Short Stories

Moving

I’ll be deleting all of my work from here, but you can still find it on my personal page at myeverythingandnothing.tumblr.com

-B

I lost my job today

I lost my job today.

In some distant part of the galaxy I hear there was a battle. I don’t know where. I don’t know why. I just know that now there is an angry mob of people who have taken the time out of their celebrations to make sure that I know I’ve lost my job.

The pound their fists hard onto the glass window in the front of my office. I’ve locked the door, but it wont hold. They scream obscenities calling me a Dog and worse. They have crudely thrown together signs with slogans about “Peace, Freedom, Equality, Justice” while they turn over vehicles and ransack my office.

Suddenly a large piece of something comes flying through the window. My assistant is hit. She’s bleeding. She was so afraid. She didn’t know what was going on.

The intruders yell at her, they yell at me. They grab her. They grab me.

They tell me how much of a disgrace it is to be wearing my dull, grey uniform. They rip my jacket from my shoulders. They do the same to my assistant. I struggle, but there are so many of them and I am just an administrative officer. I’m a paper-pusher, what chance do I have?

These people beat me, the assault my assistant. Black and blue we are beaten and then, when the crowd gets tired of their violent assault and our tears are no longer sweet, they leave us to collapse to the ground, barely holding on to our lives.

I pull myself over to my assistant and check her. She’s not breathing. I do my best to try and help her. I’m in more pain than I’ve ever been in. I can barely move, but I keep trying. My arms are as weak as a child’s. I stop and cough up a bit of blood. I plead. I beg. She’s not moving and she never will again.

Someone comes along. I recognize him. He’s an Imperial, well I guess former Imperial, officer as well. He’s out of uniform. He quickly helps me to my feet and begins rushing me down an alleyway. He’s terrified. I’m hearing a ringing in my ears and not much of the conversation. I think he says that the rebellion has come. I swear I hear him say that Palpatine is dead. My head hurts and I’m lucky to be alive. I spit up a bit more blood and hobble with this man for a bit further. The only thing I can think of is my family. I’m afraid.

Things go dark. I hear explosions in the distance. I’m in some kind of room. There is the smell of blood coming from all around. People are yelling. Hands find themselves upon me. They are moving all over me. I can’t see. They inject me with something. I feel a thin layer of wrappings cross my wounds. I pass out.

In my dreams I see my wife and my child. Things are happy. I see my assistant, her pretty young face smiling at me as I walk into work. Suddenly things are ripped apart. Blood is everywhere and I am screaming.

I wake up on a gurney, screaming and sweating.

I’m in a room with a few people. Some of them have their uniforms on; most that do have rips and tears. They all wear the mark of fear on their face. They are all gathered around a holo-net receiver looking at the tiny image of a woman in long flowing robes.

“I am Mon Mothma,one of the leaders of the Rebellion against the Empire. The Dark Times are over. This day we have struck a complete and fatal blow to the Empire; The terrible second iteration of their Death Star Super-weapon, along with Emperor Palpatine, has been destroyed. The Imperial Navy is in ruin and the command structure is in chaos. We are now officially taking control from them and going forward with the re-establishment of the Republic. There will be chaos and we do ask that you, as free peoples, seek to aide us in anyway. We have been fighting for you and now our fight is nearly over. The time of fear is done, the time of peace is here. May the Forcebe with you, all of you.”

My heart sinks. The Rebels have won. Its hard to grasp. The only thing that I’ve ever heard about those terrorists have been that they were an unorganized and laughable fighting force that followed the call of former Separatists, but as it hard as it is to believe, it would seem that they were a lot more.

I try to stand but my legs aren’t ready. One of the men comes to my side. He tells me to take it easy. I tell him that my family are out there, somewhere. He says that I’m too hurt to move. I tell him I must. He injects me with something and says that he understands. He hands me some clothes and I limp my way out and down the street.

Fire is everywhere. Graffiti litters the once clean and beautiful architecture of the streets. I turn my head in disgust as I pass by a trooper, his helmet off and his head beaten in. The streets are washed with blood. The sights and sounds make me quicken my pace.

I cross the courtyard of my complex. I whisper a little hope that my family is unharmed. I whisper a little hope that this is all just a bad dream.

I find the doors to my home in shambles and the rooms in chaos.

I call out to my wife. I call out to my son. I hear a scream that escapes through sobs.

I rush to it and find her, my love. She is holding my boy in her arms. He is beaten and bloody. She is too. She says that some of the other boys did this. I collapse down to my knees. The pain of my wounds, the pain of her, and the pain of my son’s all come crashing upon me. I yell out to the world. I yell out to the galaxy.

A month passes. My wife takes her own life and my boy is still in the hospital, his spine was shattered and they are doing their best to repair it, but I don’t have a job. I don’t have any credits. The doctors, even the droids, don’t work for free. There are no Government programs to aid us like there were before. There is nothing but the promises of this fledgling Republic and the politicians they have put in charge and corruption has already started to show itself. They say that, without help, he won’t last long.

The emotions I feel are all dark. I feel sorrow, I feel anger, I feel despair, and I feel lost. Hope and joy are but faint shadows.

There is something special happening today though. The woman, Mon, the one from the broadcast is coming here to speak to all the loyal new citizens of the Republic. A bit of joy rears its head as I think to the sporting blaster that I’ve managed to keep hidden away since that day. I’m not an Imperial, not anymore, and I’ve never been a patriot of the Empire, but today I’ll fight and die as one. Not for Palpatine, not for theImperial War Machine, not for the order, not for the army, but for the Imperial citizens that I love: My wife and my son.

I wait until the speech begins then I find my way up to the vantage point just up on the roof of my old office building, now abandoned and looted. I aim carefully. her face is in my scope. My hands are shaking; I’m no soldier.

I press the trigger, slowly. I squeeze it in.

The blast flies out and strikes her in the chest. She falls. Joy, elation, and happiness now share a seat with vengeance and anger. Vanguards leap around her. Soon soldiers rush in and surround me. I say a little wish to myself as I raise the gun to bear on them. I stand no chance of winning, but thats not the point.

They pull their triggers and I fall down. Just one more body amongst the foundation.

Long Live the Republic.

“Earlier today while visiting one of the more battle-worn parts of Corellia, an assassin, now identified as a former Imperial Customs officer, made an attempt on Republic Chancellor Mon Mothma. Fortunately she was wearing a protective vest and the attack caused no real damage. As she was being examined she had this to say:

‘Everywhere out there we must be on our guard. The agents of the Empire still exist and will try with all their might to extinguish our voices and topple our great Republic. They wish to take back our Freedoms. They wish to deny us our Justice. They wish to take away the things essential to our lives.

‘May the Force be with all of us.”

-L

Lost Liberi

“Better that the light cloud should fade away into heaven with the morning breath, than travail through the weary day to gather in darkness, and in storm.”

      - Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton

PART I: The Drifters 

Chapter I: The Poet’s Dead.

“Poet’s dead man”

 “What?”

It was like a dream; A dream that hit me with the force of a ton of bricks. One of the ones you struggle to wake up from, but no matter how real there is always something in the back of your mind that says that this is not reality, this is a nightmare. That feeling was absent when I needed this.

I wish this was a nightmare.

I check myself again and look around the room. It was just as unfamiliar as it was when I went to bed: White walls, two windows with blinds, and a Fan spinning twisting the dust in the air. That Dust had more than likely been unmoved for years before we arrived.

I sat up in the bed; the old wooden futon creaked under my weight.

I shake my head. I was restless the night before. I always am when things are going well. It’s some innate drive that keeps me from accepting the fact that things are going well, and it appears that this instinct held true again.

Bernard looked at me waiting for some response that would make things right. He always looked up to me as if I was some sort of god-sent guide for him. His own personal Jesus, as he would put it, quoting the band he loved so much. He was a good boy. I call him a boy, but he’s only a few years younger than me, but, after years of dealing with children, that’s how I felt about quite a few people.

For a moment I hope this is some kind of sick joke. I twist myself over to the edge of the bed and stare into his eyes. He’s not joking. Not that he would be.

“What do you mean he’s dead?” I say. The last bit of resistance my mind was forcing against this horrible reality was pushed back with Bernard’s response.

“I mean he’s not breathin’ man. I mean, I walked in there, he’s sittin’ there in his chair like he was last night. He looks like he’s about to read a fuckin’ book to you man.

“I said a couple of words, he didn’t respond. His eyes are open. Checked his throat. He’s got no pulse man.”

No pulse. No life. No rhythm. The man was like the father I’ve never met. We were three vagabonds, three travelers just wandering. I had great respect for the man from the pen he’s put to paper, from the verse he’s spoken at one of his many public outings. He took us in and embraced us like no one had done before.

I got up and pushed past Bernard without a word. He knew not to question it, not to press forward into some kind of response. I could tell he wanted me to say something, anything to settle the confusion. His demeanor was calm, but I knew that on the inside he was fluttering with a range of emotions that were burning with intense flames.

The Door was open from where Bernard had already been. Angelia was just standing there, staring on like she did. I’ve never seen her cry or show excitement. She rarely spoke anyway. When she was a small child something had happened to her and now that event resounded to affect her today. She was almost a shell, but she had passion in her, I could see its glow shining out from within her petite frame.

I stepped into the room; it was just as we left it. He was sitting there across from the couch in his big, worn in chair. Only the night before he was regaling us with stories of his past travels when he was on the road much as we are. When he would write and trade it for food or perhaps even a night’s stay if luck smiled.

He told us how he had seen the future coming. How all the darkness that surrounded us. Us as a world, us as a nation, us as a people, was coming. He said that most of his poems were about these things, but most of his poems were never published.

I told him how much I admired him, how much his works inspired me. I told him how he was a father to me and he was not bothered by this. To me it was profound; such a thing could be overwhelming. Any other man would be driven away, but somehow I knew he would understand.

It seemed almost unreal. I checked again to see if I was dreaming.

I turned back and walked into the living room. I fell upon the couch and put my head into my hands, my fingers rubbing my temples in a circular motion. Angelia listed into the room; she walked as if she was floating. I wasn’t sure she was aware of what was going on. She sat next to me and leaned into my shoulder, her long, thin arms curving around me in an embrace. I peered from the cup of my hands and saw that her face was blank, he eyes unfocused and glazed. Her mouth remained as it always was, but then, suddenly a twitch. I guess it was as much of a comforting smile as I would get from her.

Bernard walked over and sat across from me. Everything inside of me was tearing at me to break, to get this feeling of loss and hopelessness from my chest and get it out. If I was alone, I’d been in an ocean of my tears, but my two loyal followers were here. I could not show weakness. I had to remain strong for them. They looked upon me as something strong and unmoving. If I were to falter, they would be lost.

Sometimes I prayed to be alone, but tonight I prayed that he’d come back.

I excused myself from them and walked to the bathroom. I ran the hot water and started the shower. My tears became lost with the water cascading down upon my body.

Part 2:

Snow fell tonight like some sort of confetti left over from some unseen party. The Poet was dead. The words echoed back to me a thousand times over, reverberating in the empty chamber that was the state of my mind.

I remained washed over by the shock of it all.

It was a testament to fate and mortality that he died peacefully in his chair. Hopefully peaceful. I hear no noises and my rest was light. If anyone were to hear of our beloved patron choking and struggling into the darkness, it would have been me and it would have been fitting.

Instead he went silent. Words drifting off. Life drifting off.

The last memory I now hold of the man, was his rasped breathing synced in time with the clock. I watched him for a few minuets as he fell asleep after talking with us. I was there to see his final moments, to remember them. Had I known that the breaths following the seconds march were a countdown, had I known those breaths were some of his last, I would have made my efforts that my last words to him would have been more profound and thought out than ‘Ill see you in the morning’.

I saw him, but he did not see me.

His eyes were open. His face was calm. He just sat there, in his chair. You’d swear there was nothing wrong other than the stillness. His skin had already lost vitality. It had lost its vibrancy from the infamous way of life he enjoyed. The grey pallor many associate with death was already upon him. He looked so natural sitting here. I almost wanted to start talking to him. If I had found him instead of Bernard, I would have. Bernard was a pessimist and it served him this time.

Bernard always was a pessimist. He was already packing, some his things and some that were not, into his pack, getting ready to run again, already, not an hour later. That’s how we lived, out of our packs and on the run. A few thefts here and there and a few blundered entries were enough to put us on some lists of interest and get a storm of papers calling for our arrest out in the air.

Ironic. We had never killed anyone. We only came across death with the occasional vagrant at the shelters. Here was a man who opened his doors to us, let us into his home, and he was the one to die on us. Irony, its all irony.

“We’ve got to get out of here, now man.” Bernard said, his calm demeanor breaking a bit. He stared me in the eye but then, as I responded, he shot his gaze down and away. It was not my intention to intimidate, but it was a symptom of my position.

“Why the rush?” I queried in earnest. I knew only a handful of things motivated Bernard out of warmth. I could guess as this one.

“We’ve got to get out of here before the cops come. They’ll think we had something to do-“

“With a man dying peacefully?” Without my consent a bit of anger slips out. I quickly curtail it and continue the statement with a bit of a laugh. “He didn’t strangle himself, he didn’t shoot himself, he didn’t slit his wrists, his heart isn’t lying on the table. There’s nothing foul about this.”

“Yeah, but I know how these wankers think. If nothing else they will want names and signatures and IDs for their statements. IF they choose to run our shit, then we’ll be up the bloody river without a paddle. You follow?”

“I follow. It’s something I’m well aware of. Nobody but the three of us knows he is dead. I don’t know if anyone will come looking, but we have a bit of time to plan this out. To leave without making to much of a fuss. If we leave in a hurry, then we will draw attention. Attention draws cops.” It was hard comforting a man on the edge of his fears. These fears would lead him to irrational thoughts, irrational ideas, and irrational ends.

The way I figure it, to make us both happy, Ill wait until we are walking out and call the emergency line and tell them about the body in the study. We’ll be gone before anyone arrives.

My heart is breaking and I have to think of these things. My heart is wishing that he was awake and alive. I dared dream the prior that finding him and having him embrace us into his bosom would be the thing changed us, the thing that saved us from the road.

Even now I wish that some odd occurrence would allow us to stay, that we would inherit this house, like we were his lost children back now to be saved by our father’s legacy as if some law would allow us such a thing.

I began packing. I told Bernard nothing of the phone call I was about to make. I just lead Him and Angelia out before me and turned back to make the call as they waited. The call was swift; the operator answered and I said what needed to be said and then hung up. Technology would lead them here.

My steps were saddened. I hated leaving. I hesitantly approached the doorway. I looked upon it and all I could see was a portal back into our old lives.

(Continued in Part I, Chapter II) 

 -L

An Expression, I suppose

Hey, hello, how is it going? I am talking to you because I know you will listen. Nobody else does, but I know you will. You are there for me to talk to, right? I am feeling a bit exposed, yet shut in, like a claustrophobe that has to sit in the great salt flats in order to not feel shut in. It feels like, and I seriously mean this, I have a gaping wound, bandaged up by some cloth and here comes some people to just rip bits of it off at the time. Its an odd feeling, this despair, this feeling that something is wrong and you just can’t put your finger on it. I feel that intangible feeling of sorrow that comes from too much of nothing or too little of something. Is it Paranoia? Is it the vibrations of echoes of the truth that is to come no matter if it has happened yet or not? Is it just an empathic transmission set across the radio waves and off-hand frequencies that operates this world in its wireless glee. Wires or no wires, its there. It is there even if it had to mail itself through the only way packages get to us as we are sans-teleportation. Do you love me? Machines can’t think or feel, so what do they know about this? Are we nothing more than machines some times? How many more questions must I ask before the puzzle puts itself together and I stop wondering around in a circle asking myself if that’s my tail or someone else’s I am chasing?

How well do I know you?

How well do you know me?

How well do we know ourselves?

Re-Tor-Ic-Al question, I suppose. Do you know me? I don’t think you do. I don’t know you, but we look at ourselves and we see the mirror reflection and we ask: “Do I know you?” I wish, oh how I wish, the answer was yes. I want to be everything for you, I want to be your sword and your shield and comfort you when you need a pillow or cool breeze. Reality: I don’t know such a place as reality. All we are, all the things we know are just signals and impulses triggering chemical responses in the brain.

What if we weren’t real?

What if we were a dream?

What if I were your dream?

What if you were my dream?

What if I could control it completely?

What if I gave you everything your heart desired?

NON-SEN-SE, I suppose. To ponder such things is to invite a sense of madness to invade into the consciousness that is the void that is the life that is the stretch that is the dream. The traveler never speaks in words, just feelings. His lessons are never taught, they are experienced. He sees us all, he knows us all, but he isn’t like us. He is much greater than all of us. Don’t you see that?

Who is he?

Who are we?

Who made us?

Who wants us here?

Who has brought us here?

Who has taken us so far apart?

Who has mended the broken limbs?

Who has ensured our complete attention?

Who wants us to take ourselves away from this?

Who wants to structure events and effects to there end?

Who wishes for us to feel these odd things and see these sights?

Who wishes to keep us here and dream this sad and broken dream?

IN-EV-IT-ABLE, I suppose. What a chance we took in playing at this. I am sure of someone else’s involvement in all of these things. A hand reaches down through crimson to move us on the right course of action that may or may not lead to the demise of our own minds and thoughts. Would you really care if something happened to me? Would I really care if something happened to you? If both of those questions do not share an answer, then something is wrong in the world. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Something IS wrong in the world, but not that. I never thought you would last forever, I can’t deny that. I just thought the ride would be worth the blood I’ve spent in searching for it all.

Do not think of me as a weak person.

Do not think of me as a strong person.

Do not think of me as a person.

Do. Not. Think. How can one not think?

Honestly I…Honestly…that’s a word for you to think on…Honestly…an odd one at that. Not to imply that anyone is dishonest, no, its just one of those words that we say and take for granted. I suppose.

I love you.

I really do.

-An observer. Signed only with “SISTE VIATOR, MOMENTO MORI.”

 -L

Grey

Things looked grey to him.

Everything. Not just the clouds, or the smoke, or the stones, but everything.

Things were losing their color. Things were losing their life. Things were crumbling and the vultures were beginning to pick through the bones and the dust.

Shooting up from the ground were the ribs of the fallen who trod the road before him. Splashes of dull crimson were the only thing here with any reflection of hue.

One tiny step. That’s what would start him down this road. Dare he make that step? His valor and courage said yes, and forced him forward, but his fear and cowardice held him back. Two forces fighting with him in the center and both of them pulling him apart. He was the meat between two ferocious dogs.

The grey sky reflected no emotion. The lifeless and barren trees offered no solace. The dirt at his feet neither wished him away nor called him further. Nothing here cared about his trials, his ventures.

Home seemed so far away, like a dim memory of seeing a person’s face in a crowd. He had come so far and labored so hard and home was now so far away.

The sun lingered in the sky. Its light cast down upon his face and shoulders giving rise to his shadow. As he peered into it, he saw that it was more of a reflection now that it had ever been. A grim reminder that he was but a ghost now, lost to this desolate place.

His back began to ache as he stood there, motionless, looking down this dark and gnarled path ahead. A blank look adorned his face; no emotions, not even a bead of sweat to cool him. Empathy was lost and now only apathy sat on his mind.

Even the courage and the fear began to leave him. He began to stiffen. His very flesh became complacent with where it was and it began to harden. Soon his feet, his legs, his waist, his chest, his arms, his neck, and then his head turned to stone.

A marble statue sat with no tales to spin, no verse to sing. His lips were forever dry and his throat parched without drink. He now sits as an edifice to what he might have been. No stories for the passing traveler to tell about what his placement marks.

Only mystery stands now. The man is gone. He casts a shadow, but a shadow is what he is.

-L

The Soldier and the Poet

            In my many travels and dives into the Hall, I came across three people of some interest. One was a Poet, the other a Soldier, and the third was a Woman. Their tale is that of sorrow, so if you have a frail heart for such things, turn back now.

            It was a day in spring when the Poet asked the Woman whom he had been courting for ages to marry him. With an old brass ring, he surprised her over a meal he himself cooked. With a grin that rivaled the horizon in width, she agreed to become his wife. They were married just as spring became summer.

The Poet wasn’t a rich man, by any means. He lived on his own, selling his poems and prose to whoever would want them, but common men need not such things, least they be scripture. Several times the man would be forced to go without food, but now he had a wife, he couldn’t risk her to the fates. Setting down his pen and paper, he picked up a shovel and became a laborer. He toiled under the baking sun, working for coppers a day, just to keep his wife happy and healthy. His soft hands became rough and calloused; his mind became tired and weary. The Poet was no longer a Poet, he is a Slave.

The Soldier wasn’t a smart man, by any means. He was raised by his father to be strong. No books did he read other than the gospel. No poems flowed from his heart, no prose, and certainly no love. The Soldier was good at what he did and soon became landed. He had gold flowing to him from the backs of his villagers. Women were surrounding him. This was not good enough for him. For years he suffered under the lash of his father constantly telling him that he was inadequate and worthless. These women, these whores proved nothing to him. The tower he lived it was given to him, he did not build it. The land was a gift, not a trophy. He wished only to go about and do his job, the only job he did well. On the battlefield, he knew he was of value as he saw his sword or spear cut into soft flesh and entire legions fall back as he tore through their lines. He was stuck, now, being the lord of this land. He thought that this would be his glory, but instead it was his ball and chain. The Soldier was no longer a Solder, he is a Slave.

The Woman wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she was not ugly by any means. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper in the village. She wasn’t rich, she wasn’t particularly well educated, and she wasn’t very confident in herself. The neglect of her parents and peers as boys chased after either fairer or more promiscuous women lead her to feel inadequate and unloved. She found no outlet for her to receive any affection until a Poet came to town. She met him at her fathers store and he took a liking to her. The Woman found herself at the receiving end of a heart that would not stop pouring out for her. A year went by and she became his Wife. She would stay at home, doing the housework as he would go and sell his works. Everyday she would receive a rose picked from the lord’s garden and he would tell her how much he loved her. She became enamored with his desire for her. As things go in life, money ran short and the Poet had to find another source of coin for his house. He rose with the sun in the morning and went to sleep with it in the evening. The Woman became starved for the attention of her Poet, but he had nothing that he could will to her besides a few muttered sentences. She constantly felt the need for it, it called to her. She became lost deeper and deeper in her shell without it. Soon she was back to what she was before he came. The Woman, one day had enough, she took all of her remaining confidence and charged the man, demanding that he give her his common tribute. The Woman was no longer a Wife, she is a Slave.

One day, while the Poet was out working and the Woman was at home, the Soldier decided that he would walk the streets of his village. He abandoned his entourage at the tower and began to survey all that was his. It would seem that fate is a cruel mistress and would have it at this chance instant the Woman would see the Soldier and come out to bask in his glory. The Soldier saw her and dismissed her as he had so man before. She threw herself at his feet praising him. He, of course, assumed she was a proxy, begging for money. Then she spoke of her husband and in his mind, and a spark lit a flame. If this married woman would say these things to him, then they must be true. He looked down at her again, this time he saw her beauty. The great Soldier-Lord then asked if they could talk in her home, and if her husband was there, of course he was not. The woman knew not to deny her master. They went into her home and spoke for hours about each other. The Woman telling the Soldier how great he was, how handsome. The Soldier telling the Woman how beautiful she was, how intelligent. The Soldier left late in the afternoon, before the Poet came home. When the Poet got there, he found a bountiful meal and a happy wife waiting on him. He was pleased; it would seem that all his hard work for her, inside and out, had finally paid off. He was pleased to think of her as self-sufficient, though he would still give her his love when he could.

Over the next while, the Soldier and the Woman made a trend out of their meetings, and, like things go, they fell in love with each other. He was a great man, and she loved him for that. He would give her things and ‘show’ her his love. She was a beautiful woman, and he loved her for that. She would give him her heart in exchange for his love and affection. The Poet never knew of her meetings with his lord. He just worked and would come home to his wife, never knowing. She began to loose interest in her husband and would shrug his desires aside. Stress and confusion began to eat away at the Poet until his wife told him why she was being so distant: She was pregnant.

Overwhelming joy overtook the Poet. He, after so long, took up his pen and wrote a song that would be his greatest. He sang his song to the hills, the valleys, and the rivers. His joy sated his confusion and relieved his stress. A day or so of this happiness went by before questions bubbled up in his head. The Poet had not laid with his wife in many months, how could this happen. A dimmer man may have missed that detail, or a more spiritual man may have blessed the heavens, but the Poet was neither. He was a man whose heart was aching again because he knew what was going on. He knew that his wife was sleeping with another and now bore his son.

The Poet became angry. Hate billowed out of his ears and mouth. His mind was clouded with thoughts of vengeance. He took his sharpest knife out and tied it to his belt. He then set out for work that morning, but did not complete his journey. He waited in the trees for his wife’s visitor. The Soldier set out on his morning routine, no one questioned why their lord dressed in a cloak and went missing for hours on end. This day was like all the others. The Soldier went to the house of the Woman, they began their talks, it lead to more, and soon he was on top of her in the Poet’s bed, as it happened many times before. The only thing different is that this time, the Poet had waited and then followed him into the bed. He now stood behind him holding the knife.

Many times in his life the Soldier has had men out for his life, but they have all been on a battlefield. He doesn’t hear, or expect that the Poet is sneaking up on him, knife in hand, plotting his death. He only feels the sharp pain as the blade enters his side and slides to his stomach. He only hears the scream of the Woman. He only sees blood pouring from his belly. The room and his world go dark. The Soldier is now a corpse.

The Woman screams to her husband that the man he just killed is his lord. She is lost in fear and anguish. Sorrow fills her heart as she sees the Soldier’s body stop moving.

The Poet now learns the Soldier’s identity. His heart jumps to his throat. He goes cold. No anger anymore, just coldness. He freezes and slumps to the floor. The Poet is now a Killer.

The Poet’s body swings as the trapped-door under his feet give way. The crowd demands that his be mutilated savagely for his crime. Everyone is yelling, everyone but one. The Woman holds her young child tight in her arms and cries softly. The Woman is now Alone.

The End.

 -L

A Word Without God

When I was a little boy, my momma always said to me “Wherever you go, son, go with God and you’ll never be alone.”

I tired going with God, but I’ve never met him or Jesus. Momma always said a lot about Jesus protecting us and watching over us, but he didn’t help her when she started to rot out on the inside. That was a hard time.

The day my momma died was the day my daddy said I was a man. He took me outside to the porch and looked at me. He had sweat pouring from his hat down and he looked like he might go with momma to see Jesus. He said to me “Now listen here boy, when the chips are down, when a man is faced with his fears and his woes, that’s when he will prove what kind of man he is. You’ve gotta stand strong boy. Your momma loved you but she’s gone. You’ve gotta stand strong.”

That was the first time I remember my daddy hugging me. He kept me there close to his chest. All I could do was cry. I think if I had cried any harder, my eyes would have bled and fell out. That was the last time I remember my daddy hugging me.

I lingered around for a few more years. Daddy was always working and I was always at school. We only ever saw each other in the evenings, but I was busy doing my chores and daddy was busy with his bottle of whiskey. He needed his whiskey so he could keep working. I never got sore with him when he would have too much and get mad at me. It was just his way.

Now I never did too good in school. Some of the teachers thought I shouldn’t even be in their classes and I had to talk to so many people. One time way back, some people came to ask me about the marks daddy left on me one time after he was drinking. I told them what happened and that it was my fault, but they said that it wasn’t and that I didn’t deserve getting hit like that. The way I figure it is that I did wrong and I needed to get hit so I remember that its wrong, just like daddy said. They told me to go back to class and here I thought it was the end of it. When I got home there was a police man, Mr. Baker I think, and a lady dressed up all fancy. They were talking to my daddy until they saw me.

That’s the last time I ever saw my daddy. I remember him saying that they needed to take me, for my own good. I’m glad he looks out for me like that. I miss him, but I did like where they took me.  It was a nice place called Westville Boys home.

They gave me some new clothes and kept me fed. I did some chores with the other boys there. I didn’t really talk to any of them too much, the boys I mean. I never know what to say and my daddy always told me that ‘if you don’t know what to say, keep your mouth shut or you’ll look like an ass.’ I never had any particular want to look like an ass, so I kept my mouth shut a lot.

I stayed there for a few years. Kept going to school and did my best. The men at the place told us all these great things about God and Jesus and soon I was learning all sorts of things about what the bible said. I never felt better knowing that God was looking over me. He was there at the home too. Everyone called him Mr. Pembroke, but I knew who he was.

Lots of times Mr. Pembroke and I would talk about God’s plan and Jesus and how the world couldn’t be here without God. He asked me to think about all the things I would miss out on if God wasn’t here. When I thought about it, it made me sad. I just couldn’t think of a world without God.

Mr. Pembroke said that I was a good boy, I just needed some work. He told me that the best thing I could do to keep on the right path would be to take a writing book and write down anything I would miss in a world without God. So I did.

In a word without GOD there would be no airplanes or TVs or good food. There wouldn’t be the paper or this pen im riting with. They would be no grass or dogs or cats. I don’t like cats but some folks do so im glad they here. They would be no sky or water or trees to climb. There would be no momma or daddy.

 I don’t know why, but when I wrote the last part I got sad. I thought about it and thought about it and thought about it. There was no momma or daddy here. They were gone. This made me more sad than I had been in a while. I just wanted to get out of this place and see momma and daddy. I don’t know why I felt like that, but I did.

That was years ago though and I don’t intend on dwelling in the past. Daddy always said that a man who spent his days looking to the past never will see the future and I intend on seeing the future, whatever that means.

-L

Miranda My Love

‘The room is dark and still, nothing makes a noise, nothing makes a move. Pressures shift, a door opens and light pours in illuminating the scattered and cluttered topography of the mysterious room. Clothes linger, lazily discarded in a pile. Light Sparkles off the glass bottles with character from some forgotten cartoon stuck to their faces. Stuffed animals look up from the bed to see who dares disturb their slumber. This is a girl’s room; this is a young woman’s prison. This is her hell…’

The last syllable slipped out with that bit of emphasis that let you know that it’s a taboo word. Miranda glanced up from her paper just long enough to gauge a reaction from her ‘peers’ She scoffed at the notion that these people are her ‘peers’. She licked her dry lips and prepares to continue her oral report of ‘her home’.

“Miss Bailey, you apparently didn’t read the details of the assignment. This is not a creative writing paper…”

“Psh, what? Just because I added a bit of flavor to the thing makes it wrong?”

“Just sit down, we’ll discuss this and your disregard for authority after a school today…”

“What? This is Bullshit!”

“Forget it Miss Bailey, Office, now!”

An hour later, Miranda found herself downtown looking into one of the many establishments that exist for nothing more than the inebriation of its patrons. Many of them were closed, shut down, and dead almost like some kind of vampiric spirit that can’t exist until the sun goes down and the party-seekers come out. Even though the lounge was inactive and asleep in the midday sun, Miranda still looked in longing to escape the bounds of her age and situation. ‘Fuck school, fuck my mom, and fuck Troy…’ she thought as she dreamed of carousing with some band’s front man after a show, him buying her drinks and whispering things in her ears that would make the little boys she knew blush and run in shame.

“Excuse me, young lady…shouldn’t you be in school?” A voice came from behind her, shattering her day dream and brining her back to the sad reality of the dead bar. She turned around, readying a volley of four-letter words to assault this stranger who dared destroy her fantasy, but just as the first word began to slip out she caught the shine of an officer’s badge. ‘Shit,’ she thought, ‘I’m fucked.’

“I can’t fucking believe this!” Gillian Bailey said slamming her fist down on the principal’s desk.

“Mrs. Bailey, please, calm down…” The normally composed principal, Mrs. Scott, broke a bit into worry as she saw Miranda’s mother’s rage open up in the small amount of time between the door opening and then shutting.

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down, you cunt; if your staff could manage to do your fucking job then maybe my daughter wouldn’t have been taken to the goddamn police station!”

“She left of her own volition, we have a good many students and we can’t watch after each and every one all the time. Besides, ma’am, the officer said that he would have just brought your daughter back here had she not resisted him and then assaulted him.”

“She kneed the fucker in the nuts, just like I told her to do. She has to protect herself, you can’t trust anyone. If that cop had put his hands on me-“

“That’s beyond the point ma’am; we are here to talk about Miranda and her continued enrollment at this facility…”

“What are you trying to say?”

Miranda sat in the waiting room of the office trying not to succumb to the instinctual embarrassment of hearing her mother unleash hell upon the head administrator of the school. Though the words were made to mumbles through the door, the intonation made it all clear enough: Another school bites the dust. Miranda held her hand up in front of her face and extended her index finger: Albright School for Girls, an anachronistic throw back to days when women were nothing but cleaning baby carriers. She laughed as she thought about the quilts of the sewing class catching fire after a cigarette ‘accidently’ found its way into a scrap can. Miranda looked at her middle finger, examining the little design she painted on it earlier in the day: Emanuel County Institute. Fucking red-necks and their shit kicker boots, not a bit of intelligence in the whole building, staff included. Inbreeding is not a great way to keep a town alive, well, maybe alive, but not ahead. Her ring finger came out from its curl with a bit of a tremor; this made her smirk when she thought of the insanity of the band director in Macon and his force-feeding of practice down the student’s throats. She took a moment to consider the calluses and blisters she got from the violin her mother forced her to play to ‘fit in’. A bit of laughter escaped her thoughts into reality as she thought of how that accursed thing shattered into a million pieces as it landed into the back of Joey Douche bag-what-was-his-last-oh-who-cares after he was caught off guard telling his ‘buddies’ that he had ‘banged’ Miranda and that she was a slut. What a pretentious bastard to think she would lower herself down to his amoeba-like level.


 

Miranda took a moment and stared at her hand, three fingers extended to represent the three schools she was kicked out of. She let out a sigh and lifted her pinky up to join the others. ‘Hell, one more and I’ve got the whole set.’ Abruptly the sound of a door slamming open shocked her away from her and her past endeavors of juvenile delinquency.

“Yeah, I appreciate it. The next time I come up here because of some bull shit YOUR staff pulled, heads will fucking ROLL!” Miranda’s mother came storming out of the office with a cloud of hate following just at her heels. “Get your shit, we are leaving, and don’t you damn say a fucking word unless I ask you a question. Understand?”

“…”

“UNDERSTAND?” she said, emphasizing the last syllable with a backhand slap to Miranda’s neck.

“Ow! Yeah, shit, Ok.”

“No fucking profanity!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miranda sat watching the cars pass by. She tried to ignore her mother’s ranting about responsibility, finances, the cost of living, the need for order, and what she should have done with Miranda since the beginning; all salted with words of color most commonly found in the mouths of sailors. Miranda had been through this a million and one times by this car ride, so she was able to tune it out by just finding the repetition in it and latching on. A long sigh escaped from her lungs as she thought about her father and the fact that at least he could see his ‘iron bars’. Her mother kept prattling on about how hard she has had it as a single mother, but all Miranda could think of is freedom and escape. A thought flashed in her head; This thought was simple but so profound in the same light: her father’s old straight razor was in the bathroom cabinet. It was sharp and available. At least this way her father could actually say he did something for her by leaving it there. She thought of her mother’s sorrowful reaction to finding her, limp and pale on the floor of the bathroom. She imagined tears pouring from her eyes and her telling her how sorry she was for yelling at her, how sorry she was for sending her off to other people’s houses when she was a kid so that she could fuck Mr. Random, or how she would apologize for taking her 10-year old over to her dealer’s house while she got fucked up on coke or whatever was at hand, and maybe she would plead for Miranda to forgive her for letting her boyfriend, Troy, move in rent-free while he was ‘looking for a job’ but the only ‘job’ he was looking for was just another name for something he fantasized Miranda doing while her mom performed the task. She just knew that if she was gone her mom would just die from guilt, because she would know it was her fault all along, all of it.

“Well, believe it or not, they aren’t going to kick you out. I guess you have to burn down another hall or assault the quarterback to get thrown out, I suppose we should have guessed as much from last time, eh?” Her mother’s mood had shifted from ‘raging bitch’ to ‘I just wanna be your pal” mode by the end of the car ride. It always happened the same way, and a while back Miranda would have fallen for it, but not now. She was far to jaded to let her defenses down at this pitiful attempt at reconciliation. Looking out the widow, staring a thousand yards away, all she could think about was the silver blade waiting patiently at home. ‘Would anyone come to the funeral?’ she thought in her head. Moving around prevented her any friendships that were of value. 5 schools and not a friend she could name, only idiots or acquaintances at best. Sometimes the occasional horny nerd would make an attempt to ‘be her friend’ but she always saw through the bull-shit. She was 17 years old, for God’s sake, not some 12-year-old idiot pretending to know the truth about boys and girls.

“You aren’t my friend, so stop pretending like you are.” Miranda ventured to say after her mother fell silent.

“We were pals once, you know.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right, we were…back when you were whoring for drugs. I forgot.” Miranda fought back a smile; she knew that her mother’s natural reaction to such a thing would be tears. Her mom made herself cry about her past at least three times a week already, hearing it from her should stab her right in the heart, Miranda thought.

“Right. Drugs. Mmhmm.” She said as she put the car in park and shut it down. She turned her head to face Miranda. Miranda looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of her mother’s hand on a collision course with her face. The impact was inevitable, and hard. Miranda’s vision blurred as her eyes began to well up with tears. Her face was hot and stinging. Shocked, she looked to her mother who had tears running down her face. “You don’t know shit, little girl, you were too young to remember where that fucking money went. Go to your room and wait for me. No music. Go.”

Miranda hesitated for a moment before she started to move. She reached for the door handle and realized that she was nursing her cheek. The whole moment had passed with the subtlety and speed of a tornado. She wasn’t even sure what exactly had happened, but she knew she was madder than she had ever been before. The razor’s deed seemed more appealing than ever, especially when she imagined her mother’s sorrow again and again in her head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Troy was sprawled out on the couch, beer in one hand, remote in the other, asleep with a puddle of drool soaking into the upholstery of the old, musty couch. He didn’t hear Miranda open the door or step in, but beer and sheets went flying as she pulled the door closed with a snatch.

“What the…fucking hell, you scared the fuck out of me!”

“How’s the job hunt going? I see you’re waiting for a call, eh.”

“Listen, little girl, I am in no mood for your smart little ass, ok.”

“Rather be a smart ass than a dumbass, Troy. Good luck with that.”

“Bitch, I swear to…” Troy muttered as she walked away. She didn’t even need to look back to know exactly where his eyes went as soon as she turned away. Troy had been undressing her in his mind since she was 12 when her mom first met him at some dealer’s house that she was fucking. Troy had a job back then, he was a maintenance worker at one of the factories around here, he made good money, and helped her mother out a bit, but it was all for sex. That was before he got busted for possession and forced Miranda and her mom to move the first time to avoid the cops. That’s when she started to quit the whoring and the drugs, but it was always going to be there no matter what she did to ‘make up for it’ and now she was back in this city and back with Troy, who was fresh out of lock-up and fresh out of a job. Miranda almost felt bad for the asshole, but she hated him, so it was just an ‘almost’.

Later that evening as Miranda tried to get to sleep with her radio in her mother’s custody. She was accustomed to sleeping whatever rock band happened to be featured that night. This was torture, all she could do is lay there, hearing the sounds of the city traffic and the deafening silence of her little room. She rolled to her side and embraced her oversized teddy bear and made another attempt to fall asleep. She felt like she was getting close, until, suddenly the thought from earlier came back into her head. Her thoughts lead her out of her body and to the little wooden box underneath the sink. She saw herself opening the box and taking the old blade out. She smiled as she imagined running the blade across her wrist, blood pouring out from the wound. Happiness swelled within her when she imagined her mother running in, finding her dying there on that old bathroom floor. She just lay there, picturing the scenario over and over, her muscles tensing as if they were calling out for her to move and to do the deed, but she waited, savoring the fantasy. Soon she drifted off into sleep, her muscles’ demands not met, her dream unfulfilled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning she awoke to the sound of the bus’s diesel engine throttling up and roaring away. In a frenzy of clothing and books she rushed out into the living room to see her mother eating a bowl of cereal, calmly as if oblivious to the world.

“What the fuck! Why didn’t you get me up!? You know my alarm is busted!” Miranda screamed. She didn’t give a shit about school, but for some reason she was mad that she was going to be late.

“Oh. You actually give a shit about getting up for school? Well I’m sorry; I guess I forgot to let you know that you had been put on Out of School Suspension for your little stunt. It doesn’t make much sense to me, I mean, you left school and now they are keeping you out. Anyway, I’m going to get your assignments after work. I would remind you that you are grounded and that you can’t leave, but thankfully, Troy, has volunteered to make sure you stay here.”

“What the-“

“And he WILL call the cops if you try to haul ass, you got me?”

“What the fuck? I’ve got to stay with fucking Troy? Fuck that, I’m going with you.”

“Nope, not an option anymore after you pulled that Breaking and Entering stunt.” The memory of breaking into Mr. Stephen’s office hit Miranda right in the belly. She had almost forgotten about that incident. After a moment she began to laugh internally about how easy it was for her to get at the company’s petty cash lock box and almost get out with it. “You aren’t going to risk my job again. I’m still kissing that man’s ass for that shit.”

“I don’t want to stay with Troy, alright, take me to the library, chain me to a chair there or something. I just don’t want to be here with that asshole.”

“Troy is a good man, ok, so stop talking about him like that. Everyone has hard luck sometimes.”

“Yeah, his is perpetual, though.”

“You’ll understand one day, dear. I don’t see why you mind so much, you’ve stayed with him when you were sick before.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like he knew I was here seeing as how he was passed out the whole time.”

“Just deal with it. Hell, you might actually get to talking and realize you like him.”

“Ha, I can really see that happening.”

“Well, I don’t care; just don’t give him shit, ok. I’m out of here.” Gillian said, standing from the table. She took a glance around and smiled. “Oh, and since you are home for a few days, clean up.”

“Fuck that.”

“Fine, but until this house is spotless you are grounded, no radio, no downtown trips, no nothing.” Miranda could only respond with a grumble. She hated cleaning when most the mess was Troy’s, but whatever got this over and done with she would do.

It was about 12:30 by the time Troy managed to pry himself from his slumber. Miranda had already finished the kitchen and was well into the living room by the time he came stumbling in and onto the couch. He kicked his legs out and flipped the T.V. on.

“Why do you even bother getting out of bed, I mean, you just come in here and go back to sleep.”

“Well, honey, there aint no TV in the other room.”

“So, what you’re saying is, if I got you a TV to put in there, you would never come out again? I think that might be worth my time.”

“Funny. You got a smart mouth on you, girl. You better learn to use it some other way ‘fore I call your mom and tell ‘er you were givin’ me shit. I’m in charge today, little girl.”

“Right, I just can’t help it Troy. TV has corrupted my mind and destroyed the morals you and mom try to instill in me. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Damn right you are. Now get me a beer.” Troy said looking back at the TV set, oblivious to the onslaught of sarcasm he just endured.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2 hours later Troy had amassed a sizable collection of empty bottles. It must have been mom’s payday, so that, of course, meant new beers for Troy if he was out, so he made every effort to ‘be out’ when the day came around. He was swilling back the last of the last when Miranda finally finished cleaning up her own room. She had started on the living room, but gave up as soon as Troy woke up because: Number 1, she hated him, Number 2, she hated him staring at her ass, and Number 3, and she knew it would be a useless gesture. He would be passed out soon enough and she could clean around him.

As she walked into the bathroom, she heard the telltale clink of bottles falling and shifting. Troy was up for some reason. She didn’t care; he was more than likely going to scrounge for more beer in the empty fridge. Her gaze dropped to the filthy sink, full of the ruminants of somebody’s beard, and since Troy had a full one kicking now, she was sure the mess had been there for a while. She wasn’t sure how she was able to ignore the mess when she got up in the morning, but was thankful for that gift. She sighed as she kneeled down and opened the cabinet to look for some sort of cleaning spray. She reached around in the darkness of the little space, just as she was fighting with some cobwebs her hand glanced across a wooden box. Suddenly she remembered her fantasy from the night prior. Slowly she pulled the box from its resting place. It was innocent enough, just a plain, pine box, nothing special. A flash came to her from her youth. It was of her dad telling her about the razor and its history as the moneymaker of her family from generations back, or at least a few grandfathers. She laughed a bit when she wondered if her ancestors had thought that the simple blade would come to such a use as she had for it.

“What the fuck you got there, sweetie…” Troy said, shattering her concentration. She instinctively thru the box back into the cabinet and looked up.

“Oh, nothing, I was just looking for some…um…409, you know. To clean.” Troy was standing in the doorway, one hand bracing on the frame, the other fiddling with his zipper, trying to get it down. Miranda cocked her eyebrow up as a chill went up her spine.

“What the fuck are you doing?”She looked into Troy’s eyes; they were focused on her chest between long blinks. He pulled his bottom lip in and sucked on it. He hesitated a moment and then shook his head like he was trying to get the drunkenness out like it was dandruff.

“Get out; I’ve got to drain the old liza…liz…ard.” He said pushing past her towards the toilet. She sighed as she got up and walked out, closing the door just in time to hear water begin falling into the toilet’s bowl.

“Yeah, poor little fellow can’t hold too much.” She said to herself in a whisper. She really didn’t want to get into anything with him after that whole bit of tension.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miranda looked over at the clock on the wall. It was 4 pm and her mom would normally be picking her up right now, but all she was getting from up there was some bull-shit assignments for her to stay busy with while at home. A loud bang followed by cursing signaled that Troy was more than likely floundering after taking a fall into the bathtub, again. Eventually he would give up on trying to get out and just sleep there until Gillian gets him up with a quick burst from the cold water.

Miranda let out a loud sigh. She wanted to go into the bathroom, get the razor box, take it to her room, and ‘play’ with it a bit; maybe a little cut on her arm here and there just to see it bleed and to feel the sting. She wanted to see the blade, if nothing else, just to know that it exists, just to know that it’s there for her to use, that her escape plan wasn’t just a dream. She wanted to taste her own blood.

Carefully, she crept over to the door, trying to hear if Troy was snoring. If he was snoring then he was either on his back or side, more than likely exposed, and she didn’t want to have that scarring her for the remainder of her life, no matter how short (her life is, that is). She listened in, no noise. With a slight tap, she knocked on the door as she grabbed the knob.

“Troy? Hey, are you ok?” She asked for face-value as she knocked again and turned the knob. There was no answer as she pressed into the door slowly forcing it open. She took a quick glance in the mirror to see Troy face down in the tub, arms covering his eyes. A quick sigh of relief escaped her as she pushed the door all the way open. As she began to kneel at the sink, she focused her gaze on the drunk in the tub sure he would wake up and freak out at a moment’s notice. With as much speed as she could muster while trying to maintain silence, she grabbed the little box out of the cabinet and ran to her room, slamming the door nervously behind her.

Miranda jumped onto her bed, full of glee at what she had done. Sure he was out cold, and could be dead, but she snuck past him and got her prize as if she was some master thief. She looked down at her treasure and smiled. All she needed to do now was open it and no one could stop her. With this little piece of metal, she held the power, not anyone else. She looked over at her stuffed animals and dolls. With a quick snatch she grabbed her oldest ‘friend’, Melody, a rag doll, and pulled her close.

“Look, Melody, We are going to get out of here. I know you are tired of people always controlling you. I am too, and this is how we can get out. Are you excited? I am. Oh, you want to see it. Well, let’s open it up.” Miranda tightened her grip on Melody as she popped the clasp on the front of the box. She held her breath as she reached under the lid and slowly lifted it. Suddenly her door swung open. With the same speed she found earlier, she pulled her sheets up and over the treasure just as her mother walked into the room lugging a stack of papers jammed into a manila folder.

“Here, your teachers apparently found some busy work for you to do while you are out.”

“Oh, um. Thanks. Can you shut my door?”

“I saw that you had started in on the house. Good job, one step closer to freedom, my dear. Where the hell is Troy?”

“He’s passed out in the bath-tub again.” She fought back the urge to start a debate about the ‘freedom’ her mother spoke of. She didn’t want her to have any suspicion until it happened.

“Goddamn drunk, I swe-“

“You’re the one who’s dating him.”

“-ar. Yeah…you’re right. You are right. But sometimes I wonder.”

“Sure you do. Just shut my door, ok.”

“One of these days I’m just going to take this door down.” Gillian said as she walked out taking the door all the way to the frame, but just letting it sit instead of closing it. Miranda let out a sigh of frustration and slammed the door shut, locking it this time. She removed the covers from her prize and started her ‘ritual’ over again.

The box let out a long creek as she lifted the cover. A flash of silver hit her in the eye as the light flooded into the box. There, on black velvet, sat the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She felt a rush of heat come over her. A gasp escaped her as she found the blade actually ‘excited’ her. With a violent shake, she refocused her mind from whatever direction it was going. She carefully pulled the artifact from its resting place and held it in her hand. Its weight was surprising; it was full metal, unlike razors nowadays. She ran her fingers up and down feeling the texture of the ivory and steel grip. As she brought the razor close to her face she could smell the scent of the alloy. The blade was ice cold against her face as she brought it up to her cheek. All she could think of was freedom from all the bullshit in her life. All she could feel was the cold steel of the razor’s hilt on her face. All she wanted was to escape and all she needed was this thing to make it happen. The only question in her mind was ‘when’.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the next morning, she hadn’t even opened the blade. She just held the razor in place as if some sort of reverence was in order. The day stretched on as Miranda caught up on sleep she lost last night. Dreams came in and out of what she would do and how sorrowful everyone would be when they found her dead or dying. The sun forced its way in thru her blinds and hit her in the face, abruptly ending the 5th or 6th dream she was having about the afterlife and her freedom. She shook herself awake and felt around for her new toy. A smile crossed her face when she found that she had stashed it under her pillow.

After a quick shower she was up for the day. She decided that if she was going to leave her mom, at least she could finish cleaning up the house. Oddly enough, just as she was walking towards the kitchen, she caught a whiff of something burning. It smelled familiar, but she was unsure of what, exactly, it was. A quick inspection of the kitchen proved fruitless and her chief suspect was off the hook, as it would seem her mother DIDN’T leave a burner on. She looked into the living room, but it was empty. Normally this would have calmed her, but it was already 2 o’ clock and Troy was nowhere to be seen. He never missed his 2 o’ clock infusion of Springer or what have you. Miranda quizzically made her way over to her mother’s bedroom door. The smell waxed pungent so this had to be the source. Suddenly she remembered the smell was something she caught a whiff of back at that dealer’s house. Concern slipped into anger. Without warning she flung the flimsy plywood door open. There on the bed she found Troy with a glass stem in his mouth and a lighter in his hand. He jumped up from the shock of the door swinging open, throwing the remainder of his vice onto the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing here you little cunt!?” he shouted, franticly trying to hide the contraband.

“What the fuck are YOU doing, Troy, is that fucking crack!?” her face was turning red as she thought back to those days when her mother was strung out and she was just a child forced to endure it.

“You wouldn’t understand. Fuck you.” He said as he dropped to the floor, looking for his lost ‘candy’.

“Fuck you Troy, does mom know about this shit?”

“Hell yeah, where do you think I get the money for it? Out my ass?”

“Well, fuck you both. She promised me…fuck….goddamn it. I’m calling the cops, you mother fuckers are fucking…god…GAH!”

“NONONONO! Don’t do that shit. Wait,” Troy made his best effort to get to his feet. He made it to the kitchen just as Miranda hit second one on the keypad. With a potent slap he knocked the receiver from her hand, as it smashed against the floor, the battery flew out of the back. Miranda began to respond to the act, but before any words could escape her mouth, Troy had landed another hand, this time across her face. She hit the ground hard, her vision was already blurring and her ears were ringing. Her face began to burn in pain. She struggled to get her bearings so that she could regain her footing. Just as she began to regain some of her composure she felt Troy’s hand squeezing her calf, and a moment later, in a terrible display of strength, he threw her hard into the refrigerator.

“You fucking little cunt. I can’t go back to jail. You want to send your momma to jail too? Hmm? ANSWER ME BITCH!” He yelled as he landed another blow to her back this time. “I can’t believe you would do something like that. You know, I’ve put up with your ass for too damn long. Your damn disrespect, I know how to deal with little girls who think like to they’re adults…”

Miranda tried to scream, but no sound came out. She managed to look back as he pondered his next words. She saw the terrible emotion in his face as he looked her over, his eyes scanning her body.

“…You treat ‘em like their adults. You just wasted a lot of money in there, and you’re gonna work it off like an AD-ULT, you hear me?!” He said as he dragged her thru the bedroom doorway and tossed her onto the bed. She tried for a while to struggle free, but she was already off-balance from his assault and he just kept coming.

He wrestled with her for her shirt, which he pulled up to her neck and twisted it tight with his left hand. She could barely breathe, and he knew it. She kept fading in and out of consciousness as he started to remove her pajama bottoms. With the last bit of energy in her, she managed to land a fist in his face, but she was so weak, and he was so focused, that it escaped his notice. Besides, his attention wasn’t on her hands.

Miranda kept coming in and out of consciousness. At one point she came out of it long enough to see Troy smoking some more of the drug. He took a huge hit and then exhaled in her face. He looked at her and told her that ‘now she would test positive for it too, so she would go to jail’ and the he reminded her that ‘this is how her mother paid him for crack when she was younger’. At least an hour and a half passed by before Troy left to clean up. He came back in as if nothing had happened, beer in hand. He had a smirk on his face as he looked down at Miranda’s broken, naked body as if it was something to be proud of. With a quick snatch he lifted her up and took her into her bedroom, putting her on her bed, still naked, clothes stretched out or ripped off. Just before he left the room, he leaned in and whispered into her ear: ‘if you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you and your mother. You were asking for it anyway, prancing your little ass around in those…clothes like that. It’s your own damn fault, girly. You’re just lucky it was me and not some nigger. Now clean up, your mom’s gonna be home any minute.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night Miranda didn’t stir. She didn’t get up for dinner; she didn’t go and watch her hour of TV, even after he mom said she could have it back. All she could do was sit there in the dark, holding Melody while she cried her eyes out. She was so scared. Her vision began to fade a bit and then, suddenly, she lost her equilibrium and she collapsed down to the floor, Melody tossed out in front of her. She couldn’t move. She looked up at her doll and tried to reach for her.

“You need to tell your mother.” A young girl’s voice called out from some un-seen source. Miranda shot a glance around the room, trying to find the source of the stranger’s voice.

“Wh-who’s there?” The only words she could get out.

“It’s me, Melody. I’m your friend, I’m telling you: you need to tell your mother. Troy hurt you; you need to tell your mother. You need to do something before he does it again.”

“I can’t, He said, he said…He said he would kill us. Besides, you heard him…it’s my…my…fau…fault.”

“You need to do something about this, Miranda, I love you, but you are wrong. YOU need to tell your mother.”

“I can’t. I can’t. I’ve got to get away from here.” Her words were broken by overwhelming tears. Suddenly the door opened and her mom stepped into the room, she tried the light, only to find the bulb missing. The shadows of the room rendered invisible the fresh cuts and bruises that would have spoken for Miranda even if she said nothing.

“Baby? Are you ok? Who were you talking to all alone here in the dark?”

“Melody…sniff…”

“Oh, Melody. Why are you crying, hun? Melody didn’t do anything did she?”

“Tell her!” Melody pleaded.

“Oh, no…um…mom…Um…”

“What?” Her mother said looking into her eyes. She could tell something terrible was wrong and all she wanted to do was help her daughter. “Tell me, Miranda, what’s wrong?”

“I…I just feel bad about how I’ve treated you lately.” She lied as the fear took over. As she spoke she looked to the door to see Troy walk up. She couldn’t see his face, just his silhouette as the kitchen light outlined his figure.

“Everything…OK?” he asked feigning innocence.

“Yeah, just give me a minute, Troy, she is feeling guilty about some of the things she said to me the other day…finally.” The words tore through Miranda like a knife through butter, or a razor through flesh. Suddenly the answer was clear to her. She wanted to know when the deed should be done, she could think of no better time than now.

“NO, Miranda, tell her.” Melody begged in vain.

“Yeah, mom. I’m ok. I’ll be out in a second, ok. I just need to go to the bathroom.”

“Ok. We can talk about this when you want to, ok.”

“Ok.” Miranda said as she retrieved her tool from under her pillow. She grabbed Melody from the floor and walked into the bathroom. As she passed the living room, she could see Troy watching her, shaking his head.

“Please, don’t do this, Miranda! Tell her.” Melody said in vain as Miranda stepped into the bathroom. She pushed the door to the frame but not shut and sat down in the tub. She turned the water on and let it run over her face for a bit. She pulled the razor away from the water and opened it slowly. It was in pristine condition, almost as if it were new. The blade clicked into place as she went through the motions with it. She swallowed hard as she placed the blade on her wrist.

“Don’t.” Melody pleaded, but it was too late, Miranda had already pressed the blade in and started to pull it down her arm. It stung, but not as bad as she thought it would. She then turned to her other wrist and tried to do the same. The second cut was sloppy as she felt her strength go down the drain with her blood. A few moments later she was unconscious and going cold. She could hear the voices of her mother, Troy, and Melody all in her head as she felt her life fading.

Darkness. Nothing.

Darkness. A sound.

Darkness. Warmth.

Darkness. A sound.

Darkness. Heat.

Darkness. White noise.

Darkness. Movement.

Darkness. A voice, indistinct.

Darkness. Movement.

Darkness. Clattering metal.

Darkness. More movement, more voices.

Darkness. Electronic sounds, a siren.

Darkness. Nothing.

Darkness. Noting.

Darkness. Fear.

End of part one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part two:

Miranda sat motionless, whatever they had her on kept her still, but she was lucid. She heard the doctor and her mother speak. They talked about how close she came to death. They talked about the damage to her arms. They talked about the healing process and therapy. They talked about all of this and more. The only thing that bothered Miranda was when they talked about her ‘mental health’ and what would be done. She remembered seeing her mother sign a few papers, kissing her on the head, telling her it would be ok and leaving. Days later she was awake and able to move. Her arms hurt when she tried to move her hands. The doctor came in and explained what she did to herself. He was professional about it until the end where he took a deep breath, gave her a solemn look and asked her why she did it. She said ‘I don’t know.” He sighed, patted her on the leg and left the room.

People were in and out. Nurses and others mostly, but one time a woman in a pin-stripe suite came in and pulled up a desk. She had a huge file folder and a legal pad. She said she was from ‘Mental Health Services’. She began to ask Miranda questions about her life, her family, why she did what she did, if she ever heard anything odd (like Melody) and a lot of other stuff. At the end, she smiled and said something about getting her some help when she got better.

The doctor told her she would need therapy to fix her wrists because she went deep with the blade. He said that her mother signed her over as a ward of the state because she couldn’t afford it but Miranda needed the treatment. He said that he would help Miranda get better. Miranda didn’t care, she was happy she was away from her home and Troy and mom and school. They even brought Melody to stay with her. Melody kept her company when all the doctors and nurses left. She told her stories and gave her dreams and told her that it would all be ok.

Months passed. Miranda had a birthday; a nurse brought a little cake to her with a candle. Melody sang happy birthday to her, her mom came after work with a card and a stuffed lion. She told her that she caught Troy doing the drugs again and she had him arrested for it. Miranda was happy, she could go home now and Troy wouldn’t be there, it would just be her and her mom. One day the lady in the pin-stripe suit came back and told Miranda that she would be leaving soon. Miranda was happy. She gathered her few things and waited. A few days passed and the lady came back with some men in uniform. They told her that she was leaving the hospital and going to her new home. They said she would be taken care of there, and that she would have friends to talk to and people to play games with. People like her, friends. Miranda was confused…she wanted to go home.

She was walked into the facility. They gave her a tooth-brush and some deodorant and some other things in a box. They told her that she was going to have her own room for a while. They gave her a rubber mattress and some blankets and a pillow. The doctors came in shifts probing her with questions and queries. They tried to get her to tell them what happened, but she couldn’t, because Troy might hear. They gave her medication and kept her locked in her room. It was dark, and scary. People screamed all night, she wouldn’t have slept if not for the medications. The walls were dirty, the rooms stank, and the staff was harsh. Miranda wanted to go home, but from what they said, this was her home now.

Miranda just wanted to be free.

Miranda just wants to go home.

End of Part 2.

Part 3:

6 Months, 10 days, 5 hours, and 14 minutes later….

-L

The Judge

There once was a wise old Judge. This Judge was a fair and good man. He lived his life passing out his decrees in an effort to make the world a better place. The world he knew was his Village. It was a small place just on the edge of a lovely river and just in eyesight of some beautiful mountains. It was a part of the Northern places and it lived in peace. The news of a war in the Southern places came with some travelers, but such things were far away and never on the minds of the people for more than a few days. It was nice to live in such simple bliss and joy, usually. The Judge kept the Village running and out of chaos and he mostly did this through his trials and cases.

So many cases had come and passed: there was the trail of Mr. Broddy for stealing Mrs. Camber’s chickens, the case of Hodge v. Wadd where Mr. Hodge accused Mr. Wadd of disturbing his hunting dogs, and the most curious legislative council to determine if the drought was caused by Miss Higgens not being married yet and keeping all those cats as companions (much to the relief of the Judge, it rained on the court date so hard that it actually prevented anyone from getting to the courthouse for the trial itself…sadly it led to charges of witchcraft coming up down the road, but that’s another story). The Villagers always told him that he was good at his job, the Judge just wished that it wasn’t such a boring job.

Today was another boring day with plenty of boring paperwork and nothing going on but a few drunks that needed a stern talking to and a vagrant charged with trespassing after sneaking a night’s stay in Mrs. Camber’s chicken coop. It was going to be a long day. The Judge settled his mind on getting through the procedures as quickly as possible so he could get off down to the greens and play a bit of wackly-ball (A very serious game where one uses a mallet to strike a pine-cone into a basket at the far end of a course with some cleverly placed obstacles along the way to disrupt the game. It was relaxing and frustrating at the same time and went well with some ale and a good puff of Nolas-weed.

The drunks were brought up before the Judge and began to plea with him to spare them any hardships. The Judge had already decided in his mind that they would be turned over for a night in the jail and have to suffer through breakfast prepared by the Constable (a gruesome fate in which a barrister of wit would declare unbefitting of the crime…even if that crime was most heinous). It would be a few weeks before he saw them again and only a few days before their mothers or wives would come, begging for a bit harsher punishments so as to chase their demons out. The Judge was fair when it came to these things, but the jail was tiny and only, really, had enough room for two men at a time and he didn’t want the bother of having to call for a favor from the people in the next town over.

The day was dragging on. The Constable left and returned with the Trespasser. The tramp was bound in chains and shackles (not because he was dangerous, no; it was because the Constable never had a chance to use them). He was told to stand in front of the pedestal, which he did straight and tall. The Constable walked proudly over to the Judge and handed him a bit of paper with some scribbling on it. The Judge looked it over and began thinking of his words.

“It says your name is Branner, is that right, son?” the Judge said to the man.

“Yes, sir, that is correct.” The man replied. His voice was steady and calm. He was carrying himself like a military man of some sort.

“Well, son, plead your case. What were you doing in Mrs. Camber’s chicken coop?”

“I was sleeping, sir. I’m a traveler and I was needed a room to put between me and those harsh clouds that were brewing last night and I really thought I’d be gone long before she knew I was there. No harm was intended.” When the man spoke the Judge noticed a kind of cadence in his voice. This further poised the question of a military background.

“Are you, or were you a Soldier?”

“I was, sir. A long time ago.”

“I see. Moving on: What of the eggs Mrs. Camber says you broke?”

“Twas not intentional, Your Honor. When the Lady saw me and screamed, waking me and scaring the chickens, I jumped and maneuvered so as not to hurt one of the birds, I accidentally hit an egg or two.”

A voice rang out from the corner of the Courtroom, it was old and dry. “That’s not true! You broke them eggs to spite me for findin’ you in there poaching them”

“Now calm down, Mrs. Camber.” The Judge said to the old woman who had, up until then, been sitting quietly. The Man didn’t look phased by her words. “Well, son, given the evidence and the story I’m going to let you go with no charges other than I’d like you to pay for the broken eggs, if that’s possible.”

“I have two coins, coppers; will that be enough?”

“I think so. You’re free to go, son. Just next time you need a place to stay, try knocking on a door. Folks either will let you stay with them or they won’t and it never hurt a soul to ask. Keep your head up on your travels and good luck with them.” Just as the Judge stopped talking, the sun passed through the clouds a bit and a faded scar on the Man’s face could be seen.

“Thank you, sir.” The man said calmly.

“Where did you get that scar, son?”

“From people far less kind than you, my lord.”

“I see. Well, be off with you and good luck,” The Judge said. The Constable quickly unlocked the manacles and gathered them. “Oh, and before you go: if you are a bit hungry my wife always cooks a bit too much. You’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you, sir. You are most kind.”

That day the Man who had been a prisoner ate with the Judge and things were good. The Judge told the Man stories of the Village and things like that. The Judge’s wife sang songs while they drank some Ale. The night grew late and the Judge let the man sleep in his spare bed. When morning came, the Man was gone.

Weeks passed and the memory of the Man had faded. Soon there came news about trouble to the south. A few travelers, their clothes torn and ash smeared upon their heads, ventured through the Village. They brought with them stories of an army from the Southern Places heading north and towards the Village. This army had destroyed others along the way and it would surely raze this one.

The Judge rallied the men of the Village and gathered their arms. The waited all night and the next day but nothing came. They waited again the next night and still nothing. Soon a great glow rose up from the hills to the south. The men were sure that this was the sign of the coming army, but after hours, it never got closer. It, instead, moved to the west and was moving past them.

The Judge was perplexed by this tactic and rode on his horse out to the west (much to the disapproval of his wife and colleagues). When he got there he saw a massive grouping of men all in armor and carrying blades; if they wanted to march on the Village, they would have no problems. He had to get back and warn his people.

Suddenly two soldiers came up from behind him. They pointed sharp spears at his chest and neck and demanded that they come with him. Within a few moments the Judge found himself in the deepest midst of the camp of warriors. The two soldiers led him to a tent in the center adorned with regal and royal markings the likes of which the Judge had never before seen.

The men rushed him in and inside there were some armored men gathered around a table discussing things over a map. The soldiers told the men that they found the Judge spying and asked what his fate should be. A man with a great, big beard stood up and began to shout but stopped mid-sentence when a man, who had his back to the Judge, lifted his hand. The man with the beard stopped and back down.

“This man should be let go.” The man with his back facing the Judge said. The voice was familiar, but the Judge did not have his wits about him at the moment to make any connections. It wasn’t until the man turned around to reveal a faded scar on his face that the Judge knew who’s voice that was. “He’s a good man.”

The Judge was released and went back to his Village. He kissed his wife, drank his ale, smoked his weed, and said a special prayer of thanks before he went to bed. He thought about his life and was thankful that he was good at such a boring job.

-L

Visions of My Burning Earth

By Christopher Leaptrott

Contents

Part I: Vision

As I rest, my mind begins to travel far away and then it comes:

Part II: Death

Behold, he appeared before me: a Shroud Wraith in darkness cloaked.

Part III: Suicidal

A destructive Automaton; Taking no prisoners while it follows its path.

Part IV: Lost

The Darkness, it will call.

Part V: Separate

A love died that day and the last thing I want is resurrection.

Part VI: Satisfaction

The forest is alive with a sibling’s demise.

Part VII: Loss

Known to a many few;

Part VIII: Scattered

Glass remains waiting for our toes to cut the mist.

The Cast of Characters

Myself, the Used of Shell of what Once Was a Man

The Hall of Many Things

The Reaper

The Automaton

The Darkness

The Sibling

Part I: Vision

Vision(s): {of} broken glass shattered at your feet as you walk barefoot through the Hall of Many Things. A man turns to you, battered and bruised. Infants cry, burned in fires they could not understand. Death: {is} a swift angel, shroud Wraith in darkness cloaked. Marvel at his haphazard grace. The Reaper’s touch is release. {She kept mouthing the words you did not want to hear.} Lost: awash in ash we fly. Nevermore will this place bind us to its will; we are the masters. Our destiny is ours alone and with it comes self-inflicted torture that causes us to falter. A cold hand reaches out from years past. {She just stood there as he tore apart her face} Suicidal: gears and blades; a terrible machine winding down the mortal coil. A destructive Automaton; Taking no prisoners while it follows its path, saying words that twist their razor blade talons into soft flesh. Streams of red torrent out of an exploded stream, and still there you swim, bathed in the darkness you decay. {A} Lost: {and} [a] broken lion gathers strength at the oasis that lies between the words spoken so softly that a broken winged butterfly could sleep through their textured song. Rough waves of caustic starlit nights blow over my barefoot stride. The Darkness, it will call. Separate: the heel from the foot that it aches; separate them from who they love. A figure clad in black rides the turmoil yielded by words not spoken from thought. A love died that day and the last thing I want is resurrection. {There’s a certain} Satisfaction: lost in the pale skin of the moon at night; its reflection shown in jealous green eyes. The forest is alive with a sibling’s demise. {A} loss: known to many few; peoples loss, peoples gain, peoples love, peoples pain. Structuring the broken ribs suffered in collision. Scattered: glass remains waiting for our toes to cut the mist and land where they deem forbidden.

Part II: Death

After my dream that held the vision, I awoke to find it night outside my window, or rather just a day of gloom sinking into deep evening and on to dusk. The sun was leaving, but you could not tell because of the rain clouds. I had wasted my day, not that it mattered. People were gong to sleep now, and I was waking up, odd. I got out of my bed and stood up; suddenly I felt this strange urge to leave my house. I quickly dressed myself and walked out the door. The urge lead me down below my house to an old graveyard from days long passed. I looked at the monuments to the fallen and to my astonishment I saw the letters change before my eyes. The names of these old men crossed out with blood spelling dead man. I was about to run and behold, he appeared before me: a Shroud Wraith in darkness cloaked. Fear overwhelmed me and I ran, but the touch of the reaper is not one that any mortal man can escape. Every turn he appeared, calling to me. I avoided him to the best of my abilities until finally, no more could I run. I fall before his terrible visage; fearfully I averted my eyes and prepared for the worst. As I waited to die, I was surprised to hear a soft and beautiful voice call my name. My first thought was that the demon was toying with its prey, but when I looked up I saw the face of the most beautiful woman in existence. She was Venus and Aphrodite, a goddess. She called out to me. I stood and she leaned in to hold me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I gave into her warmth. I float now, awash in ash. She comforts me, the whole of my journey into her world. Her embrace is my world.

I am falling now. Where is the woman, the goddess that had brought me here to this void? I awake again to a strange cacophony of sounds that are as alien to me as the sun is to the creatures of the dark. My vision is blurred, but soon comes into focus. I am floating in space, a vast emptiness. I struggle, but I cannot find ground. I am alone, Lost and alone in eternity.

Days pass by, how many is unknown to me. My body floats and my mind wanders. Where is the one who lead me here? Where is my goddess? My world is gone now; my life is gone now. My thoughts drift back to days long past

Sunshine casts its reach onto a field of green. The new days mist rises. There I lay beside you, my love. I look into your eyes and I see my reflection and I am at peace. You give me purpose beyond existence and I love you. I embrace you, but you are cold and lifeless. I shake you; ask you why, but there you lay, staring up into the sky, indifferent as the grass, the sun, and the clouds. Tears roll down my cheeks as I try and wake you. My attention turns to an approaching figure. I call him brother, he nods to me. I turn to you and see your gaze focused on him. He motions for you, you rise and embrace him. I can not breathe. The sun is suddenly consumed behind a cloud of pure darkness. My brother smiles as he raises his fist into the air. I run to you, but his fist falls quickly against your face. I can not move. You stand and embrace him again; once more his fist falls onto your face. Blood flows from your wounds, but still you embrace him. He wears the same grin as he continues his assault. I can not stop him. I can not move. You have me bound. My heart shatters. The pain I feel causes me to bleed from my eyes; my vision blurs as the talon of some monster rips this world apart. I can not save you, thought I try. You stop me and cut me for the effort.

Part III: Suicidal

My sight is gone, only a crimson blur remains along with the stinging of the blood in my eyes. I can hear movement, and an awful ripping noise coming from all around. I smell a horrid stench and I feel the humidity of this place sticking to my naked body. I moan out loud from the pain in my eyes. I rub the blood away, but my eyes still ache. What can I do, I wait.

My vision returns to me and the place I find myself in causes my stomach to turn and spill out. I am floating in an ocean of blood. A wall of flesh surrounds me at an immeasurable distance. There are columns of tissue winding down from somewhere leading into nowhere. On these coils there is some demonic parasite tearing them apart and feeding on the coil itself. My breath quickens, I can not believe what I am witnessing. I retch, but my stomach is empty.

Talons move forward foot by foot as the automatons climb on their paths ripping apart the strands of muscle and meat that make up the coils. Blood sprays endlessly from every wound as the things tear them apart. Monstrous demons with only one purpose: destruction.

I float on further into the huddled mass of flesh and monsters when suddenly my gaze is drawn upward to a light. The light seems to be the center of this horrible world, so I swim to it through the blood. I am a stones throw from it and suddenly it becomes clear to me; a great eye suspended by outstretched arms of muscle, flesh, fat, and meat. I am drawn in closer to it, though now I am scared of it. I try and fight the current, but it is stronger than I. My being is fighting with my mind, the eyes gaze locks onto me and the fight is over. I am brought near to it, the light grows brighter and brighter.

I sit for a while wondering if I am to be destroyed by this thing, but soon I forget about my fear and I feel like I did with the goddess. The goddess, I had forgotten about her, where is she? I am fading, I see her. She is at the end of the hall, the long infinite hall. I need to find her; she brought me here, why did she leave?

Part IV: Lost

My head hurts and my stomach aches, I am dizzy and disoriented. I open my eyes and I am in my bed at home. Sweat has soaked through the sheets and I am cold. I get up to my feet, checking over myself just to reassure that my nightmare was over and I was back. There is a pile of vomit next to my pillow so I gather the sheets off of my bed. I open the door and walk out into the den; there I see a light outside wavering in the wind. The night outside is dead black; no moon shines down. I set my sheets in the laundry room and walk out the door. I follow the light to the stream that passes between the two weeping willows that were host to many a childhood game. There I find a lantern that was burning for no reason other than to light this place for the animals. I quickly extinguish the lamp and begin to walk back to the house and then I see her. A little girl standing in a white night gown next to the opposite willow, he back is turned to me, so I call out to her. She turns to me, but I cannot see her face. Shining out from her eye is an alien green light that pierces my soul, I freeze. The clouds soon part and the moon shines out proudly in the dark, and I see her face, the face of my sister. She stares at me with her green eyes and I begin to break on the inside. My heart twists and I try to cry out in pain, but no words come out of my mouth. I love her, but she is killing me again. I cant stop her and make her see that I want to give my world away for her happiness. I see him again, my brother. He walks up behind her, fist high in the air and then he strikes her down with a world shattering blow that she chooses to feel. I collapse to the ground and drag myself to the water to drink and ease my pain. The starlight burns me and I cry.

Part V: Separate

I must be drowning. I try to breathe but no air comes to me only water. I see their faces, the ones I love looking down at me shaking their heads. Is this how I am to be mourned? I am separated from the only thing that give me happiness; my mother, my sister, and my brother. I struggle to swim to the surface, but I sink faster into the depths. Oh the cool depths of remorse and pains. I hear voices screaming at me from nowhere else but inside myself. ‘Do you want to swim to the surface? You can not? The only one stopping you is yourself, but you can not see that. Look closer at the ones you love. Do you see what I am talking about? Do you see the rider? No? Look closer at them all. You see it now do you not?’ ‘Yes’, I cry. I can see it in their eyes. A rider clad in darkness. His armor black is as the night with a horse to match. He looks down at me through their eyes, I do not want to see him, but he is there and I have no choice.

Fires rage in the villages that he has passed through in the night. No one had the chance to defend before his sword laid them low. His army of brigands and sinners storming the gates of many a castle, burning all hope, burning all bridges. He approaches the crown of the hill and then erupts in laughter, but not laughter like one would express at the sound of a joke, no, this was much more maniacal. His laughter shattered the hearts of his victims just before their demise. His laughter forced the clouds to part and the seas to rise. He enjoyed the death and the mayhem that he caused. He was the enemy that my brother called when he killed her. He was the enemy that had taken me away from my life and burned my world. I grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier and then ran to the hill, ready to kill this monster. The others were servants of him: The reaper cleaned his messes, the automatons were killing his victims from the inside long before he rode through, my brother was giving into his will like so many before him, and my sister heard his lies and held them into her heart. It was his eyes that were the jealous green, not hers.

I approach the apex of the hill and there he stands, ready to slay me. I hold the sword up awaiting his assault. He dismounts and then charges. I barley parry his mighty blows. I am forced and held into defense. I cannot counter, he is moving too fast. He strikes my blade shattering it and throwing me to the ground. I withdraw from him. He looks down at me through his helmet and then laughs that horrible laugh. I scream as the blade enters my stomach and blood pours from my veins and I slip into a deep slumber. Before I fade he takes his helmet off and looks at me with his green eyes. I gaze at my own reflection staring back at me with jealous green eyes.

Part VI: Satisfaction

The face, my face, haunts me as I spiral downward. I am not at peace. I realize Death was never a release, it is a curse. I sleep here wishing I was back on that hill holding his severed head in my hands, laughing at him. I feel something on me, surrounding me so I awake and find myself floating in the stream that flows between the two willows. I pull myself out of the water and onto the bank. I begin to walk away when I hear the coo of a child playing. She is there, around the stream playing in the darkness. She can’t see, there is no way she can see even the places where her feet fall. I walk over to where the lantern was earlier and light it so that she can see. I walk over and embrace her and tell her to be safe as I walk away towards the cemetery. I get a good distance away when the lamp soon goes out, I can’t leave her in the dark so I walk back. I arrive to see my brother, he is yelling but no sound is leaving his mouth, where my sister was standing, now stands the soldier. My brother cannot move, he is in pain, but he can’t move. I must stop him from hurting my brother. I raise my fist high into the air and confidently land it on the head of the dark warrior. I continue even after he has gone cold. My brother falls to the ground, a broken lion. I look at the monster I just dispatched as the moon breaks free of the clouds and I see my sister’s lifeless form, broken from my fists. The forest is alive.

Part VII: Loss

I run through the dark to the cemetery on instinct alone, I can not bear to open my eyes after seeing her. I must escape my own sins. I am the monster. I can not hear the pleas of people. I care only about my own escape and fulfillment; I am a beast tearing away at the flesh of the world. I take what I want and leave no scraps to feed the hungry, though I grow fat off of their loss. I can not see them, the homeless. I can not be among the humble, I must have what I want and to hell with those who would stop me.

I must find the woman, the goddess. It was she who brought me here to this place and it is she that can set me free. Take my life from me, oh beautiful one! Take away this shell of a man that can not be held accountable for his own sins. I know now that I am the one, not my brother, not my sister, not my mother, not my father, not my creator. I am the one who should be punished for my choices. I am the one who devours, not the one who builds. Take me away and let me be dead so that these people can move on and progress.

A flash of blinding light sears my eyes shut. My vision returns and I see the goddess. She smiles at me and I fall to my knees. She comes to me and puts her arms around me. ‘You have suffered much,’ she says to me, ‘but much less than you, in your heart, think you deserve. I want nothing more than to release you, but I cannot. You must release yourself. I can not take you away; I have tried to strike that blow of mercy once before and here you stand. If you want release, you must find it for yourself.’ I plea to her. I tell her that I cannot go on. ‘You must’, she tells me. You can not leave me I beg. ‘I must, my love.’ And then she was gone. I cried harder lying on the cemetery ground than I had ever before in my life.

A great coldness wrapped around me and struck me to my inner core. I fall asleep, tears still rolling down my cheeks.

Part VIII: Scattered

I wake in the field with you over me, my love. You gaze into my eyes and tell me that you love me. I rise to see the sun coming up over the trees. A gentle breeze waves the grass around us. A figure silhouetted by the sun approaches. You stand and run towards him. I rise and run after you grabbing you in my arms and I tell you that I love you. I turn to look at the one approaching, but I see no one. The birds begin their song, not a cloud in the sky. I smile as I hold her in my arms.

I awaken to sunlight peering into my room through my window. My sheets are still on my bed and I am wearing the clothes that I was an eternity ago. I shake my head and get up to see what is going on and what awaits me now. I leave my room and look towards the willow stream; there a lantern can be seen burning dimly in the dawn light. I smile thinking of my sister dancing in the woods with that light keeping her safe from falling.

Around midday I walk to the cemetery, on the way I pick a rose from the garden. The cemetery is quiet and empty. I was hoping to see the goddess, but this is expected. I lay the rose at the entrance as I leave. I whisper under my breath ‘for you my love and savior’.

The world is turning and I am alive. I know what I must do now to save myself from the fate of my vision, and I will. I must stop my world from burning and become more than a shell of a man. I will break through my darkness and allow the light to overtake the monsters that devour us from inside. I will not put out the light of others; I will do my best to make that light burn brighter.

My days pass by faster now as I wait anxiously for the return of my goddess to take me away. I am far from done with my task. The rider still claims lives, but soon he will be broken and gone and my world will stop burning.

Siste Viator et Memento Mori.

-L