking…” he trailed off, seeing my expression, “Is that…?”

“Yeah, yeah it is,” I tossed some crumpled bills onto the smooth counter and started walking towards her. I had never looked at her like this, seeing her without her seeing me, she always had seen me first when we met, making this a first. I felt the knife under my jacket and steeled myself, removing all of her beauty and making her into the beast she was. I hadn’t even been that angry at first, just pursuing a few leads towards her on the side of my job as a detective. And then as I followed her paper trail across the country, I had seen the countless scams and plays she pulled on people like me, willing, lust filled fucking naive idiots. I saw what she really was in all the warrants and reciepts, saw the beast she hid behind her face.

It became a pocket obsession of mine, tracking her, and waiting for her to get close. However, before that happened I lost my job, fired for not pursuing cases, being only focused on the woman who haunted every waking and sleeping hour of mine, stalking my nightmares and daydreams like some malign demon.

I didn’t even want to hurt her until after she almost killed me. I just wanted to talk, so when I found her, through various informants, a year after I lost my job, I went to her apartment and saw her just going in. I was clumsy, struck virtually blind by her allure, falling into a trap she set easily. The last thing I expected was a gun barrel when I opened the door, and then the meeting got even stranger. She backed me into the tiny apartment, and then quite suddenly kissed me hard, on the lips. She had whispered a quiet apology, and then shot me.

I had woken up three days later in the hospital. And then I really realized her for what she really was, and I had vowed to get her back in any way I could, for both the physical and emotional pain she had caused me.

I was a foot away when she saw me, eyes widening in surprise. The knife was alre


Not that much on the Storm lately, a chapter or two since I last posted.

I've started a bunch of stuff, but haven't really continued anything.

I started a story called Scarlet, I'll post the first bit possibly later tonight.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

And I'm so afraid
But I shouldn't be
Because I know the one
I love
Has no love for me
And somehow that's
But it shouldn't be
And I'm sick
With desire
And despair and the siblings
Assault me senselessly
And I have no idea what to do
What to make of the love that I hold
It's not broken
But it should be
I can't hang on to it
And I can't keep it
And I can't live with myself any longer
Because it burns
And every day I hide my pain behind a smile
Behind my simple backdrop, my front
And I know that keeping it away will
Hurt me but that's ok
Because I am used to the pain
And I know there is nothing for me to be had here
So I attempt
And succeed
At moving past all that I hold dear
And starting anew
And that's how it is now
How it should be

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

The silent echo of the sad smile still remains imprinted on the back of my eyelids.
The etchings are clearly visible to me when I shut my eyes and I know that even though I will never be able to stop loving her she will never love me back.
And I can feel this worming and tearing itself into my heart and it burns and I sit until I can not take it any longer.
And I watch helplessly as the small, sharp razor dances across my wrist, held by cold, clammy hands that are both mine and not under my control at all at the same time.
And I feel the pain but I know soon it will be gone and then, I will finally be free.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Thinking of you

The other day
I found myself
Thinking of you
Yet again
I said I wouldn't but I did
I'm sorry
Not to you
But to myself
I didn't mean anything
By it
Thinking of you
The scar
I hold in my heart
Torn open once again
Hurts so bad
Because I'm thinking of you
Not dying but
I wish I was
Not sick but
Still diseased
Because I just can't

Mirror Image
Through the glass,
I see,
A shadow of a former self
A broken
Between the oncoming storm
And love
And love
Is slipping through my fingers
Like the grains of the sand on the beach where I stand
And the storm is coming
And he cannot comply
To either
So he is just there
In the glass
And the mirror image strikes me to the heart
And I fall
Through the rain

Saturday, March 26, 2011


Wow I've been so idle lately.

I'll be posting some recent stuff soon

Tuesday, January 4, 2011


Haven't posted anything in a while, haven't really written that much. Maybe a couple paragraphs on the storm, nothing much, and a bit of poetry. I'm experimenting now, writing a Sci Fi story that I hope will be halfway decent. I have no idea what it's called, and it's going to be about giant, killer robots. (yes I get it, cliche and cheesyness blah blah blah)

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Because a front is easier. Because its better then letting it swallow you, living constricted and darkly. Because thats no way to live a life. So many, so many people dont get it, they dont see what's in front of their eyes. Its better to be happy then wallowing in despair and however slowly the wounds will heal. Better then letting it take over all you stand for, your life and how you live it.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

If the walk was amazing; then the rest was perfect. Her hand was warm and soft. Her perfume was indescribable, taunting and flirty, the smell flicked at you for a glorious second, and then was gone. Intoxicating and beautiful, it was perfect, just like everything else. Her eyes sparkled and shone in the sunlight, they glowed with happiness. The only thing I knew, when I looked at her, was that I loved her more then anything else in the world. Her hair shook and twisted to the gentle summer breeze, gossamer strands moving in beat to our footsteps. We came to a bench, sat and talked for what felt like hours. Her voice was a crystal, sharp and clear yet also soft and delicate. The way it wound its way into your head and snugly curled up their was, for lack of a better word, perfect. Her lips felt like two pieces of the softest fabric imaginable, making mine rough as gravel in the comparison. We talked some more. When she smiled, dimples appeared and all my troubles disappeared. I forgot myself, and drowned in love. All my problems and troubles drifted away, washed away by her smile, her voice and everything else about her. Immensely happy, I leaned back on the bench and simply drank her in with my eyes. Simply perfect.
-Inspired by Lou Reed's Perfect Day
-I may continue this someday, its a definite leap from my other stuff
His soul is broken
His heart is shattered
Staring in shadow

Monday, November 29, 2010

I have no name. I am a ripple on the pond of life. Merely an audience member to the stage of the world, i sit and observe the players. I am the night wind, cold and dark and breezy. I hide in the ceiling and i sleep in your hat. I am a raven, black and airborne, trailing dark feathers as i swoop away silently into the night. I am a raindrop, wet and cold. I am nothing and I am everything.

Friday, November 12, 2010

A short haiku, sort of a preview of whats to come with my poetry in quick shadows:

The dark tears we cry,
broken dreams we leave behind,
lying in shadow.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Update: Quick Shadows

Okay, I'm taking a break on the storm to write poetry and maybe more short stories, I don't know yet....

Sunday, October 17, 2010

The Storm so far

At six forty seven in the morning on a cold November day, a grey Ford truck sped down U.S Route 1, a highway that runs along the East Coast, starting in Florida, then running up through various states to end in Maine, running along the South side then curling up to the North along the East. The man driving was a twenty-six year old named Noah Lawrence. Noah had dark brown eyes, curly black hair, was six two and weighed about two hundred pounds. He had grown up in the Hudson Heights district of Manhattan and had moved to Maine for work. He was a bachelor, he had never been married, had no kids. Currently unemployed, he was driving from his home in the city of Harrington to the nearby town of Machias to apply for a job at the Bangor Savings Bank there. Unfortunately, he would never reach Number One Center St.
Noah’s brown eyes were accented by dark circles; he was tired. No, tired was not the word for it. He was weary. He had been looking for work for three months now, application after application, interview after interview, rejection after rejection. He was sick of it. Noah was beginning to think that he wouldn’t ever find work, that he would be evicted from his apartment and die, homeless and starving on some sidewalk somewhere. No. He shook the thoughts from his head, ridding his mind of the disturbing idea.
He flicked a button on the side of the wheel, increasing the speed of the windshield wipers to match the rising intensity of the rain. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and even darker ones sat on the horizon. Thunder boomed in the distance, and far away there was a flash of lightning. A storm was coming, and it was a big one. Noah stared out of the windshield, his eyes focusing on the barely visible road, and he continued to drive toward Machias, toward the ever-growing clouds on the horizon, toward the oncoming storm.
The rain fell onto the tops of the trees, splattering against the leaves then running down the branches to the trunk, streaming down the dark pillar of bark and wood, finally hitting the earth, soaking into the soil, saturating the ground. The forest was dark, the already weak morning light obscured by the dark clouds and overhead branches made it almost impossible to see.
A man was running through the forest, dodging between trees, leaping over bushes and piles of underbrush. He was tall and thick, but not fat. He was wearing dirty, worn out jeans and a soaking hoodie which hid his face. He was running as fast as he could, sprinting through the darkness and the wetness. His breath was coming faster now, and his heart was throbbing harder. His thighs were burning and his neck and chest hurt. But he couldn’t stop now, not after he had evaded them for so long. He couldn’t hear them but he knew they were there. They always were. And to stop now, to let them catch up meant death.
Suddenly, he broke free of the trees. Dead leaves and underbrush were underfoot no longer, now his boots crunched in gravel. The ground continued for a few meters past the tree line but then ended abruptly in a cliff. The man skidded to a a hart, throwing gravel up into the air. He walked carefully but quickly to the edge and peered over. Nothing was to be seen; a grey fog obscured the space below the cliff. It could have been a short drop or a huge canyon, there was no way to tell. There was a noise of rushing water, but was it at the bottom of the cliff? Was it deep enough? The man stared down into the opaque abyss, contemplating his options. The few he had both could conceivably end in a messy death. He cocked his head, listening intently. And then he heard soft footsteps coming from the forest. He made a decision and jumped.
About ten seconds later, two men clothed in military camouflage burst out of the trees. They were both male and they were both carrying .9mm Glock 7 semiautomatic handguns. One of the men was taller and the other shorter.
They ran up to the cliff and looked over. “You think he went over?” asked the taller man in a raspy tone.
“Yeah,” said the smaller of the two, “I mean, where else would he have gone?”
“So is that it?” said the other, “after all this fucking chasing I don’t even get the satisfaction to put a bullet in his brain?’
“I guess so,” answered the short man, and then: “Shit,”
“The boss will want a body,”
“Fuck. We could dress up another body, and say it was him,”
As the short man began to say something a third voice broke in, cutting him off. The new voice did not belong to anyone either of the men knew, and it appeared to be disembodied. The voice was soft yet easily heard, slipping into the men’s heads like like some insubstantial fish.
It said: “No you won’t be reporting back to your boss, I’m afraid, you are going to be unavoidably detained,”
“What? Who said that? Who the fuck are you?” said the big man.
“I’m your replacement,” said the voice, and then two thin objects came flying out of the forest. The objects spun, and thunked into each of the foreheads of the men. It was only after the men fell to the ground that the objects were clearly distinguishable, two long throwing knives were stuck into each respective forehead of the men, handles still quivering.
3. Noah was just driving past a line of twenty cherry red tractors, parked dormant on the side of the road when he saw the man, sticking out his thumb. Noah depressed the brake, and with a slight screech, stopped the car at the side of the road, pulling up alongside him. He rolled down the window and as the rain began to fall into the car and soak the seat he called out to the man.
“Where you headed?” he asked, raising his voice to compete with the pounding of the rain.
“Machias,” said the man, in a voice much too old and gravelly for his face. He was tall, standing at least six five, with long legs and a thick, strong body. His jeans had once been blue, but now they were almost brown, covered in muddy stains. He wore a black sweatshirt with a hood that was also stained from mud. He was soaking wet, dripping everywhere. None of this deterred Noah, he didn’t care about the interior of his car enough to worry about the water and the mud.
“Hop in,” called Noah, unlocking the passenger door. The man opened the door, and climbed in.
“What’s your name?” asked Noah, as he pulled the car off the shoulder and back onto the road.
“Leonardo. Leonardo Cole,” said the man in the same gravelly tone as before. His face was young, but also tired, the same weariness that was evident on Noah’s face, only a thousandfold increased. A thick grey mustache and raggedy beard hid most of his face, but Noah could see his shining blue eyes, for a moment they looked lost, almost sad but then it was gone.
“Leo?” asked Noah, “Can I call you Leo?”
“If you like,” said Leo, running a filthy hand through a mop of greasy hair, then looking at his hand. “Shit. I’m a mess,” Noah said nothing, concentrating on the road. The rain had increased its intensity again, and it was steadily getting harder to see. “Where are you going? Just Machias, or farther?”
“Just Machias, I’m going to apply for a job,” Noah said, surprising himself with the outburst of personal information to a total stranger.
Leo said nothing but gave a little noise that signified that he understood.
“What about you?” Noah asked, “Why are you going to Machias?”
Leo sighed. “I’m going to fix something. Something that needs to be fixed,” he said. Noah waited for further elaboration, but none came. He almost asked about it, but a look in Leo’s eyes told him not to. Leo wouldn’t, or couldn’t tell him more. Unseen by Noah or Leo, a couple yards behind the truck, a motorcycle rumbled, driving after them, the noise and sigh of it obscured by the ever-increasing storm.
4. Noah drives on. He thinks about finding work, he thinks about his past, his parents, his lost love, his education. He thinks about the meaning of life, and why we are here, and he thinks about his upcoming application. He thinks about how he is driving, if the windshield wipers are going fast enough, if he can see out of the windshield. He thinks he hears the rumbling of another engine, but it is just thunder. He thinks about the oncoming storm. Noah drives on.
Leo thinks. He thinks about why he is going to Machias, what he will find there. He thinks about what will happen if he fails. He thinks about the men that were chasing him and if they still are. He thinks about what would happen if they caught up. He thinks, that probably, if they had not caught him so off guard, he could of taken them easily. He thinks about his wife and children, and he thinks about suicide. But most of all, he thinks of rain.
Rain thinks. He thinks of power and oppression, of bottomless wealth and endless death. He thinks of fire and chaos and the glory of it all. He thinks of crime and war, destruction and fear. He thinks of killing, endless bodies lain out, empty and lifeless. He thinks about the storm, and the fact that it is coming.
5. “Have you had breakfast yet?” asked Leo. It was about five minutes later and they were nearing Machias.
“No,” said Noah, and as he said it he realized he was ravenously hungry, “no, I have not. Why?”
“Are you on a pressing schedule to apply for this job?” Leo said, ignoring Noah’s inquiry.
“No,” Noah said again. He had left early, hoping to be in and out, to avoid morning traffic.
“Okay,” said Leo. He pointed out the window at a diner on the side of the road, “Let’s get some grub,” he said, “my treat,” Noah was about to say no, that he didn’t want to get stuck in morning traffic, but before he could say anything, his stomach rumbled hungrily.
“Fine,” said Noah, with a resigned tone. He turned off the road and stopped the car in front of the diner. They got out of the car, and, gravel crunching underfoot, they walked to and entered the diner.
It happened just as their coffee arrived. Noah was staring out the window when it happened, so he saw it before it entered the diner. He saw something fly toward the window, cleanly shatter it, and continue through into the diner. It shot past him, between Noah and Leo, missing Leo’s neck by a hair’s breadth. Noah turned his head, following its path, and saw where it had landed. The object in question was a thin blue throwing knife, an engraved cobalt handle and a thin silver blade. It was embedded in the adam’s apple of the waiter, who had been standing right in front of them, on the other side of the counter, ready to serve them their food.
The waiter coughed blood, a red ball of goo flying from his mouth to splatter on the counter, staining the tile red. He gurgled, and then fell to the ground. The plates crashing on the ground seemed to wake up all the diners, who were staring openmouthed at waiter. The noise of breaking glass shook them out of the shock, and then they started to scream. Everyone was nearly hysterical, all except Leo. Another knife shot into the diner, again passing between Leo and Noah, shattering the coffeepot. Hot coffee poured out onto the body of the waiter. Noah fell off of his chair, half falling, half leaping away from the danger. Leo dived down too, rolling under a table just as a third knife whizzed by.
Noah crawled under the table to join Leo. “What the fu—?” he started to say but Leo cut him off. “Go. Run.” He said, slipping something into Noah's pocket. Noah didn’t need any instruction, that was what he had been planning to do before Leo said it. “Don’t take the car. Stay low,” Leo said, and shoved Noah forward. Noah took the momentum and started a low run, quickly trotting with his back curled low. When he was close to the door, he almost tripped over a dead body. A knife was buried in the forehead of a man, and he was lying across the diner, spread eagle. Noah felt a wave of nausea, clamping a hand to his mouth. He stayed there for a second, wondering if he should really go for it, then made his decision.
Almost as soon as he stepped out on to the gravel, a knife shot past his ear. He kept going, feeling knives all around him, barely missing their intended target, him. Disregarding Leo’s instructions, Noah ran straight for the car, he needed a fast way out. When he was a few feet from the car however, the pipe bomb taped to the engine went off. Noah saw fire and smoke, he was knocked onto his back. His vision was orange, he was coughing as acrid black smoke poured into his lungs via his nose and mouth. His right wrist seared with pain, it felt broken and burned. His skin felt scalded, it was raw and tender to the touch. Noah blacked out, feeling his mind go blank.
6. When Leo heard the explosion he waited for several minutes before carefully rising. He walked quickly and carefully out the door, still wary of the knives. When it became evident that no one was in the area except for the dead bodies and himself, Leo relaxed. He walked over to the black husk of Noah’s car, the skeleton was still hot to the touch. It was still raining, and the fat drops sizzled when they landed on the chassis, sending steam up into the cold morning air.
“Fuck,” said Leo, “I told him not to go for the car.” An acrid smell of gasoline was in the air, some was probably still aflame somewhere in the car. Leo examined the ground, found a trail of blood and blue denim. The trail led a couple of yards through the parking lot, and it ended in fat black skid marks. The skid marks were wide, indicating a big vehicle.
“Fuck,” Leo repeated. Noah had the drive. The drive was in his pocket. They had taken Noah. They, if they knew it or not, now were in possession of the drive. Not good.
Leo went into the diner, and picked a corpse at random. He shuffled through the man’s pockets, retrieving cash, car keys, and a cellphone. He popped the back of the phone off, and slid the sim card out, tossing it to the ground. He put the back back on and turned the phone on. It was empty, all the pictures and contacts were gone. Leo walked out into the parking lot, and methodically tried the key in all of the cars. It turned in the lock of the door of a grey pickup, the door clicked open and Leo climbed in. He started the car, , and pulling onto the main road, followed the direction of the skid marks the way they led, towards Machias.
7. Noah awoke to darkness. There was something over his head, a sort of cloth bag, it made breathing difficult and it smelled musty. He was sitting on a chair, that much he could tell. His hands were cuffed onto the chair, the metal biting into his flesh. He thought back and realized what had happened. The car had blown up. Jesus Christ, he thought, and then he remembered his right arm. As he thought about it, he realized the arm in question was twisted the wrong way at the wrist. He moved it, and felt his radiocarpal joint explode in pain. Noah screamed, long and loud, the sound echoing against the walls.
Long after Noah had stopped screaming an the pain had died down from a white hot burn to a dull throb, a voice echoed into his hearing.
“Hello,” it said, and with that, the cloth bag was pulled off of Noah’s head. At first he couldn’t see anything, his eyes watering as they tried to adjust to the sudden change in brightness. When his eyes cleared, he saw that he was in a small, plain room. In front of him was a long wooden table, behind which sat three men. The men all wore suits, and were expressionless.
“Can you hear me?” asked the man in the middle. Noah managed a slight nod. “Good,” he said, “now we’re going to ask you a few questions. If you do not comply, there will be consequences like this….” He gestured at Noah, and the man on his left got up. He was a giant of a man, standing around six foot six and weighing, Noah guessed, at least three hundred pounds. He walked over to Noah and then shot his arm out, grabbing Noah’s wrist in on gigantic palm. The man twisted it sideways, and Noah felt pain like he had never felt before. He screamed, writhing in his chair. Spots swam before his eyes and he felt himself almost black out. He leaned forward, and vomited on the ground. The man let go of his wrist, and walked back to the table.
“You see?” said the man in the middle, “it will be better for you to comply. So now, down to business. First question, what do you know of Leonardo Cole?”

Update: The Storm

For the storm, I revised the first and second scenes and expanded on many others

Saturday, September 11, 2010

The Storm: Chapter One: The hitchiker

At six forty seven in the morning, on a cold November day, a grey Ford truck sped down the Interstate 1, a highway that runs along the southern part of Maine. The man driving was a twenty-six year old named Noah Lawrence. Noah had dark brown eyes, curly black hair, he was six two and weighed about two hundred pounds. He had grown up in the Upper East Side district of Manhattan and had moved to Maine for work. He was a bachelor, he had never been married, had no kids. Currently unemployed, he was driving from his home in the city of Harrington to the nearby town of Machias to apply for a job at the Bangor Savings Bank there. Unfortunately, he would never reach Number One Center St.
Noah’s brown eyes were accented by dark circles; he was tired. No, tired was not the word for it. He was weary. He had been looking for work for three months now, application after application, interview after interview, rejection after rejection. He was sick of it. Noah was beginning to think that he wouldn’t ever find work, that he would be evicted from his apartment and die, homeless and starving on some sidewalk somewhere. No. He shook the thoughts from his head, ridding his mind of the disturbing idea.
He flicked a button on the side of the wheel, increasing the speed of the windshield wipers to match the rising intensity of the rain. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and even darker ones sat on the horizon. Thunder boomed in the distance, and far away there was a flash of lightning. A storm was coming, and it was a big one. Noah stared out of the windshield, his eyes focusing on the barely visible road, and he continued to drive toward Machias, toward the ever-growing clouds on the horizon, toward the oncoming storm.

The rain fell onto the tops of the trees, splattering against the leaves then running down the branches to the trunk, streaming down the dark pillar of bark and wood, finally hitting the earth, soaking into the soil, saturating the ground. The forest was dark, the already weak morning light obscured by the dark clouds and overhead branches made it almost impossible to see.
A man was running through the forest, dodging between trees, leaping over bushes and piles of underbrush. He was tall, and thick but not fat. He was wearing dirty, worn out jeans and a soaking hoodie which hid his face. He was running as fast as he could, sprinting through the darkness and the wetness. His breath was coming faster now, and his heart was throbbing harder. His thighs were burning and his neck and chest hurt. But he couldn’t stop now, not after he had evaded them for so long. He could hear them, a couple meters behind him, their footsteps almost silent against the soft ground. He couldn’t stop now. For to stop, to let them catch up, meant death.
The pain worsened. Even though it was freezing cold in the forest, sweat blossomed at his hairline, rolling down his forehead into his eyes. He quickly wiped it away, but just as fast another stream obscured his vision. He felt a wave of nausea and his vision went bright and fuzzy, a stab of pain assaulting his forehead, a buzzing noise attacking his ears. He shuddered, then bursting into a clearing slowed and stopped. He bent over, and vomited onto the ground. He was so close to fainting, but before he did, he summoned up a last reserve of strength and rummaged in his bag, pulling out a black cylinder with a ring on the end. He pulled the ring, dropped it on the ground, then staggered to the tree line. He limped another few feet, then fell onto the wet ground, into darkness.
Back at the clearing, black smoke poured from the cylinder, enveloping everything, reducing the already low visibility to none. Footsteps echoed in the silence, growing louder and louder. The noise consisted of four soft thumps, one after another indicating two pairs of feet. The footsteps stopped, then a voice cut through the silence, seeming astronomically loud compared to the soft volume of the footfalls.
“Fuck! What is this stuff? I can’t see anything,” said the voice, in a raspy tone. There was a cough.
“It’s like smoke,” said another voice, also coughing.
“Where the hell did he go?” asked the raspy voice, “Fuck! We can’t afford to lose him again. The boss will be furious!”
“The boss will fucking kill us!” shouted the other man, “We can’t go back—” The man broke off, as a third voice broke in. This new voice did not belong to either of the men, nor the man they were chasing, nor anyone either of them knew. It was soft, but easily heard, and the sound of it was almost slippery, the way it curled and swam into their minds like an insubstantial fish.
“Yes,” it said, “if you go back to the boss, he will as you put it, ‘fucking kill’ you, but this isn’t as big a problem as you think it is,”
“Who the fuck are you?” said the raspy voiced man, “What do you mean not such a big problem? I don’t want to fucking die!”
“You don’t need to know who I am. And as for your second question, because either way, if you go back to him or stay here, you will die,”
“What?” said the other man, “How? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I was sent to kill you,”
“Fuck that! Do you know who we’re working for? If you kill us, who are his men, you will be dead in the next twenty four hours, get it?”
“No, I don’t think so. What you don’t understand is my employer is the same man as yours. I was sent as your replacement,” And with that, there was silence.
Much later, after the man that they were chasing had arisen and continued on his way, the smoke cleared from the clearing, revealing two bodies, of one largish man and one smallish man. They were wearing army camouflage and each had a gun in his belt and a knife in his pocket. They were unmarked save for a thin rectangular slice in the middle of each of their foreheads. They were both unmistakably dead, both of their sets of eyes were wide open, surprised, and empty.

The Storm

Update: Best Served Cold is now The Storm starting the next revision of the first bit....should be posted by late today or tomorrow...

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Best Served Cold: Chapter One: The HItchhiker

This is my third revision of the first chapter of Best Served Cold (formerly Leo)

On a rainy morning in October, at seven thirty six in the morning, a lone car thundered down a wet highway. The car was a light grey, and it had scratches and dents covering the exterior. Sitting in the front, driving, was a twenty-six year old man named Noah Lawrence. Noah was about six feet tall, around one-hundred pounds, had blue eyes, short blond hair, the stereotypical American look. He had been born on April second in Manhattan, NY. He was a bachelor, he had never been married and he had no children.. He had moved to Maine for a job opportunity which never panned out. He had almost went back to New York, but stayed because he liked the peaceful, rural atmosphere in Maine, it was silent compared to the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. He was currently unemployed, right now he was driving to Machias for a job interview at the Bangor Savings Bank there. Unfortunately, he would never arrive at Number One Center St. He was speeding down Interstate 1, just passing a line of about twenty cherry red parked tractors when he spotted the hitchhiker. He pulled over and opened the passenger door. “Where you going?” shouted Noah, making himself heard over the pounding of the rain.
“Machias!” yelled the hitchhiker, in a voice much too gravelly and old for his face.
“Hop in” said Noah. The man walked up to the car and climbed in the passenger seat. And then they were off, speeding down the Interstate, away into the grey morning fog.
“Thanks,” said the man. His voice, although quieter now, still had the same gravelly tone as before, “What’s your name?”
“Noah,” said Noah, “Noah Lawrence,”
“I’m Leo, short for Leonardo,” said the man, “Leonardo Cole,” he paused, “Where you headed? Are you going to Machias, or farther?”
“Just Machias,” said Noah, “Applying for a job,”
“Bangor Savings Bank,”
“Isn’t that in Bangor?”
“Naw, they got a bunch of branches all across the state. It’s just based in Bangor,”
“Oh,” Leo sat in silence staring out the windshield into the grey fog for a couple minutes, “I should go try to get a loan, I got a million-dollar idea,”
“You ever heard of eight minute abs? Well, what about seven minute abs?” Leo laughed, a short, harsh bark that filled the car. The laugh was infectious, and the quote had been pretty funny. Soon enough, both of them were laughing so hard they were in tears.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Update: Leo

I'm sorry that I havn't posted anything in forever, stuff that I've been working on is nowhere near completion, much less near being posted. I'm starting something new, a story called Leo. Here's a short teaser.

When truck driver Noah Lawrence picks up a hitchhiker named Leonardo Cole, he never dreamed that Leo would drag him into a crazy world of bloodthirsty bounty hunters, murder, and revenge.

Monday, May 3, 2010


I'm bored of the Mine, any story ideas?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

The Mine: Three: Kane

(Changing the stories name to The Mine)
The automatic doors of the first building slid open with a hiss. When I stepped inside, I met relief, as the interior was air-conditioned. I was in a large grey-walled room. On either side of the space were two sets of red leather chairs. Outdated magazines rest on glass coffee tables next to the chairs. At the far side of the room was a black marble counter, behind which sat many attendant, all of which were typing away or talking into headsets. It was shocking, how different this place was than outside, different worlds, existing side by side.
I walked down the center of the room, following Michael, my feet padding on the velvet carpet. Mud fell from my boots into the grain of the fabric, and I wondered if I should clean it up. Michael noticed my expression, and guessed what I was thinking.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, “they don’t care,” he turned and continued walking. I followed him to the counter, where we waited. After about a minute, a blond woman typing at her computer looked up; she saw Michael, and without a word, waved us past. I followed Michael into a stainless steel elevator, and he pressed the button for the top floor.
Before long, we were walking out of the metal box onto the thirtieth floor. We strode up to a secretary sitting at a desk and same as the receptionist when seeing Michael, she waved us through.
The office beyond the secretary was by far the largest I had ever seen. The desk alone was as big as the buggy we had driven here in. Shades hung in a gigantic picture window at the end, which was at least four times as big as the buggy. The man sitting at the desk was old. He had a short military buzz cut that somehow made his silvery-gray hair even more noticeable. Deep wrinkles crisscrossed over his face, and a cigarette sat clasped between two blemished fingers. He sat so still that at first I wondered that maybe he had not realized we had come in, maybe he was blind or sleeping. But then his hand rose to his face, the cigar went into his mouth and out, and he blew a thick cloud of grey smoke into the air. It floated above our heads for a moment, then was swept away by the air conditioning.
“Hello,” he said abruptly, in a voice that was much stronger then I thought it was going to be, “Are you David? The reporter?” I was silent for a moment, still admiring the room, then Michael elbowed me sharply in the ribs.
“Ow! Yeah, I’m David,” he stood, producing a cane from under the desk for support. He walked to the window and pressed a button on the side. The shades retracted up, automatically curling into a small sheath at the top. When the white shroud was completely retracted, an impressive scene lay before me. Three mountains loomed into the distance, stretching into the clouds far above. The sides of each of the pyramids were emerald, covered in lush greenery. At the base of the mountains, the wall of green ended suddenly. Brown stumps sat, ugly and sad, only shadows of what they had once been. Numerous tunnels started at different points on the mountains, black mouths stretching down into the earth. Men went back and forth out of the tunnels, working.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” the old man said.
Even though I didn’t agree with him at all, I told him that, yes, it was wonderful.
“We haven't been properly introduced,” he said, “I’m Kane, the CEO of this place,”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, reaching out a hand, “And you already know who I am,”
“Yes,” he said, “You are David Linningham, from the New York Times, writing an article on the conditions in my mine, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said, “That’s correct, can you take me to the employee area?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, and clamped a gigantic hand on my shoulder, steering me towards the door, “right this way,”

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The Camp: Two: Buggy

The buggy was a lot more unstable then I thought it was going to be and even though Michael assured me it was safe, I was hanging on for dear life for the entire hour-long ride. We didn’t talk at all during the trip, but it was far from silent. The chassis made a clanging noise as it bounced up and down on the shocks, and the exposed engine roared like a hundred angry hornets.
We had driven down the main road, a wide, paved highway that came from the airport. Then Michael had swerved off of it, onto a route through the jungle. We had taken an extremely bumpy dirt path wit, thick undergrowth on either side. It had become so narrow that the buggy had almost gotten stuck between two massive palm trees. At the end of that, Michael had driven onto another paved highway, which we were currently speeding down.
Riding in the buggy was a unique experience, to say the least. First of all, it had absolutely no protection from anything. During the entire ride, you had to keep your mouth tightly shut and eyes in a squint to prevent bugs and dirt from flying in. Also, the wind whipped around you, pulling your hair back against your head and making it even harder to look straight forward. I don’t know how Michael drove the buggy, but somehow he managed.
All of a sudden, a gigantic wall of grey buildings loomed ahead, ending the road abruptly. Michael screeched the buggy to a stop and I climbed out; we had reached our destination: the mining camp.

The Camp: One: Off The Plane

As I stepped out of the Boeing 747 passenger plane, the heat hit me like a tidal wave. The air was like an oven after wintery New York, which seemed like a world away. The sun blazed in my eyes, and I put my already sweaty hand on my brow, blocking the light. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the brightness and I surveyed my surroundings. Red dust covered the tarmac, which may have been black once, but not anymore. Some particles were swirling upwards, caught in the breeze created by the plane’s engines. Two grey buildings stood in the distance at the end of the runway and, like everything else in this place, were covered in a fine coat of dust.
The metal stairway made a clanging noise as my boots hit it, hard leather against aluminum. A car waited at the end of the stairwell. Well, not so much a car as a buggy, having only seats, a metal chassis, and wheels. When I reached it, a man sitting inside climbed out. He reached out a dusty hand, and I took it, feeling his strong grip.
“You must be David. I’m Michael, and I’ll be your personal guide for your stay here. How was your flight?” he said, letting go of my hand.
“Yeah, I’m David, nice to meet you,” my voice ran out into a wheeze, and I stopped to cough. Michael handed me a bottle of water. In one massive gulp, I drained half the bottle. I hadn’t realized how thirsty the heat had made me, as soon as I drank some of the water I wanted more.
As I finished the bottle, Michael said, “You gotta keep hydrated in this place, or else you die. Simple as that,”
I coughed again, and in a weak voice said, “The flight was nice,”
He laughed, his laugh was booming and infectious, soon I was laughing too. I couldn’t exactly tell you why, but it was still nice.


Hey everyone who's reading or following! Sorry I havn't posted in a while, I havn't been writing a lot. i'm going to start posting sections from something longer that a short story that i'm currently writing. The first one should be up in aminute

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


What should I write about next?

Sunday, March 21, 2010


The yellowing paper of his employee card read Alexander D. Slape, along with a picture of him, his age, thirty-two, hair, brown and eye color, green/hazel, and weight, one-hundred and eighty two. He showed it to the burly man who was standing in front of the building, and, same as every day, the burly man grunted and nodded, letting him past.
Through large glass double doors was the reception area, a spacious aquamarine room that contained a reception desk, a couple leather chairs and a oaken coffee table that had dated magazines sitting on it. Alexander walked up to the desk, and flashed his identification card.
“Morning, Sandy,” the receptionist said cheerfully, as she did every day.
“Morning, Gloria,” he said back, smiling a tired smile.
“Up late again?” she said, with a genuine look of concern on her face, brow wrinkling up like an inchworm. He nodded in response, and she clicked a button on her phone. “Slape needs a coffee, black,” The phone rang, and after picking it up, she smiled at Alexander as a way of saying goodbye.
Alexander walked to the elevator and pressed the button simply labeled with the letter D. The elevator dinged immediately, and the stainless steel doors slid by with not so much as a squeak. Alexander stepped in and the elevator shot upwards before he even pressed a button.
Stepping out of the elevator, Alexander was greeted by his friend, Jack. They talked for a minute about the weather, and the basketball game last night, and local news, but soon Alexander had to excuse himself, so they separated. The door to his office clicked open at his touch. He sat down in his deep velvet chair behind his deep velvet desk. And he began to wait.
It was eight hours later when he stirred again. Outside, it was dusk. The sun was almost down, still poking out above the horizon, creating an eerie half-light. It was time. Alexander pulled an old bronze key from his pocket, slotting it into a keyhole in his desk. He pulled open a drawer and took out a belt. It was black leather, and hanging by strings were small cloth bags. He put on the belt.
Alexander strode to the wall in the side of his office, staring straight at it. He glanced at his watch, and looked back. On the wall, where there was a door. It definitely hadn’t been there before. He opened it and walked through. Onto the other side.
The other side happened to be a bedroom. There was a nightstand, a clock-radio, and a bed. A man lay on the bed, eyes shut. He was still awake, though. Alexander floated, literally rose up above the bed, and pulled at one of the bags. The top came free, and he plunged his hand into it. When it came out, it was clutching a handful of golden sand. With one movement, he flung the sand across the face of the man in the bed. The sand settled onto his face, and for a second his face crumpled up as if he was going to sneeze, but then it relaxed and he fell into slumber, golden particles winking out one by one. On the far side of the room, another door appeared, and Alexander strode to it and flung it wide, walking to the other side.
The night was long, and he ended up going to over a billion houses during it. At last, instead of a black door appearing after he had spread sand over someone's face, a bright hole appeared. Alexander sighed with relief, and walked through it. On the other side was his house, in his own bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, and taking a handful of the golden sand, spread it across his own face. And he fell asleep.


New story, just starting now, called Sandman

Monday, March 15, 2010


One of my eyes opened slowly. A yellowish crust that was balanced on my eyelash slid down tiny black hairs and into the air. The tiny little fragments landed on a clock-radio, which was blinking. Six-forty. The numbers glowed red, vanished, then reappeared. I rolled over, and shut my eye. Twenty minutes before my alarm goes off. Every little bit counts.
Thirty minutes later, I wake up again, this time snapping open both my eyes. I glanced at the clock, seven-ten. My alarm had failed to go off. Again. I slapped the small black plastic cube, and the radio came on, which was my alarm. “Brilliant,” I muttered to myself, “Just brilliant,”
I was already going to be late for work, and now I couldn’t find my tie. I had searched everywhere, all my drawers, in the closet, everywhere. Dammit. Then—-there! The tip of my lucky smiley-face tie poking out from under my bed. I snatched it up and ran out the door, putting it on as I sprinted.
Down the stairs, the elevator was too slow. Taking them ten at a time and then once I hit the bottom out into the parking lot. Leaping into my car, starting it, driving out into the street, wheels screeching as I turned.
When I reached my work, I burst in through the door, or at least tried to. I ran straight into the cherry red door, hitting it so hard I was flung backwards onto the street. Weird, I thought, that door was always open for walk-ins. I tried the doorknob, and to my surprise, it stuck. I twisted the brass handle again, but to no avail. The door was locked. In frustration, I kicked at the door, and astonished to find it bend backwards like tinfoil. I stared at it for a moment, then looked around. The street was completely empty. I climbed over the crumpled wood and stepped into a strange hallway.
This was weird. Usually, if you went through the front door, you would find yourself in a large room with a receptionist at the end. Now there was just a narrow, velvet-carpeted hallway. Maybe I was in the wrong building. I turned, only to find a blank wall. Yes, I was definitely in the wrong building. I thought for a moment, then, since there was nothing else to do, I walked to the door at the end of the hall. Then it got even weirder.
I couldn’t seem to walk down the hallway, as I walked, the door only seemed to get farther and farther away. I must have walked a mile trying to reach the door. Finally, out of pure anger and confusion, I stomped my foot down, and to my surprise, it went right through. And I fell.
My stomach lurched as I tumbled head over heels through blackness. I fell for about a minute and then landed in something soft and yellow. Hay. I blinked hard, a little shaken up by the experience and when I opened my eyes I found I was staring into the eyes of a cow. I backed up frantically, shocked at the bovine mammal in front of me. I ran into a bucket, and tripped, falling to wood. There was a faint shout, and I couldn’t quite figure out what was being said. I looked around, surveying my surroundings. I was in a large barn, and there was hay everywhere. Yellow covered every shelf, trough, and corner. There were two cows, which were chewing cud and staring me down.
Suddenly, the giant red doors at the front of the barn burst open and a man in blue overalls came in, and as far as I could tell he was wearing nothing else. He was carrying an old 12-gauge shotgun, and I found myself staring down the barrel. “Martha!” he shouted, “I has caughted a robber! I ams going to blow hees branes out!”
“OK, be careful!” a voice from outside, as if he needed to be careful while killing me.
“Wait, hold on I’m not a burglar, just hold on a minute,” he didn’t wait. The sound was deafening. It rang out so loud that my eardrums exploded in pain, and I fell to the ground, screaming in pain. And then I realized something. I wasn’t dead. And I sure as hell wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
I was, all of a sudden, standing on a step made of rotten wood. I looked down on myself and was shocked to find my suit coat and pants had been replaced by raggedy, well-worn shorts and a band of cloth shirt. I looked up the stairs, another, identically-dressed man was standing in front of me, and he had a depressed look on his face. I stared at him for a while, then spoke. I was surprised to find that my voice was old and cracked, “Where am I?”
He looked at me and spoke back in the same cracked, old voice I had, “If you don’t know already….Matey, we’re in hell,” The line moved forward, and I saw why this was hell. A set of gallows, five in a row. We were on death row.
The line moved slowly, but I got to one of the ropes much faster then I should have. I stepped up to the loop, and a man in a black hood pulled it over my head. The man who I had talked to on the stairs was next to me. Tears were streaming down his face. “See you on the other side,” he whispered, and a lever pulled. There was a feeling of weightlessness for a second, and then a sharp crack. I didn’t feel anything, but my vision went black for the ten-thousandth time today. God. How much more of this would I have to go through? What did I do to deserve this?
My vision came back slowly, blurry, then clear. I was in another line. I was as shabbily dresses, and every few seconds I heard a scream or a yell. I was in another death row. When I neared the execution machine, I recognized it as a Guillotine, a device popular in 1794 and 1795 in France.
Everything around me speeded up, as if someone had pushed a fast-forward button on this demented roller-coaster ride of death movie, and things started fading. I barely noticed when the metal blade decapitated me, it was like I was hearing a story about this happening. And I woke up.
My eyes both opened and stared at the blinking red light of my clock. Six-fifty nine. As I watched the numbers changed. It was now Seven o’ clock. Two seconds later, the static of my alarm reached my eardrums, waking me up fully. I stretched, totally disoriented. It was just a dream. A crazy, chaotic dream. And it was over.
I stood, feeling my back crack. I took a tentative step, as if the floor was going to open up and swallow me, but it didn’t. I concluded that it was over. I walked into the kitchen and was surprised to find a man leaning into my refrigerator. He heard me and turned, pulling out a small pistol. Before he fired, I realized I was still in the dream. I relaxed on to balls of my feet, and waited for my vision to go black. It didn’t.
When the bullet hit me in the chest, I knew. I knew this was real, realizing it in a split second, realizing what had happened. I felt my body hit the wall with a sickening crunch. I felt my body slide down the wall, leaving a trail of sticky, red blood. And for the fourth time in the last hour, I felt my body die.

Thursday, March 11, 2010


I escaped because I thought I wasn’t crazy. I know, I did kill people, but I’m way over that now. Even if you get better, it doesn’t matter. They know you’re dangerous, so you’re never getting out. I was docile now, but figuratively I could snap. Figuratively. I knew I would be fine. I was cured. Nothing wring with me. So I escaped. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.
So I was free. But I was also cold. I was walking along a road, just outside the compound of the asylum. I stuck my thumb out at cars passing, but none of them stopped. I watch as a guy in a gigantic SUV zoomed by, pretending he didn’t see me. But then, there’s a screeching sound and the car stops. Maybe I was wrong. The car reverses until it’’s next to me, and the window rolls down. “You want a ride,” says the guy, more telling me then asking me. I think about saying, No thanks, I’ll just stick with walking, sarcastically, but I don’t, all I manage is a “Yes,”
So now I was in the car, heading towards civilization. “You got someplace to go?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, lying.
He stares at me for a while, then says, “You don’t have somewhere you can go, do you?”
I think about lying again, but I dismiss the idea, “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t have anywhere to go,”
“Damn, man,” he stares at the road for a while, thinking, “Well, when I find a motel, I guess you can sleep in he car. I think there’s a pillow and some blankets in the trunk, go check,” I unbuckle and climb into the backseat, peering over the top of the leather padding.
“Yeah, there is,” I paused for a minute, thinking, “Thanks a lot, man,”
“Anytime,” he says, “Oh by the way, what’s your name?”
I almost slip and tell him my real name, but then I say, “Walter Borden,” which is about as far from my real name as Canada is to China.
“Cool,” he says, “My handles Kyle, oh—-here we go,” He pulls into the parking lot of a small roadside motel. He opens his door, gets out, says, “Sleep tight,” and shuts the door. I pull the blanket onto my body and rest the pillow under my head. Sleep tight. Not bloody likely.
The sunlight woke me, streaming through the windows onto my eyelids. I opened my eyes and blinked hard, then rubbed the sleep from them. It took me a second to realize where I was and what I was doing there. Then I remembered. Kyle.
After a few hours, he came out to the car wit a plate of eggs and toast. “Complementary of the motel,” he said. Food never tasted so good before.
Suddenly, a weird feeling spread through my body and mind. It was unbelievable, uncontrollable, random hatred, not for something specific but just an emotion. My vision went red. And I reached out for Kyle.
When I woke up again, there was blood everywhere. Kyle’s blood. I had killed him. I stared at my hands, which were covered in sticky, warm redness. Then, almost calmly, I fished through Kyle’s pockets, and found the car keys. I dumped his body in the trunk and drove, not away, but towards the asylum. I was apparently wrong about being crazy.
When I got there, I walked in, and just like a hotel, I checked in.


It was already cold outside, and the rain only made it colder. The downpour of water made a pitter-patter noise that echoed in the narrow alleyway. Robert lay in a doorway, shivering. He was wondering, wondering if he would make it through the night, wondering if he would freeze to death. Wondering if all of this was a terrible, crazy mistake.
He knew he wouldn’t get an ounce of sleep that night. The rain was to loud, he was too cold, there was no way he was going to drift off. He would have to stay awake. His eyes were wide open as he lay there, shivering, crying, wondering.
His room was full of brightly colored things. Toys, games, tools, anything he could ever want. Anything material, that is. But he wanted more. Many kids would have just taken it all, let them self be spoiled, not caring what their parents thought. But not Robert. He wanted their attention, he wanted them to care. But most of all, he wanted them to love him.
Robert opened his eyes. Somehow, miraculously, he had fell asleep during the night. Even so, he was still exhausted. He stood up on stiff legs, and rolled his stiff neck. He stretched and rubbed his bleary eyes. If you looked closely at him, you would see the heavy dark circles that were imprinted just below his eyes, the bags that sagged under his sockets. He was very tired.
The train station was crowded. Full of tall people, tall at least, to Robert. To Robert, five feet was tall. People kept bumping into him pushing him back from where he wanted to go. The ticket booth.
Finally, out of frustration, Robert started pushing back at people. At first, they looked around angrily, then seeing a little kid, they blushed and mumbled something along the lines of, “Excuse me,” and edged past him. Repeating this technique a couple more times, he reached the ticket booth.
The teller was fat. No, not fat, the right word was obese. His enormous bottom filled the entire green swivel chair he was sitting in, and his weight made the chair sink a few inches. His stomach pressed against the counter, overflowing slightly up onto it. He had multiple chins, and a chubby babyish face. His head was shaved, which somehow made him look even fatter.
When Robert reached the counter, he asked the teller, “I’d like to buy a ticket to Albany, please,” The teller was confused at the seemingly disembodied voice, then, seeing the tip of a beanie poking out above the counter, leaned forward. At least, he tried to lean forward. After several attempts to push himself along the counter, he gave up. He got up, which also took several attempts, and stood on his little stubby legs. At this new height, which was barely higher then the chair, he peered over the counter to see a six-year old boy standing there.
“What?” he said, scratching one of his chins thoughtfully, “What did you say?”
“I said, I’d like to buy a ticket to Albany, please,” said Robert, in an inpatient, annoyed voice.
“Round trip, or one-way,” the teller said, taking a gigantic bite of the bacon sandwich that was his lunch. Robert’s stomach growled.
“Oh! One-way, please,”
“Thank you, that’ll be twenty-five dollars, please,” Robert handed him a the money, “Thank you,” The teller handed him a ticket, and went back to his bacon sandwich.
The train was empty. Besides Robert, three people were on the train. Compared to the noise of the train station, the silence was very quiet. There was a click, at the end of the train, a door slid open and the food cart came in. Robert sighed with relief, he hadn’t eaten in two days. He got two sandwiches and finished them greedily in a matter of minutes.
His belly full, he stretched his feet out on the seats, and relaxed. Not before long, he felt his eyes closing, and soon he was sleeping soundly.
He had though about what to do for a long time, thinking about different things. He had finally decided to run away. Hopefully, his parents would realize how important he was, and in their search for him, realize how little they cared for him. Or maybe they just wouldn’t care at all. That thought made Robert cry.
The announcement woke him. “Last stop, everybody out! Albany! Last stop!” Still half asleep, Robert opened his eyes. Someone was shaking him. The conductor.
“Come on, kid, I gotta turn the train around. I have a schedule, wake up already,” Robert got up and walked out of the door. The train station, like the train, was fairly empty. He rode up an elevator and walked out. It was cold outside, a light gray sky contrasted by little splotches of blue. Robert walked along the sidewalk, contemplating what he should do next, thinking so hard that he didn’t notice the figure looming above him, didn’t notice until the figure scooped him up in their arms and hugged him hard.
“Oh my God, Robert! I was so worried about you!” It was his mother. She looked tired, and her eyes were red from crying. Robert just took it all in, but when she turned to make a phone call, he smiled to himself. It had worked. He had won.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010


He had always loved football. From when he was three, watching a game with his dad. Even though he didn’t know anything about the game, or even cared about who won, he still watched it from beginning to end and cheered all the way through.
He was good at football too. When he was six, he would play with the small NERF football with his dad, and even then, he could throw and catch amazingly well.
When he got into fifth grade, there was a small little game of football played at recess, and he always joined the game. He quickly developed a reputation, and was soon picked first at every game.
When he got into middle school, his dad signed him up for a program, where he went to football twice a week, mondays and saturdays. Coaches soon recognized his natural talent and his potential, and he was put in a starting position, at wide receiver. He caught almost every ball he was ever thrown, and when he didn’t catch a ball thrown to him, it was the quarterbacks fault. His team was top of the league, and because of him.
In high school, he got even better, and was put on the varsity team as a freshman. On that team, he was the best player. By a long shot. For four years, every year he was in high school, he played on the varsity team, taking the team to the tournament and winning, every single time.
He got an athletic scholarship to Florida A&M and played football there. All the years he was on their team, the Rattlers, he took them to many bowl games, and won plenty of them. He studied very hard too, and got a bachelor’s degree in sports history.
Only a year after he graduated, he was picked up by an NFL team. In the draft, when he was selected, was the greatest day of his life. On his team, he did amazingly well, catching every ball, and when a quarterback threw a faulty ball, he would go up to them and say a catch-phrase that was speedily becoming famous, “Give me something I can catch,”
He took his team to the super bowl for two years straight, winning both games. But then, in his third year, he pulled his back. Doctors found things wrong with his legs and told him he couldn’t play football. He was so depressed after that. But then he met Clare.
He met her at the hospital, she worked part time as a nurse, and he asked her out when he was there getting his legs examined. He was really in love with her, and that’s what kept him going through not being able to play football. Clare and football, his two passions.
It was three months later. And he was no longer with Clare. She had dumped him, thrown him away like a piece of garbage, while he had loved her. A tear ran down his cheek and dropped into his beer. He took a swig from it, ignoring the salty taste that cut into the flavor of the beer. And he made a decision.
The bank was made of tan marble, pillars stretching up into the sky. He walked up the stairs, and through the glass doors. He waited patiently in line and when he reached the teller, he pulled a revolver out of his pocket, and fired a shot into the air. “Get down!” he yelled,”This is a holdup!”
The teller hastily stuffed bills into an envelope, cramming in the fifties and hundreds. It was completely quiet in the bank, and then a noise cut through the silence. A siren. “OK, who pressed the silent alarm?” he yelled, holding up the gun, “No one? So I guess I’ll be shooting you all!” He started firing.
When he walked out of the building, six people were dead. When he walked out, three cop cars blocked his way. Ten cops held out revolvers, and he had three bullets left. “Give me something I can catch!” he yelled, and he fired, killing three policemen instantly. He sprinted, so fast that the other cops couldn’t get a bead on him, to the dead bodies. Picking up a taser and another gun, he rolled behind a car. He caught his breath, then jumped over the hood, killing three more cops and tazing one. But a bullet hit him in the chest, somehow one of the cops had hit him. His body was hurled backwards through the windshield of the car, and into the front seat. He landed on the horn and it started honking. When the remaining three cops reached him, he was dead.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Starscape: Yes I Know It's Cheesy, I Don't Care!

A memo was posted on the virtual bulletin board in the hallway just outside the bunkers. It read, “Dangerous Mission, Twenty Volunteers Needed, Risk of Death,” And underneath there was a single line labeled captain, and nineteen other lines for soldiers. My name was on the captain spot. Quillian Poerd. That’s me.
First lieutenant of squad A, that’s my title. I got full marks on every evaluation test the government decided to get me. That’s what landed me here. Here on the S.S Starscape, a fully functioning galactic battle cruiser. The ship is gigantic, at least twenty miles long. My squad’s bunker is about halfway down the ship, next to the medical bay. The bunker is thirty-seven separate pods that soldiers sleep in. The pods are full of young, foolhardy men who think they’ve got what it takes to be in the Intergalactic War Field. Let’s hope they do.
The morning after the memo was posted, there was an announcement calling for the member of squad A who had volunteered to report to hanger C. We did so.
The briefer, an elderly man with a clipboard, told us what we were doing. There was a eRompien space craft floating ten miles past the boundary of the current treaty. We were to get in without tripping any sensors, and eliminate all crew members, without alerting eRompien forces. Not easy. The only way to get into the ship is a maneuver named, “The Hammer,” and it was risky. I asked the group, “How many here have had ‘Hammer’ training?”
Nobody raised their hand. Damn. “Everybody! To simulation chamber RF-T10! Let’s move it! When the training is over, report back here for further briefing! Go!”
As soon as they left, I took out a link on my belt, and made a call. “Hey, Mike? You got some of my squad going for “Hammer” training, give them the basics. No more then two hours. Ok, thanks,” I clicked it off.
About ninety minutes later, shaking soldiers filed back into the room. I don’t blame them. “The Hammer” is a very gut-wrenching experience, especially if it’s your first time.
So now we had to face the other problem. We couldn’t let the other eRompien forces know that we destroyed this cruiser. As soon as we broke into the ship, they would be alerted. We could use a jammer, but in a “Hammer,” there’s no way you could activate. Maybe a timer. Maybe….
It’s three hours later. The squad is sitting on two benches, talking excitedly. I sit in a corner by myself, thinking. All of a sudden, an orange light flashes. Five minutes till launch. Everybody got into regulation space/battle suits, then got in a contraption that’s called the hammer suit. Then the squad waited.
The “Hammer” is a relatively simple procedure. When you need to get people or humanoid-shaped objects onto a ship without touching the radar, you use it. It involves a person getting into a metal suit that had rockets at the back. You are launched down into the ship, and the object is to go fast enough to be in the ship before the radar sees you. The rockets fire and your body is shot downwards into the hull. Usually you go through, but I’ve been in missions where it wasn’t quite that perfect. It was messy. Anyway, back to the mission.
The light turned green. I felt a falling sensation and my stomach lurched. One of my soldiers vomited, but the suit filtered it out and cleaned it up automatically. Then the rockets fired. The G-force was insane. It felt like there were two elephants, somehow sitting on your back and stomach at the same time, pressing down on both sides. My chest contracted and I could hardly breath. The pressure was squishing me. A second later, and gray filled my vision. The gray opened, and we were through.
The hammer suits fell off, and clanged to the floor. Behind us, the hull closed up. I took a second to catch my breath, and then shouted into my mike, “Let’s go! Don’t dawdle, weapons ready!” And then a eRompian burst through the door carrying a plasma rifle. My suit saw him and fired automatically. He fell to the ground, shaking.
The squad ran through the door the alien had just come through only to come up to a crowd of hostiles. “Grenade! Get down!” I yelled, as I rolled a small concussion incendiary towards the crowd. We crumpled to the floor, and with a flash of bright light, all the eRompiens were down.
“Next room! Hurry!” The next room turned out to be the bridge. We were in way over our head. There were at least a hundred of them and they all had weapons.
“Fire!” I screamed and the battle started. It was chaos, figures flying through the air and shots dancing around the room. My men were falling quickly, and I needed a strategy. There—In the corner! A laser turret! I sprinted towards it, dodging shots. When I reached it I leaped, ripping the operator out of the console. I dived in, aimed, and started firing. I took most of them out with my scissoring laser bursts. Good thing too, all of my men were down. There were only five of the eRompiens left, but my shots couldn’t reach them, so I jumped out of the turret.
Sprinting towards them, I realized that they were hunched over a console of some sort. Easy takedowns, they had their back to me. When I was about twenty feet away, something happened. In the center of the room, a giant black portal appeared, swirling violently. A giant hand reached out, followed by an arm. After a few seconds, a gigantic creature was standing in the middle of the room. It was squat and round, with a huge mouth, that contained fangs. Its arms were bulky and thick, and they ended in claws. And its eyes, which were no more then red slits, they were looking directly at me.
The creature came at me, and I fired my plasma rifle. No affect. I tried concussion grenades, the turret, an electric band gun. No affect. The creature laughed. It was time to go old-school. I took out a switchblade knife. I made it red-hot, then electrified it with the band gun. Then I leaped at the creature. He swatted me away easily, moving unbelievably fast. I took my dart gun, and fired dart after dart into the creatures skin. None even got past the surface. Then, an idea! I took the knife, and jammed it into the gun cartridge. I fired. The knife hit the creature straight between the eyes, sinking in. The creature evaporated into green dust.
I thought the battle was over. Apparently not. The eRompiens who had brought this thing into this world were choking and gasping. The coughing got more violent, and finally, they collapsed. Then I lost my breath. Hot air filled my lungs, and was forced back out by some invisible force. The dust! I looked around frantically, and there! An air-conditioning unit. I staggered over to it and managed to click the button on it. My lungs were freed instantly. But the battle still wasn’t over.
A huge explosion rocked the ship. I ran over to the controls, and out in space, a huge, tentacled creature, that was shaking the ship up and down. And I recognized it. It was a cthullhu, or a dark god. They are devastatingly strong and can lay an entire universe to waste. And I was about to challenge it.
It wasn’t so much a battle, as much as a decision. I held the power to destroy this creature, but in the process would kill myself, and several surrounding planets. As I shot beams and missiles at the creature I contemplated the problem. And I decided.
I clamped my eyes shut, and pressed my finger down on the button. A circular bomb fired, and shot towards the god. There was a flash, like a sunburst. And then everything was gone.

Monday, March 8, 2010




Little patches of sunlight shone in from far above, coming in in the irregular shapes of the leaves. The golden beams illuminated clouds of dust drifting lazily through the air. The ground was blanketed with brown leaves and acorns, both of which crunched under my feet as I walked through the forest.
I walked between gigantic trees that stretched up into the sky, and then came to a wall of trees. The trunks met and joined to form a solid barrier of wood. If you walked along the trees, you would find they were arranged in a massive circle. Impenetrable. To a mortal, that is.
I walked up to one of the trees, and pressed my hand against it, fanning my fingers against the cool bark. Almost immediately, with a loud sighing sound, two trees folded apart, creating an opening in the wall. I stepped through, and behind me it closed.
The circular clearing was empty, save for one gigantic redwood in the middle, completing the fairy ring. I walked to this tree, and as I did with the wall, I touched the bark. The tree unfolded from the roots, unraveling until there was a sizable aperture in the wood. Moss-covered stairs led downwards into darkness. The only thing to be seen in the inky black below the threshold was a small pinpoint of soft green light.
I stepped into the tree, walking down the stairs towards the light. When I reached the bottom of the staircase, I saw the source of the emerald glow. Ten men were sitting on a tall half-circle bench sort of thing, and they all were glowing green. They were dressed in flowing green robes. The one in the highest seat spoke, his voice very old and soft. “You have been granted an audience with the forest gods, speak now, Vellian, tell us the matter of your visit,”
“War,” I replied, seeing the surprise on the god’s faces, “war is coming,”
The ice was slippery, but I easily held my ground. I was on a wide tundra of ice, walking steadily forwards. A huge shape appeared out of the endless blank whiteness and came slowly towards me. As it got closer, I saw it to be a gigantic polar bear, fur as white as the snow, mouth still pink from its last kill. Steam formed above its nostrils, instantly disappearing in the wind. We stared at each other for a while and then it spoke.
Its voice was majestic and deep, royal and commanding. It said,”You are Vellian? Come with me,”
I followed him for a short while, and then we came to a hole in the ice, a clean circle of dark blue. The bear said, “Follow,” and he dived into the hole, vanishing in a second. I dived in after him. The cold was incredible, but it didn’t bother me. Pluto, when it was at negative two hundred degrees Celsius didn’t even faze me, so this one degree water was nothing.
I followed him down deeper into the water, and we finally came to a throne. An old man was sitting on it, and I told him the same message I’d given the forest gods. War is coming.
Swirls of color danced around in my eyes, random objects spun in the air, perspective destroying itself. The objects morphed and changed and continued their insane dance.
I walked along a hallway with a red carpet. I don’t know when I got there, I was just there all of sudden, and then I was in a throne room.
“Stop!” I yelled, and everything halted and fell to the floor. “That’s more like it. Now, Jester, come out! I need to tell you something. A crazily dressed king came out from behind the throne, and looked at me with mismatched eyes.
“Yeeeeesssss?” he said in a drawn-out, bored voice. But when I told him the news, his eyes widened. Then, he started to laugh maniacally, and things started swirling again. He really didn’t care. I shrugged, and with a popping noise, I disappeared, and went to the side of my master, War.
War is tall, at least twenty feet. When you look at him, your eyes don’t seem to really focus on what his true shape, so others appear. Sometimes he looks like a knight in shining armor, or a fierce samurai. He rides a gigantic blood red horse, which he calls Battle. War’s voice is always the same, no matter what he looks like. A voice of a teacher, someone who shows you how to fight, but no matter how much he teaches you, you will never be as good as him. The voice of a master.
I told him that the gods had been informed. He took this with a nod, and then with a flash of red light, he was gone. To fight gods.
I didn’t watch. I didn’t like blood and gore, not like War does. Later, I would go and inspect the outcome, but it would be the same as last time. War always won. He invented fighting. You can’t beat him. Why do they even try, I wondered, looking out over War’s world, a flatland full of armies just standing there, and I wondered. Why?