Awake, awake
Always awake
The sun dawns new
And I'm awake
Awake, awake
Awake
Awake, awake,
The world revolves
The sun spins round
Awake.
Awake I lie
New light breaks free
My eyes burn
Fresh with tears
Awake, awake
Awake.
Sleep is a gift
I cannot unwrap
Though see it
Like a child at Christmas
Out or reach
I'm out of touch
With reality, and dreams
Awake.
Philosophize
Or write a song
Or play a game
It's useless.
Tired of body
Weary of mind
But always
Still awake.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Beyond the Cellar - Part I
After six weeks of monstrous crime, Craig Allistor was caught. My partner, Jon Caleman, and I caught the bastard in the act, personal witness to him abducting the poor ginger child from the street using his cunning “We’ll find your parents” technique. Damn us, though, we needed further evidence, which is why we followed him rather than tagging him there on the spot.
Ten years on the force, and six years partnered together, Caleman and I knew well how to subtly tail a suspect. Neither of us have the obvious scent of a policeman. His cantaloupe-esque figure masked any idea of athleticism, and my painfully dull body and latent balding makes me look as an average accountant. Add in a simple hip flask to the formula, and together we gain the appearance of two old college chums, a merry night of drinking and smoking from pipes behind us, walking home to some horrid flat one of us has.
Nonetheless, Allistor was a careful predator. He casually dragged his target along the alleyways and subtle crossings of the city, and we had to lose sight every so often in order to not give ourselves away. Even so, we sometimes looked questioningly at each other. Sure, he was walking into an area noone would suspect, the most ancient and unused portion of the city, an area long abandoned by the whole of the population for fear of their own safety.
The old factory district, abandoned in the early 20s, when new factories, far superior to these, were built in neighboring town. These eventually shut down entirely, leaving the factories themselves, as well as the housing for the prominent workers, to rot silently. It was one of these houses, probably belonging to an a floor supervisor in the antique past, that Caleman noticed Allistor led the redheaded child into. I pocketed my flask quickly and switched it ably for my service revolver.
We rushed to the nearest payphone at once, planning to call the station to dispatch more footmen to our position. Backup is always appreciated, after all, and who knows what tricks Allistor has in the moldy building which could be his personal dungeon. It was useless though, despite our coin, a dial-tone could not be reached. It had been upwards to three dozen years since these had likely been cut-off, a useless cost of electricity to the city, same as the street lamps which no longer burned.
With no tone, it was obvious there would be no backup for us this route. Briefly, Caleman and I discussed the probability of heading back to station and returning immediately. Having caught a bullet earlier in the year, Caleman was wary to go in to the building in such small numbers, fearing the same might occur again. I, however, felt it unneeded in this case, and leaving the innocent child alone with this man for as long as it may take to hustle back and gather a larger posse could only be detrimental to his health. As well, I feared he would have fled long before we managed to get back with aid. Being his senior, I concluded that we would play the situation by the book, and handle the situation professionally.
Had I let him go for aid, perhaps we would have never walked up those decrepit steps, and perhaps my mind would not be filled with the thoughts I cannot escape.
(Original date 7/23/2010)
Ten years on the force, and six years partnered together, Caleman and I knew well how to subtly tail a suspect. Neither of us have the obvious scent of a policeman. His cantaloupe-esque figure masked any idea of athleticism, and my painfully dull body and latent balding makes me look as an average accountant. Add in a simple hip flask to the formula, and together we gain the appearance of two old college chums, a merry night of drinking and smoking from pipes behind us, walking home to some horrid flat one of us has.
Nonetheless, Allistor was a careful predator. He casually dragged his target along the alleyways and subtle crossings of the city, and we had to lose sight every so often in order to not give ourselves away. Even so, we sometimes looked questioningly at each other. Sure, he was walking into an area noone would suspect, the most ancient and unused portion of the city, an area long abandoned by the whole of the population for fear of their own safety.
The old factory district, abandoned in the early 20s, when new factories, far superior to these, were built in neighboring town. These eventually shut down entirely, leaving the factories themselves, as well as the housing for the prominent workers, to rot silently. It was one of these houses, probably belonging to an a floor supervisor in the antique past, that Caleman noticed Allistor led the redheaded child into. I pocketed my flask quickly and switched it ably for my service revolver.
We rushed to the nearest payphone at once, planning to call the station to dispatch more footmen to our position. Backup is always appreciated, after all, and who knows what tricks Allistor has in the moldy building which could be his personal dungeon. It was useless though, despite our coin, a dial-tone could not be reached. It had been upwards to three dozen years since these had likely been cut-off, a useless cost of electricity to the city, same as the street lamps which no longer burned.
With no tone, it was obvious there would be no backup for us this route. Briefly, Caleman and I discussed the probability of heading back to station and returning immediately. Having caught a bullet earlier in the year, Caleman was wary to go in to the building in such small numbers, fearing the same might occur again. I, however, felt it unneeded in this case, and leaving the innocent child alone with this man for as long as it may take to hustle back and gather a larger posse could only be detrimental to his health. As well, I feared he would have fled long before we managed to get back with aid. Being his senior, I concluded that we would play the situation by the book, and handle the situation professionally.
Had I let him go for aid, perhaps we would have never walked up those decrepit steps, and perhaps my mind would not be filled with the thoughts I cannot escape.
(Original date 7/23/2010)
In the Movies
Noone's ever made a movie
About a group of young adults
Who travel across the country
In search of adventure
And fun, and bonding,
But end up getting dead-end jobs
Which pay less than minimum
And slowly starve themselves
Out of necessity
And end up hating everything.
The script would be too sad.
(Original date 7/21/2010)
About a group of young adults
Who travel across the country
In search of adventure
And fun, and bonding,
But end up getting dead-end jobs
Which pay less than minimum
And slowly starve themselves
Out of necessity
And end up hating everything.
The script would be too sad.
(Original date 7/21/2010)
Flee
I moved the mirrors
So you'd go away
Nocturnal night gaunts
Glaring from unknown
I saw you once
Long past twilight hour
Judging with you glance
At miserable mass of man
Taunt me nightly
As tears stain fabric
Scold my mistakes
As a mother a child
Once we were one
My ghost, my tormentor
Apart from me now
I can't bear your touch
Inside me deep
You wait to strike
To remind me completely
Of current transgression
Fleet of foot
And feeble of mind
I moved the mirrors
To avoid myself.
(Original date 7/20/2010)
So you'd go away
Nocturnal night gaunts
Glaring from unknown
I saw you once
Long past twilight hour
Judging with you glance
At miserable mass of man
Taunt me nightly
As tears stain fabric
Scold my mistakes
As a mother a child
Once we were one
My ghost, my tormentor
Apart from me now
I can't bear your touch
Inside me deep
You wait to strike
To remind me completely
Of current transgression
Fleet of foot
And feeble of mind
I moved the mirrors
To avoid myself.
(Original date 7/20/2010)
Fantasy
Is it so wrong?
To wish for a world
Of demons and seraphim
Of knights and maidens
Where evil is tangible
And hope is a spirit
With Heros present
To fight the darkness.
Or maybe a world
Wrecked by their own bombs
Brought asunder by technology
Far beyond their grasp
Where society is primal
And survival is individual
And humanity prevails
Amidst the settling ash.
Or even just a world
Where heroism is loved
And humanity is choice
And those tainted men
Who crush others like bugs
Are viewed as villians
And overcome by the good
Cheered on by the public.
But I live in a world
Where moral ambiguity reigns
And selfishness is triumph
Where greed is God
And the keenest angels
Exploit the kindest souls
And the strongest hearts
Are slain in shadow
Any world but this,
Any world but this.
(Original date 7/9/2010)
To wish for a world
Of demons and seraphim
Of knights and maidens
Where evil is tangible
And hope is a spirit
With Heros present
To fight the darkness.
Or maybe a world
Wrecked by their own bombs
Brought asunder by technology
Far beyond their grasp
Where society is primal
And survival is individual
And humanity prevails
Amidst the settling ash.
Or even just a world
Where heroism is loved
And humanity is choice
And those tainted men
Who crush others like bugs
Are viewed as villians
And overcome by the good
Cheered on by the public.
But I live in a world
Where moral ambiguity reigns
And selfishness is triumph
Where greed is God
And the keenest angels
Exploit the kindest souls
And the strongest hearts
Are slain in shadow
Any world but this,
Any world but this.
(Original date 7/9/2010)
Smoke
Draw another line of smoke,
Amidst the lonely night stars,
Words go unspoken,
With not a soul to hear,
Save the cold reflection,
Or the cricket symphony outside.
The phantoms of light,
Change as the show does,
Company granted by celebrity,
As salesman peddling their wares,
Uncaring to the sullen viewer,
Craving honest words.
The silent strangers gaze lingers,
As a broken man stares back,
Alone in the world,
Except for each other,
Blowing smoke rings at each other,
To pass the lonesome night.
Silently the crystals fall
Shatter against the pillow
The insectile orchestra
Into a fowl ensemble
The sun grants fresh light
A pure day, tainted.
(Original date 7/8/2010)
Amidst the lonely night stars,
Words go unspoken,
With not a soul to hear,
Save the cold reflection,
Or the cricket symphony outside.
The phantoms of light,
Change as the show does,
Company granted by celebrity,
As salesman peddling their wares,
Uncaring to the sullen viewer,
Craving honest words.
The silent strangers gaze lingers,
As a broken man stares back,
Alone in the world,
Except for each other,
Blowing smoke rings at each other,
To pass the lonesome night.
Silently the crystals fall
Shatter against the pillow
The insectile orchestra
Into a fowl ensemble
The sun grants fresh light
A pure day, tainted.
(Original date 7/8/2010)
Your Favored
The world, it seems,
Does grant you wings,
To fly about unburdened.
For me, received,
Is leaden spikes -
Immobilize my action.
And love, it seems,
At every angle,
Falls within your lap.
While I, alone,
Must grasp for straw -
Acceptance never given.
Though hate, it seems,
I'm unable to give,
Favored though you be.
And you, it seems,
Grant me yourself -
Sweetest fruit forsaken.
(Original date 7/6/2010)
Does grant you wings,
To fly about unburdened.
For me, received,
Is leaden spikes -
Immobilize my action.
And love, it seems,
At every angle,
Falls within your lap.
While I, alone,
Must grasp for straw -
Acceptance never given.
Though hate, it seems,
I'm unable to give,
Favored though you be.
And you, it seems,
Grant me yourself -
Sweetest fruit forsaken.
(Original date 7/6/2010)
Sledgehammer
A sledgehammer to a car
Would do better to my health
Than the knife at my wrist
But I don't have a sledgehammer.
Or a car at hand.
Or the strength to wreck either.
But a knife, I can find.
And my wrist carries with me.
And my life is already wrecked.
The glass in my hand,
Is quickly filling empty.
But my mind is still full,
And growing in strength.
They race nightly,
Rage, and despair
Each hoping for a victory
Me, hoping for distraction.
Sledgehammer is lifted
And put through the glass
But is it my glass the shatters?
A windshield?
Or me?
(Original date 7/4/2010)
Would do better to my health
Than the knife at my wrist
But I don't have a sledgehammer.
Or a car at hand.
Or the strength to wreck either.
But a knife, I can find.
And my wrist carries with me.
And my life is already wrecked.
The glass in my hand,
Is quickly filling empty.
But my mind is still full,
And growing in strength.
They race nightly,
Rage, and despair
Each hoping for a victory
Me, hoping for distraction.
Sledgehammer is lifted
And put through the glass
But is it my glass the shatters?
A windshield?
Or me?
(Original date 7/4/2010)
Sparrow's Cage
-------------------------------
Part 1 - The World
-------------------------------
Eight years. Eight years is all it took for society to crumble to worthless shambles. The start of it all isn't even truely known to most, as the resulting destruction killed all who were a part of it. All that is known is that, during a spat about national policy, threats were made. Tensions grew, and some trigger-happy leader decided it wise to launch a small arsenal of nuclear weaponry. The opposing country retaliated as soon as they were in the air, alliances were made on both sides, opportunistic countries took it upon themselves to rid themselves of their own enemies, chaos ensued.
In the end, responsibility was a moot point. The majority of the capital cities in the world were utterly decimated, uninhabitable for hundreds of years to come. With the world governments decimated, the remaining cities were reduced to riots and destruction, forming a primal, tribalistic order. Rural areas, last to hear the news, were eventually pillaged for anything to be used for the cities. It was almost as if the world itself was reset, losing hundreds of years of progress in the process.
Eight years. No governmental systems prevailed, save anarchy. The strong survived, the weak either died off or pledged themselves to the strong in order to survive. Death and decay is a common sight, everyone who survived grew hardened quickly. Theft is a common thing, and people have learned not to value anything they can't keep with them at all times. Murder is all too common, though defense of one's self and one's property sometimes means killing the desperate man who seeks to take it from you. Slavery and the sex trade is considered a viable business opportunity. Cannibalism is a possibility, though rare, as game animals are, thankfully, still available. The would has turned into an even mix of survival and hedonism, and the individual person who fortunately (or unfortunately in many cases) survived the cataclysm had to make the choice for themselves what they would follow.
--------------------------
Part 2 - The Club
--------------------------
Many towns in the eastern United States avoided the harsh explosions the plagued the world eight years ago. This town was never huge, though it did house enough college students that it had a sizable population for most of the year. As such, it was not decimated, at least, not until after the initial damage was over. Afterwards, it was ransacked, pillaged, destroyed, and turned to a den a bandits, thugs, and criminals. The kind of place where you could buy human stock, for whatever purposes, as well as sell off stolen goods, get a bit of mercenary work, or whatever else you needed.
On the outskirts of this town was a medium sized building. Not too big, not too small, used to be a bowling alley, back in it's hey-day. This building, now named simply 'The Club', as the graffiti sign said, sold women. Females to be used as sex slaves, concubines, or, if they were fortunate, decorative servants to the bandits and kingpins who happened to be in charge of a region at the time. The Club's stock was never short, and the women they sold were always medium to top quality.
Running such a highly reputed establishment meant that the owner commanded a bit of respect himself, at least enough to mean the town knew who he was and would do their best to stay in his good eye. After all, other than food and clean water, sex was considered the most valuable substance. The owner of this establishment was Richard Kraus. Richard, or Dick as he was so keenly nicknamed, inherited the business from his older cousin, Tim 'Trusty' German. The inheritance was fairly simple. Poor trusty had an accident, where he accidentally fell onto a bullet, which accidentally spread his brain across his fine oak desk. Some say Dick got greedy, others say Trusty's conscience finally caught up with him, others say a rogue gangster didn't like his prices. Regardless, it was Dick who was in charge now.
And it was Dick who was manning the counter of the bar that hot June day. The Club maintained a decent bar, along with their women, in order to make their patrons a bit easier to barter with. As well, if provided another reason to respect Dick, and made him a community leader in his own right. Of course, this wasn't the only establishment like this in the area, hell, there was one not 3 miles west of here, but The Club was the best within a hundred miles, and it's the only one most of the locals would frequent.
His new stock of girls was grand. Two blondes, both look to be about teenage years. One black girl, mid thirties. An asian, who would surely fetch him a good price as they were a definite delicacy in the area. The only problem was a brunette, late twenties, nothing special, and wouldn't stop crying. She hadn't learned her place yet, apparently, but Dick would teach her soon enough. Probably have her warm up the clients first, just to break her into her new role. She'd learn, soon enough.
Dick had just finished up watering down the last of his whiskey supply when a man entered his door. Six foot tall, wearing all black including a black leather duster. Had a real serious look to him. The man wore sunglasses, though they looked prescription, rather than just to ward off that damnable sun. He walked with a limp, not too uncommon these days, as a serious injury would most likely go untreated. He didn't look like anything special.
But at least his look got that damn girl to stop her crying.
Dick gave a sly smile, and says, like a good businessman "Well sah, ya ain' from round here, but those bitches 'r mine. Can be yers, if ya got somethin' to trade, and looks... Well, looks be free fer ya. Naow, join me here, have yerself a whiskey, and we'll talk business." Dick poured his watered down cocktail into an unwashed glass, and the man stepped towards him.
And the girls cry turned into a smile.
------------------------------
Part 3: The Man
------------------------------
Dust was settling on the rear windshield when he put his car in park. It was hot today. Too damn hot to wear this coat, but sometimes it has to be done. He hoped he wouldn't be sweating too much by the time he got in there. A man sweating shows weakness, and he'd need ever psychological edge he could muster to break this deal. The engine idles for a few more minutes while he catches his breath and gathers his wits. The radio shouts static at him, he was too far out of range of any operating antennas.
Hat, or no hat? The hat is classy, and will do wonders to protect him from the sun, but at the same time he didn't want to look too much like a desperado. After all, the people here would already be suspicious of him, but the fact that they could see his eyes would be do wonders to set him them at ease. Bad enough he's wearing a leather full coat in over a hundred degree weather. Fuck, it's hot.
His hand reaches for key and slowly shuts the engine off. One more step and then it's time. He pulls his pistol from his hip pouch, and makes sure it's loaded correctly. He only had six shots left, hoped it would be enough. The pistol is replaced, a breath is drawn, and the door is opened. A heavy foot falls out of the car, and he pulls himself the rest of the way out.
The sun bears down on him as he steadily limps his way towards what the locals called The Club. When the bombs dropped, nuclear radiation drifted into the atmosphere, eating holes in it. The resulting effect was a rather drastic climate change. The sun grew hotter, and at midday it could cook a man if he didn't take precautions against it. Winters and nights were similarly problematic, with frigid temperatures that could turn the unprepared into a popsicle. Unfortunately, it was midday now, and even the hundred yard walk to the old bowling alley could exhaust any healthy human, and the fact that this man was wearing a thick leather coat, a pistol, and whatever else he may be carrying, only made the situation worse for him. Still, he tredged on.
He glanced briefly at the car he was walking away from. A solid white Camaro from the eighties. He'd gotten it for a steal of a merchant a couple years back, and it had served him loyally in the meantime. It didn't use too much gas, and the retrofitted solar panels meant he was rarely in a bind for fuel. It was his steed, and had served him reliably in the harsh wastelands he called home. Better yet, it reflected a good portion of the sun's waves, which meant it kept relatively cool.
A few more steps and he reached the door. He straightened himself out, wiped the sweat off his face, and opened the door. He had not, though, prepared himself enough for what he knew he'd see.
There she was. All these years, all this preparation, and she was finally within his reach.
All he had to do was get past that toothless git who was offering him whiskey.
-------------------------------
Part 4: The Barter
-------------------------------
“'Course, 'for we get to talkin' trades, you'll need to, eh... Relinquish, control of your weaponry. Ain't gonna take 'em from you of course, that's a killin' offense in these parts. All I ask if ya put it on the bar here, so I can sees it and you can sees it. Now, if that ain't good 'nuff for ya, my two associates here,” he motions to two men sitting silently on either side of the door, brutes ready to attack, “Can show ya back outside and relieve ya of anythin' you have anyway.”
The man nodded silently, and withdrew a pistol he kept in at his hip. He limped his way over the the bar, and placed it down. As a sign of good faith, he even turned the grip to face Kraus. He took a seat, and slowly took a sip of the whiskey.
“Naow that the unpleasantries are dealt with, what can I do ya for? Lookin' for a mate, are ya? Good lookin' guy like yuself can't be hurtin' too much for the ladies, so you must be wanting somethin'... Supplemental. Am I right? Or perhaps you're just lookin' for someone to bring you some drinks while you and your boys relax after a hard days work. So, wanna have a look? Just see fer yourself, I only gots the best, and a fresh shipment just come in, so you get pick of the litter. Don't you worry none, they're in the cages for a reason, they won't hurt ya.”
The man finishes his whiskey, and stands. He limps away without saying a word, heading towards the scared girls. Like puppies in a pound, they're behavior is all different. The asian is trying to make herself look like a sultry treat, she doesn't plan on sticking around this place long. The blondes cower near the back, avoiding eye contact and not wanting to be separated, probably sisters. He reaches only one cage, the burnette, and looks her deep in the eyes. She returns his look and steps up to the bars to meet him.
“How much for her?” The man says, never breaking eyes with the tear ridden burnette.
Kraus looks confused. Dumb bitch there was giving him nothing but trouble earlier, now she's well behaved. Ah well, not his problem. “Her? She crys a lot, ain't used to where she is, 'parantly. Might be a virgin, given her protest. I got a lot of clients who'd pay money for a girl who'd fight like that, they love to break 'em in. Can't let her for for less than... Four cases of munitions, twenty gallons of fuel, or, hell, since I'm generous, sixteen bottles of booze, depending of course on what they are. Whiskey'd do ya best, that's a favorite round here, but I'll take pretty much anything that ain't wine.”
A brief pause, then a stern “Half.” comes from the cages.
“Pfffff, ya gotta be fuckin' with me. Half on a philly like this? Good body, good face, good teeth, hell, ain't got a hint of sickness in her. Shit, I'm goin' light on you with the price to begin with, and lower and I wouldn't be able to run a business at all. You want discount girls, go somewhere else. Get the fuck outta here or make a better offer.”
The brutes are standing now, ready to escort the man out, to put it kindly.
The man in the coat reaches his hand between the bar and wraps it around the poor girls throat, terror filling her eyes. The guards pounce. The man smiles devilishly.
Everything was in place.
-----------------------------
Part 5: History
-----------------------------
Ten years previous was when they first met, the burnette, and the man in the coat. She'd been working in a coffee shop at a small, rural town. He was merely there for the season, working a small job of little consequance. Back then, in the days of excess, he had to gather all his courage just to talk to her. It was the fourth time he'd met her, after placing his usual order, that he mustered the strength to ask her on a date.
Where do you take a girl who works at a coffee shop, anyway?
But she accepted, nonetheless, and their first date was the stepping stone to the quick and intense relationship they shared those few months. Whether it was love, or a distraction, or just two young adults engaging in physical bliss, none of that was important when the future was so bleak.
“What are the birds doing out at this hour?” she said, as they laid in bed after they first made love, “Whatever could they have to say right now?”
He smiled, and held her close. “They're just plotting our demise,” he said, “Birds are horrible conspirators.”
“Mmm, well, I'm not too worried. They're birds. They small and weak and can't even talk.” She mumbled as she drifted off into sleep.
“And when they do attack,” He said, “I'll be here to save you.”
They parted ways a few months later, fully expecting to never be in range of each other's touch again.
But fate, it seems had a different idea.
They maintained regular correspondence, texting and calling and e-mailing each other to keep up. They both had their own lives, and there was no place for the other in it, back then. And so, it wasn't unusual that he happened to text her two minutes before the sonic boom from the bomb which detonated near her town knocked out the power and led to mass confusion. And also, it wasn't unusual that, thirty seconds after that, her response as she laid in the rubble was a simple “Help.” to the easiest person to respond to, the man in the coat.
Help.
Eight years later, a trail of lost homes and stories, and a search which led him across the country, and he pulled up to the last place she'd willingly be. Which is, of course, where the opportunistic bandit said she would be when he the man in the coat beat him within an inch of his life after learning he was the one who sold her off.
The Club. He idled the engine and gathered up his courage again.
The definition of irony, to him, was that when he asked the cute barista at the coffee shop on a date, he'd taken her bowling.
---------------------------
Part 6: The Fight
---------------------------
“Let 'er go, buddy, and maybe you'll live to fuck up some other bitch, but not ours.” The bulkier of the guards said as he made his way towards the man in the coat. “Just let her go and we won't break your fuckin' knees open.”
The bouncer made a mad lunge towards him them.
In that moment, the time froze. There had be no indication to anyone, save the sly smiling man in his overly hot coat, just how many weapons entered the room when he had limped over the threshold. The bouncer, though, learned of a single one, the razor sharp strip of metal that lined the underside of the forearm. Unfortunately for him, he learned as it sliced open his throat, rending his mad lunge his own demise.
Amidst this flurry, he had let go of the girl, and she had rolled to the back of her cage, wary of being hurt again.
The lighter guard, still trying to grasp what just happened to his friend, took a large step backwards. This gave the man in the coat ample time to throw it off of himself, revealing another blade on his opposite arm, and, more importantly at this moment, the shortened shotgun strapped to his lower back. With a jerk, he pulled it off, and the other guard fell to the floor with a quick trigger pull.
Nine seconds, and two men were dead. The man in the coat dropped the gun in his hands, as it was quicker to drop it than fumble to reload it. He didn't have much time now, and THE CLUB OWNER had his six shots to take. He lowered his hand to his left hip, and drew a large hunting knife.
They say that, if you know enough about a man's nature, you can accurately predict his near future. Having to rely on stories and rumors of a man isn't a safe way to gain the clairvoyant benefit, but it had to do in this case. Kraus, seeing his two men felled by the now coatless man, covered in blood with razors dripping from his arms, reached for the gun that was left so carefully on the counter.
Had he gone for the shotgun he kept under the bar, he would have survived this encounter. However, in the rush and panic of someone killing your friends and threatening your own life, the mind goes for the quickest possible solution, and not the reliable one that's saved you dozens of times before. He pulled the trigger with a twitch. The gun fired.
But the man was left unscratched. Quickly, the trigger was pulled twice more, judging that his accuracy was just off in the heat of the moment. Still nothing, and now the man was turning, large knife in hand. Two more shots, in a desperate motion to survive, but nothing but smoke and dust. A final shot was made.
His mind came the the conclusion that the gun in his hand was loaded with blanks at roughly the same time the knife was thrown. He dropped the gun as the knife entered his gut. The shotgun, still sitting in it's rack, passed his vision as he collapsed on the ground.
----------------------------
Part 7: Salvation
----------------------------
The was a long silence as the man listened for reinforcements. In a fortunate turn of events, though, the location led to a distinct lacking of martial support. He breathed deep, and went to undo the straps that were holding his makeshift blades in place. He also pulled what was left of the tape off his back, and was grateful that it had held strong during the occasion.
The girls cowered, unsure of what would happen. In less than a minute, their captors were felled by a man who barely spoke. His intentions unknown, and he'd already tried to choke the life out of one of them.
Confusions mounted when he threw his leg onto a table. With a sudden pull, the cloth fell away, and they all saw the pair of heavy duty, steel reinforced bolt cutters that had been forcing his limp. Without a word, he moved to break the padlocks that held them in.
After they were cut, he spoke. “East, you'll encounter more assholes like them. Same goes if you head south, but you have more distance til then. I'm not sure what lies to the west immediately, but if you reach the coast, there are some peaceful communes that started a few months back that are enjoying some great success. Don't even bother trying to go north, it's going to be no-mans land for another hundred years.”
They nodded and scattered, fleeing together and out into the sun, just trying to get out of this godawful place that nearly sealed their fate.
The last lock that was cut belonged to the burnette. Still on the ground, he opened the cage and stepped in.
“If I could have warned you, I would have, but rather my hand around your throat for a few seconds, than some inbred mother fuckers arms around you for decades.”
She looked up at him, and him at her. “Sorry I took so long. This world's done funny things to everything, time included.”
Sobbing, she jumped into the same arms that violently and mercilessly dispatched her captors moments ago. He held her close, and let her drain her emotion onto his sleeve. Seconds blended into minutes, until he finally made her move. “We have to go. The east isn't safe like it used to be. Nothing's what is was anymore.”
He led her out to his car, and sat her down as he climbed into the drivers seat. Engine started, they drove on what was once a prominent freeway, trying to cover as much ground as they could before nighttime came.
Hours passed in utter silence.
He chuckled to himself after a few hundred miles. “I never introduced myself. I mean, I think you remember me, and I know I remember you, but... With this new world, with a fresh start, I didn't want to be tied down by what I once was. Where I'm from now, they call me Hermes. Yeah, I know, cheesy, but it's my job to tell people about what we're doing out west. So it stuck. What about you, in this fresh new start, what do you want to be called?”
She didn't move. Awake, she stared out the window. She was broken, some unknown horrors had happened over the past years while he'd tracked her down. He could do nothing as they drove in silence.
The sun went down over the hills. He knew these roads well, and picked his normal campsite for the evening, a reclusive former gas station that was long since tapped dry, but had enough cars stalled dead that another meant nothing to the casual observer.
He set up the sleeping bags inside, along with the shotgun he had taken the care to liberate from the now deceased owner of the skin-trade shop. She was quickly asleep, and he planned to stay up all night, keeping guard over her. Another sleepless night meant nothing to him, and they were less than a days travel from their next destination, which was much safer.
Four in the morning. The sun was just a few short hours from breaking, and then they'd be able to take back to the road. He was startled, at first, when she first spoke. “Songbird,” she said, “If I get to choose my name, that's what I want.” She moved, quietly, close to him, and fell asleep on his shoulder.
They weren't home yet. But at least they had names, and each other.
--------
End
--------
(Original date 6/26/2010)
Part 1 - The World
--------------------------
Eight years. Eight years is all it took for society to crumble to worthless shambles. The start of it all isn't even truely known to most, as the resulting destruction killed all who were a part of it. All that is known is that, during a spat about national policy, threats were made. Tensions grew, and some trigger-happy leader decided it wise to launch a small arsenal of nuclear weaponry. The opposing country retaliated as soon as they were in the air, alliances were made on both sides, opportunistic countries took it upon themselves to rid themselves of their own enemies, chaos ensued.
In the end, responsibility was a moot point. The majority of the capital cities in the world were utterly decimated, uninhabitable for hundreds of years to come. With the world governments decimated, the remaining cities were reduced to riots and destruction, forming a primal, tribalistic order. Rural areas, last to hear the news, were eventually pillaged for anything to be used for the cities. It was almost as if the world itself was reset, losing hundreds of years of progress in the process.
Eight years. No governmental systems prevailed, save anarchy. The strong survived, the weak either died off or pledged themselves to the strong in order to survive. Death and decay is a common sight, everyone who survived grew hardened quickly. Theft is a common thing, and people have learned not to value anything they can't keep with them at all times. Murder is all too common, though defense of one's self and one's property sometimes means killing the desperate man who seeks to take it from you. Slavery and the sex trade is considered a viable business opportunity. Cannibalism is a possibility, though rare, as game animals are, thankfully, still available. The would has turned into an even mix of survival and hedonism, and the individual person who fortunately (or unfortunately in many cases) survived the cataclysm had to make the choice for themselves what they would follow.
--------------------------
Part 2 - The Club
--------------------------
Many towns in the eastern United States avoided the harsh explosions the plagued the world eight years ago. This town was never huge, though it did house enough college students that it had a sizable population for most of the year. As such, it was not decimated, at least, not until after the initial damage was over. Afterwards, it was ransacked, pillaged, destroyed, and turned to a den a bandits, thugs, and criminals. The kind of place where you could buy human stock, for whatever purposes, as well as sell off stolen goods, get a bit of mercenary work, or whatever else you needed.
On the outskirts of this town was a medium sized building. Not too big, not too small, used to be a bowling alley, back in it's hey-day. This building, now named simply 'The Club', as the graffiti sign said, sold women. Females to be used as sex slaves, concubines, or, if they were fortunate, decorative servants to the bandits and kingpins who happened to be in charge of a region at the time. The Club's stock was never short, and the women they sold were always medium to top quality.
Running such a highly reputed establishment meant that the owner commanded a bit of respect himself, at least enough to mean the town knew who he was and would do their best to stay in his good eye. After all, other than food and clean water, sex was considered the most valuable substance. The owner of this establishment was Richard Kraus. Richard, or Dick as he was so keenly nicknamed, inherited the business from his older cousin, Tim 'Trusty' German. The inheritance was fairly simple. Poor trusty had an accident, where he accidentally fell onto a bullet, which accidentally spread his brain across his fine oak desk. Some say Dick got greedy, others say Trusty's conscience finally caught up with him, others say a rogue gangster didn't like his prices. Regardless, it was Dick who was in charge now.
And it was Dick who was manning the counter of the bar that hot June day. The Club maintained a decent bar, along with their women, in order to make their patrons a bit easier to barter with. As well, if provided another reason to respect Dick, and made him a community leader in his own right. Of course, this wasn't the only establishment like this in the area, hell, there was one not 3 miles west of here, but The Club was the best within a hundred miles, and it's the only one most of the locals would frequent.
His new stock of girls was grand. Two blondes, both look to be about teenage years. One black girl, mid thirties. An asian, who would surely fetch him a good price as they were a definite delicacy in the area. The only problem was a brunette, late twenties, nothing special, and wouldn't stop crying. She hadn't learned her place yet, apparently, but Dick would teach her soon enough. Probably have her warm up the clients first, just to break her into her new role. She'd learn, soon enough.
Dick had just finished up watering down the last of his whiskey supply when a man entered his door. Six foot tall, wearing all black including a black leather duster. Had a real serious look to him. The man wore sunglasses, though they looked prescription, rather than just to ward off that damnable sun. He walked with a limp, not too uncommon these days, as a serious injury would most likely go untreated. He didn't look like anything special.
But at least his look got that damn girl to stop her crying.
Dick gave a sly smile, and says, like a good businessman "Well sah, ya ain' from round here, but those bitches 'r mine. Can be yers, if ya got somethin' to trade, and looks... Well, looks be free fer ya. Naow, join me here, have yerself a whiskey, and we'll talk business." Dick poured his watered down cocktail into an unwashed glass, and the man stepped towards him.
And the girls cry turned into a smile.
--------------------------
Part 3: The Man
--------------------------
Dust was settling on the rear windshield when he put his car in park. It was hot today. Too damn hot to wear this coat, but sometimes it has to be done. He hoped he wouldn't be sweating too much by the time he got in there. A man sweating shows weakness, and he'd need ever psychological edge he could muster to break this deal. The engine idles for a few more minutes while he catches his breath and gathers his wits. The radio shouts static at him, he was too far out of range of any operating antennas.
Hat, or no hat? The hat is classy, and will do wonders to protect him from the sun, but at the same time he didn't want to look too much like a desperado. After all, the people here would already be suspicious of him, but the fact that they could see his eyes would be do wonders to set him them at ease. Bad enough he's wearing a leather full coat in over a hundred degree weather. Fuck, it's hot.
His hand reaches for key and slowly shuts the engine off. One more step and then it's time. He pulls his pistol from his hip pouch, and makes sure it's loaded correctly. He only had six shots left, hoped it would be enough. The pistol is replaced, a breath is drawn, and the door is opened. A heavy foot falls out of the car, and he pulls himself the rest of the way out.
The sun bears down on him as he steadily limps his way towards what the locals called The Club. When the bombs dropped, nuclear radiation drifted into the atmosphere, eating holes in it. The resulting effect was a rather drastic climate change. The sun grew hotter, and at midday it could cook a man if he didn't take precautions against it. Winters and nights were similarly problematic, with frigid temperatures that could turn the unprepared into a popsicle. Unfortunately, it was midday now, and even the hundred yard walk to the old bowling alley could exhaust any healthy human, and the fact that this man was wearing a thick leather coat, a pistol, and whatever else he may be carrying, only made the situation worse for him. Still, he tredged on.
He glanced briefly at the car he was walking away from. A solid white Camaro from the eighties. He'd gotten it for a steal of a merchant a couple years back, and it had served him loyally in the meantime. It didn't use too much gas, and the retrofitted solar panels meant he was rarely in a bind for fuel. It was his steed, and had served him reliably in the harsh wastelands he called home. Better yet, it reflected a good portion of the sun's waves, which meant it kept relatively cool.
A few more steps and he reached the door. He straightened himself out, wiped the sweat off his face, and opened the door. He had not, though, prepared himself enough for what he knew he'd see.
There she was. All these years, all this preparation, and she was finally within his reach.
All he had to do was get past that toothless git who was offering him whiskey.
--------------------------
Part 4: The Barter
--------------------------
“'Course, 'for we get to talkin' trades, you'll need to, eh... Relinquish, control of your weaponry. Ain't gonna take 'em from you of course, that's a killin' offense in these parts. All I ask if ya put it on the bar here, so I can sees it and you can sees it. Now, if that ain't good 'nuff for ya, my two associates here,” he motions to two men sitting silently on either side of the door, brutes ready to attack, “Can show ya back outside and relieve ya of anythin' you have anyway.”
The man nodded silently, and withdrew a pistol he kept in at his hip. He limped his way over the the bar, and placed it down. As a sign of good faith, he even turned the grip to face Kraus. He took a seat, and slowly took a sip of the whiskey.
“Naow that the unpleasantries are dealt with, what can I do ya for? Lookin' for a mate, are ya? Good lookin' guy like yuself can't be hurtin' too much for the ladies, so you must be wanting somethin'... Supplemental. Am I right? Or perhaps you're just lookin' for someone to bring you some drinks while you and your boys relax after a hard days work. So, wanna have a look? Just see fer yourself, I only gots the best, and a fresh shipment just come in, so you get pick of the litter. Don't you worry none, they're in the cages for a reason, they won't hurt ya.”
The man finishes his whiskey, and stands. He limps away without saying a word, heading towards the scared girls. Like puppies in a pound, they're behavior is all different. The asian is trying to make herself look like a sultry treat, she doesn't plan on sticking around this place long. The blondes cower near the back, avoiding eye contact and not wanting to be separated, probably sisters. He reaches only one cage, the burnette, and looks her deep in the eyes. She returns his look and steps up to the bars to meet him.
“How much for her?” The man says, never breaking eyes with the tear ridden burnette.
Kraus looks confused. Dumb bitch there was giving him nothing but trouble earlier, now she's well behaved. Ah well, not his problem. “Her? She crys a lot, ain't used to where she is, 'parantly. Might be a virgin, given her protest. I got a lot of clients who'd pay money for a girl who'd fight like that, they love to break 'em in. Can't let her for for less than... Four cases of munitions, twenty gallons of fuel, or, hell, since I'm generous, sixteen bottles of booze, depending of course on what they are. Whiskey'd do ya best, that's a favorite round here, but I'll take pretty much anything that ain't wine.”
A brief pause, then a stern “Half.” comes from the cages.
“Pfffff, ya gotta be fuckin' with me. Half on a philly like this? Good body, good face, good teeth, hell, ain't got a hint of sickness in her. Shit, I'm goin' light on you with the price to begin with, and lower and I wouldn't be able to run a business at all. You want discount girls, go somewhere else. Get the fuck outta here or make a better offer.”
The brutes are standing now, ready to escort the man out, to put it kindly.
The man in the coat reaches his hand between the bar and wraps it around the poor girls throat, terror filling her eyes. The guards pounce. The man smiles devilishly.
Everything was in place.
--------------------------
Part 5: History
--------------------------
Ten years previous was when they first met, the burnette, and the man in the coat. She'd been working in a coffee shop at a small, rural town. He was merely there for the season, working a small job of little consequance. Back then, in the days of excess, he had to gather all his courage just to talk to her. It was the fourth time he'd met her, after placing his usual order, that he mustered the strength to ask her on a date.
Where do you take a girl who works at a coffee shop, anyway?
But she accepted, nonetheless, and their first date was the stepping stone to the quick and intense relationship they shared those few months. Whether it was love, or a distraction, or just two young adults engaging in physical bliss, none of that was important when the future was so bleak.
“What are the birds doing out at this hour?” she said, as they laid in bed after they first made love, “Whatever could they have to say right now?”
He smiled, and held her close. “They're just plotting our demise,” he said, “Birds are horrible conspirators.”
“Mmm, well, I'm not too worried. They're birds. They small and weak and can't even talk.” She mumbled as she drifted off into sleep.
“And when they do attack,” He said, “I'll be here to save you.”
They parted ways a few months later, fully expecting to never be in range of each other's touch again.
But fate, it seems had a different idea.
They maintained regular correspondence, texting and calling and e-mailing each other to keep up. They both had their own lives, and there was no place for the other in it, back then. And so, it wasn't unusual that he happened to text her two minutes before the sonic boom from the bomb which detonated near her town knocked out the power and led to mass confusion. And also, it wasn't unusual that, thirty seconds after that, her response as she laid in the rubble was a simple “Help.” to the easiest person to respond to, the man in the coat.
Help.
Eight years later, a trail of lost homes and stories, and a search which led him across the country, and he pulled up to the last place she'd willingly be. Which is, of course, where the opportunistic bandit said she would be when he the man in the coat beat him within an inch of his life after learning he was the one who sold her off.
The Club. He idled the engine and gathered up his courage again.
The definition of irony, to him, was that when he asked the cute barista at the coffee shop on a date, he'd taken her bowling.
--------------------------
Part 6: The Fight
--------------------------
“Let 'er go, buddy, and maybe you'll live to fuck up some other bitch, but not ours.” The bulkier of the guards said as he made his way towards the man in the coat. “Just let her go and we won't break your fuckin' knees open.”
The bouncer made a mad lunge towards him them.
In that moment, the time froze. There had be no indication to anyone, save the sly smiling man in his overly hot coat, just how many weapons entered the room when he had limped over the threshold. The bouncer, though, learned of a single one, the razor sharp strip of metal that lined the underside of the forearm. Unfortunately for him, he learned as it sliced open his throat, rending his mad lunge his own demise.
Amidst this flurry, he had let go of the girl, and she had rolled to the back of her cage, wary of being hurt again.
The lighter guard, still trying to grasp what just happened to his friend, took a large step backwards. This gave the man in the coat ample time to throw it off of himself, revealing another blade on his opposite arm, and, more importantly at this moment, the shortened shotgun strapped to his lower back. With a jerk, he pulled it off, and the other guard fell to the floor with a quick trigger pull.
Nine seconds, and two men were dead. The man in the coat dropped the gun in his hands, as it was quicker to drop it than fumble to reload it. He didn't have much time now, and THE CLUB OWNER had his six shots to take. He lowered his hand to his left hip, and drew a large hunting knife.
They say that, if you know enough about a man's nature, you can accurately predict his near future. Having to rely on stories and rumors of a man isn't a safe way to gain the clairvoyant benefit, but it had to do in this case. Kraus, seeing his two men felled by the now coatless man, covered in blood with razors dripping from his arms, reached for the gun that was left so carefully on the counter.
Had he gone for the shotgun he kept under the bar, he would have survived this encounter. However, in the rush and panic of someone killing your friends and threatening your own life, the mind goes for the quickest possible solution, and not the reliable one that's saved you dozens of times before. He pulled the trigger with a twitch. The gun fired.
But the man was left unscratched. Quickly, the trigger was pulled twice more, judging that his accuracy was just off in the heat of the moment. Still nothing, and now the man was turning, large knife in hand. Two more shots, in a desperate motion to survive, but nothing but smoke and dust. A final shot was made.
His mind came the the conclusion that the gun in his hand was loaded with blanks at roughly the same time the knife was thrown. He dropped the gun as the knife entered his gut. The shotgun, still sitting in it's rack, passed his vision as he collapsed on the ground.
--------------------------
Part 7: Salvation
--------------------------
The was a long silence as the man listened for reinforcements. In a fortunate turn of events, though, the location led to a distinct lacking of martial support. He breathed deep, and went to undo the straps that were holding his makeshift blades in place. He also pulled what was left of the tape off his back, and was grateful that it had held strong during the occasion.
The girls cowered, unsure of what would happen. In less than a minute, their captors were felled by a man who barely spoke. His intentions unknown, and he'd already tried to choke the life out of one of them.
Confusions mounted when he threw his leg onto a table. With a sudden pull, the cloth fell away, and they all saw the pair of heavy duty, steel reinforced bolt cutters that had been forcing his limp. Without a word, he moved to break the padlocks that held them in.
After they were cut, he spoke. “East, you'll encounter more assholes like them. Same goes if you head south, but you have more distance til then. I'm not sure what lies to the west immediately, but if you reach the coast, there are some peaceful communes that started a few months back that are enjoying some great success. Don't even bother trying to go north, it's going to be no-mans land for another hundred years.”
They nodded and scattered, fleeing together and out into the sun, just trying to get out of this godawful place that nearly sealed their fate.
The last lock that was cut belonged to the burnette. Still on the ground, he opened the cage and stepped in.
“If I could have warned you, I would have, but rather my hand around your throat for a few seconds, than some inbred mother fuckers arms around you for decades.”
She looked up at him, and him at her. “Sorry I took so long. This world's done funny things to everything, time included.”
Sobbing, she jumped into the same arms that violently and mercilessly dispatched her captors moments ago. He held her close, and let her drain her emotion onto his sleeve. Seconds blended into minutes, until he finally made her move. “We have to go. The east isn't safe like it used to be. Nothing's what is was anymore.”
He led her out to his car, and sat her down as he climbed into the drivers seat. Engine started, they drove on what was once a prominent freeway, trying to cover as much ground as they could before nighttime came.
Hours passed in utter silence.
He chuckled to himself after a few hundred miles. “I never introduced myself. I mean, I think you remember me, and I know I remember you, but... With this new world, with a fresh start, I didn't want to be tied down by what I once was. Where I'm from now, they call me Hermes. Yeah, I know, cheesy, but it's my job to tell people about what we're doing out west. So it stuck. What about you, in this fresh new start, what do you want to be called?”
She didn't move. Awake, she stared out the window. She was broken, some unknown horrors had happened over the past years while he'd tracked her down. He could do nothing as they drove in silence.
The sun went down over the hills. He knew these roads well, and picked his normal campsite for the evening, a reclusive former gas station that was long since tapped dry, but had enough cars stalled dead that another meant nothing to the casual observer.
He set up the sleeping bags inside, along with the shotgun he had taken the care to liberate from the now deceased owner of the skin-trade shop. She was quickly asleep, and he planned to stay up all night, keeping guard over her. Another sleepless night meant nothing to him, and they were less than a days travel from their next destination, which was much safer.
Four in the morning. The sun was just a few short hours from breaking, and then they'd be able to take back to the road. He was startled, at first, when she first spoke. “Songbird,” she said, “If I get to choose my name, that's what I want.” She moved, quietly, close to him, and fell asleep on his shoulder.
They weren't home yet. But at least they had names, and each other.
--------
End
--------
(Original date 6/26/2010)
Kiss me, Sweetly
Gifted of your sight
As you sway in the moon.
Dance among
The shattered stars.
Twist and jerk
With inhuman motion.
Aural delight
As we share our first words.
Midnight the medium
Of beguiled converse.
Whispered words
Abominable oratory.
Kiss me
Sweetly.
With your forked tongue.
(Original date 6/24/2010)
As you sway in the moon.
Dance among
The shattered stars.
Twist and jerk
With inhuman motion.
Aural delight
As we share our first words.
Midnight the medium
Of beguiled converse.
Whispered words
Abominable oratory.
Kiss me
Sweetly.
With your forked tongue.
(Original date 6/24/2010)
Broken Song
Shattered in the white sands
Like beer bottles after summer,
My muse has spit on my name
Left me crushed, ruined, used.
My words, a newspaper soaked
Ink drained away and smeared.
Ideas, a sandcastle
Swept asunder underfoot.
Songs, an ancient train
Assaulting ears with hideous whine.
Uselessly I clamor on
Seeking substitute to sublime.
Without you, love, it's over.
(Original date 6/9/2010)
Like beer bottles after summer,
My muse has spit on my name
Left me crushed, ruined, used.
My words, a newspaper soaked
Ink drained away and smeared.
Ideas, a sandcastle
Swept asunder underfoot.
Songs, an ancient train
Assaulting ears with hideous whine.
Uselessly I clamor on
Seeking substitute to sublime.
Without you, love, it's over.
(Original date 6/9/2010)
Riddle
I am stone minded,
But soft hearted.
A mental bastion,
With doors left open for the breeze.
Brazen with self-confidence,
While depleted of self-esteem.
I am nothing special,
But wholly unique.
My life is full of order,
While I preach chaos.
I am omnipotent in my surroundings
But simple affection blinds me.
In possession of unfiltered empathy
While unable to grasp socialization.
Known well amongst others
And unknown past a facade.
Who am I?
(Original date 6/7/2010)
But soft hearted.
A mental bastion,
With doors left open for the breeze.
Brazen with self-confidence,
While depleted of self-esteem.
I am nothing special,
But wholly unique.
My life is full of order,
While I preach chaos.
I am omnipotent in my surroundings
But simple affection blinds me.
In possession of unfiltered empathy
While unable to grasp socialization.
Known well amongst others
And unknown past a facade.
Who am I?
(Original date 6/7/2010)
Poetry
In a world,
Polluted by lies and decay,
Suffocating under the hunger of it's residents,
Rancid with hate and tyranny,
And friends
Stabbing each other in the streets,
Depression more common than potable water,
And genocide
Streamed across national television,
Shouldn't we care
About more than poems?
(Original date 5/25/2010)
Polluted by lies and decay,
Suffocating under the hunger of it's residents,
Rancid with hate and tyranny,
And friends
Stabbing each other in the streets,
Depression more common than potable water,
And genocide
Streamed across national television,
Shouldn't we care
About more than poems?
(Original date 5/25/2010)
Daylight at the Kitchen Sink
Dreams, they shatter
As daylight breaks.
Sleepless dreaming
Defy nocturnal blessing.
Where are the promises we made
When we stared into the mirror.
Promises for a better tomorrow
A life of exhaustive meaning.
A happier point of view
Strewn about the earth with smiles.
Swearing to a gifted future
And a world better with us in it.
Surround ourselves with those who care
And make those who don't our allies.
But sacrifice was imminent
And we gave up what we felt.
First a little here, then a little there
Then no more grins or laughter.
No more friends who want our blessing
Others openly wishing ill.
And where went you, dear friend?
As I ventured forth and fought for this.
You stayed behind
Fed me to the wolves.
And all the while always there
To see me when I fell.
Waiting to gaze upon me
When we had our talks of change.
Daylight breaks and dreams will shatter
And a cracked mirror offers no support.
(Original date 05/24/2010)
As daylight breaks.
Sleepless dreaming
Defy nocturnal blessing.
Where are the promises we made
When we stared into the mirror.
Promises for a better tomorrow
A life of exhaustive meaning.
A happier point of view
Strewn about the earth with smiles.
Swearing to a gifted future
And a world better with us in it.
Surround ourselves with those who care
And make those who don't our allies.
But sacrifice was imminent
And we gave up what we felt.
First a little here, then a little there
Then no more grins or laughter.
No more friends who want our blessing
Others openly wishing ill.
And where went you, dear friend?
As I ventured forth and fought for this.
You stayed behind
Fed me to the wolves.
And all the while always there
To see me when I fell.
Waiting to gaze upon me
When we had our talks of change.
Daylight breaks and dreams will shatter
And a cracked mirror offers no support.
(Original date 05/24/2010)
Martyr
To my mother, my sister, my father, my brother.
To my neighbor, my coworker, my fellow human, my friend.
I write you this letter not in desperation, not in fear, not in sorrow. These words are a dialogue of sorts, a proclamation of why I have left this mortal coil and join in the ranks of the otherworldly. Do not pity me, as I was not weak in my decision, nor impulsive in it's deduction. These words, this song, is a chronicle of all I am.
Life, even mine, average at best, elates me to such supreme happiness. The world is an amazing, tranquil, destructive place. The sheer fact that an oversized rock can orbit around a gaseous fireball, and sprout an ecological masterpiece is nothing short of divinity. And in this, the fact that we have many creatures, gifted with sentience is so intensely beautiful, words cannot describe it. It is as if, truly, our entire existence is nothing short of absolute impossibility.
But look how we treat such a statistical anomaly? Like foul trash, we discard it and scavenge it to it's bitter core, leaving is desolate and barren, in what seems to be a natural plan to lead back to the incomprehensible normality of the rest of existence. We make this choice, consciously, and only look back with a guise of disgust, never truly taking time to allow the impact of our actions to sink in. We, like worker ants, seek to return our life to the once constant energy around around us - the cold grasp of death.
And what's more, how do we treat our remarkable sentience? Bigotry, slavery, rape, theft, murder, incompassion, selfishness. We are gifted, indeed blessed, with a moral compass that steers us away from these, an innate empathy for those who share our existence. Yet we refuse to follow the path. We seek only to better ourselves, and leave the others behind. Power-seeking, foul humans polute the world far worse than trash and decay.
And look amongst society? Thieves and cutthroats extolled and elevated to the highest positions in society, treated as living deities unquestioning. These rich, these powerful, the piranha of the shallow pool of society, seeking to rip asunder any unguarded soul that cross their path, only to feed their hollowed stomach to grow hungry once more. Competing with one another to determine who has accumulated the most sin and defilement in their life. Scum. Retched, poor excuses of what should be praised.
And what of love, or most powerful emotion? Sold. Given away to those who would sooner smother the life from the givers twitching body than to accept it into their own heart. Perversions of love traded for acceptance, to mesh into a world which treats shame as currency and manipulation as water. Drink up, foul prostitutes, and accept your love as taint.
At last, we come to the noble men and women. Those who honestly seek to better the lives of others at the sacrifice of your own. To give so openly is truly beyond reproach. And yet, no matter your charity, the slightest slip will summon the piranha upon you quicker and more viciously than any soul before. Those who try a life of good are mocked, beaten, tarnished, and slain, all for attempting an act of good straight from the soul itself. Martyrs, all of you, for being torn by hyenas when trying to grant them a voice past their petty cackle.
And now, I rest. I go peacefully, and happily, to leave this world of sour carrion feeders. And yet, I face the irony that to willfully remove my own breath is, in essence, the total violation of what this world intended for me. I was not strong enough to find my voice and speak out amongst the cacophonous truths of this world. I sleep now, no long burdened by the heavy blanket that I could not hate this world as much as it deserved, but loved it too much stand by and let it rot.
At least, in hell, evils are punished.
(Original date 1/21/2010)
To my neighbor, my coworker, my fellow human, my friend.
I write you this letter not in desperation, not in fear, not in sorrow. These words are a dialogue of sorts, a proclamation of why I have left this mortal coil and join in the ranks of the otherworldly. Do not pity me, as I was not weak in my decision, nor impulsive in it's deduction. These words, this song, is a chronicle of all I am.
Life, even mine, average at best, elates me to such supreme happiness. The world is an amazing, tranquil, destructive place. The sheer fact that an oversized rock can orbit around a gaseous fireball, and sprout an ecological masterpiece is nothing short of divinity. And in this, the fact that we have many creatures, gifted with sentience is so intensely beautiful, words cannot describe it. It is as if, truly, our entire existence is nothing short of absolute impossibility.
But look how we treat such a statistical anomaly? Like foul trash, we discard it and scavenge it to it's bitter core, leaving is desolate and barren, in what seems to be a natural plan to lead back to the incomprehensible normality of the rest of existence. We make this choice, consciously, and only look back with a guise of disgust, never truly taking time to allow the impact of our actions to sink in. We, like worker ants, seek to return our life to the once constant energy around around us - the cold grasp of death.
And what's more, how do we treat our remarkable sentience? Bigotry, slavery, rape, theft, murder, incompassion, selfishness. We are gifted, indeed blessed, with a moral compass that steers us away from these, an innate empathy for those who share our existence. Yet we refuse to follow the path. We seek only to better ourselves, and leave the others behind. Power-seeking, foul humans polute the world far worse than trash and decay.
And look amongst society? Thieves and cutthroats extolled and elevated to the highest positions in society, treated as living deities unquestioning. These rich, these powerful, the piranha of the shallow pool of society, seeking to rip asunder any unguarded soul that cross their path, only to feed their hollowed stomach to grow hungry once more. Competing with one another to determine who has accumulated the most sin and defilement in their life. Scum. Retched, poor excuses of what should be praised.
And what of love, or most powerful emotion? Sold. Given away to those who would sooner smother the life from the givers twitching body than to accept it into their own heart. Perversions of love traded for acceptance, to mesh into a world which treats shame as currency and manipulation as water. Drink up, foul prostitutes, and accept your love as taint.
At last, we come to the noble men and women. Those who honestly seek to better the lives of others at the sacrifice of your own. To give so openly is truly beyond reproach. And yet, no matter your charity, the slightest slip will summon the piranha upon you quicker and more viciously than any soul before. Those who try a life of good are mocked, beaten, tarnished, and slain, all for attempting an act of good straight from the soul itself. Martyrs, all of you, for being torn by hyenas when trying to grant them a voice past their petty cackle.
And now, I rest. I go peacefully, and happily, to leave this world of sour carrion feeders. And yet, I face the irony that to willfully remove my own breath is, in essence, the total violation of what this world intended for me. I was not strong enough to find my voice and speak out amongst the cacophonous truths of this world. I sleep now, no long burdened by the heavy blanket that I could not hate this world as much as it deserved, but loved it too much stand by and let it rot.
At least, in hell, evils are punished.
(Original date 1/21/2010)
Rage
Tile shattered.
Knuckles bleeding.
Porcelain chipped at my feet.
Sweat drips down.
Tears follow closely.
Anger, anger.
All this anger.
Shout at myself.
Hate myself.
Slide down cracked wall.
Stare at the blood.
Congealing.
Hate, hate.
All this hate.
Heavy breathing.
Tears run dry.
Heart beats faster.
Blood runs hot.
Rage controls.
Rage, rage.
All this rage.
Lie in a ball.
Think a little late.
Hate myself more.
Dust drifts to my shoulders.
Dampened floor rests my head.
Calm, calm.
All this calm.
Close my eyes.
Knuckles sting.
Sob on the floor.
Give up.
Suicide.
Life, life.
No more life.
(Original date 11/6/2009)
Knuckles bleeding.
Porcelain chipped at my feet.
Sweat drips down.
Tears follow closely.
Anger, anger.
All this anger.
Shout at myself.
Hate myself.
Slide down cracked wall.
Stare at the blood.
Congealing.
Hate, hate.
All this hate.
Heavy breathing.
Tears run dry.
Heart beats faster.
Blood runs hot.
Rage controls.
Rage, rage.
All this rage.
Lie in a ball.
Think a little late.
Hate myself more.
Dust drifts to my shoulders.
Dampened floor rests my head.
Calm, calm.
All this calm.
Close my eyes.
Knuckles sting.
Sob on the floor.
Give up.
Suicide.
Life, life.
No more life.
(Original date 11/6/2009)
Depression's Lament
He took a long drag on his cigarette as he sat at the desk. He rummages amongst papers to look busy, then laughed to himself when he realized he didn't have to. No one was watching. No one would care if he sat still or looked as if he had a goal.
The ash landed on his bare arm. He winced, but didn't even bother to wipe it off. What was the point?
This was the third week he'd done this. Like a ritual, once night fell, he sat. He sat and thought. No one questioned this, probably because the only people who might care were too busy with work, school, or nursing their own wounds. He didn't mind. They had their lives, and he just wasn't a big part of theirs. He understood this fully - He wasn't worth the trouble. He wasn't particularly smart, he wasn't very funny, not handsome enough to garner attention, and too mediocre in all aspects to warrant any sort of attention.
In this world, the greatest problem is not having one. People identify by two things - Their successes, and their problems. Success was obvious. Why wouldn't one take pride in their victories over the obstacles life threw at them? Hell, even those born with a silver spoon earned that right by being the fasted seed to reach their bitch mother's womb.
But problems were a modern badge. In the old days, villages would kill children if they were born blind, sick, deaf, misshapen, even just left handed. Later in life, the slightest hint of mental instability would result in banishment, social isolation, or death. Right or wrong, breaking away from average in this sense was a bad thing. Nowadays, people take something wrong with them and push it out. Make people see it. Make people love it. Use it like a homing beacon to attract others. Identity.
So, people made problems. Suddenly, there's something wrong with everyone. Physical handicap, mental degradation, emotional trauma, anything they could get their hands to make them special. To make them unique. Successes mattered less. Mediocrity and normalcy were shunned.
And when he couldn't find something wrong with himself, so was he.
Another ash landed. He didn't wince this time. He had forgotten he was smoking. He put the cigarette out on his forearm.
It hurt, at first. But it didn't matter to him. Pain was a physical response to harmful outside stimulus. The fact that it hurt was a reminder that some things made sense.
He was done. He knew the world wasn't going to change for him, and try as he might, he could not change for the world. The knife on his desk waited, folded, to be picked up and made an instrument. The music it was made for was the cruelest dissonance composed. Pain, hurt, death. People wept for it's listener, mourned his fate, prayed for his safeguard. the composer worked endlessly, strenuously, to complete his work. Failure could not be an option.
If performed correctly, the music was a release. The audience would be enthralled. Freed from the breathe that kept them alive.
He stared. It waited. The sonata demanded to be played.
He stared.
The night outside waned. Soon, the sun would rise.
The man stood up, and went to shower. It was a new day. And he had an appointment to keep tomorrow night.
(Original date 10/30/2009)
The ash landed on his bare arm. He winced, but didn't even bother to wipe it off. What was the point?
This was the third week he'd done this. Like a ritual, once night fell, he sat. He sat and thought. No one questioned this, probably because the only people who might care were too busy with work, school, or nursing their own wounds. He didn't mind. They had their lives, and he just wasn't a big part of theirs. He understood this fully - He wasn't worth the trouble. He wasn't particularly smart, he wasn't very funny, not handsome enough to garner attention, and too mediocre in all aspects to warrant any sort of attention.
In this world, the greatest problem is not having one. People identify by two things - Their successes, and their problems. Success was obvious. Why wouldn't one take pride in their victories over the obstacles life threw at them? Hell, even those born with a silver spoon earned that right by being the fasted seed to reach their bitch mother's womb.
But problems were a modern badge. In the old days, villages would kill children if they were born blind, sick, deaf, misshapen, even just left handed. Later in life, the slightest hint of mental instability would result in banishment, social isolation, or death. Right or wrong, breaking away from average in this sense was a bad thing. Nowadays, people take something wrong with them and push it out. Make people see it. Make people love it. Use it like a homing beacon to attract others. Identity.
So, people made problems. Suddenly, there's something wrong with everyone. Physical handicap, mental degradation, emotional trauma, anything they could get their hands to make them special. To make them unique. Successes mattered less. Mediocrity and normalcy were shunned.
And when he couldn't find something wrong with himself, so was he.
Another ash landed. He didn't wince this time. He had forgotten he was smoking. He put the cigarette out on his forearm.
It hurt, at first. But it didn't matter to him. Pain was a physical response to harmful outside stimulus. The fact that it hurt was a reminder that some things made sense.
He was done. He knew the world wasn't going to change for him, and try as he might, he could not change for the world. The knife on his desk waited, folded, to be picked up and made an instrument. The music it was made for was the cruelest dissonance composed. Pain, hurt, death. People wept for it's listener, mourned his fate, prayed for his safeguard. the composer worked endlessly, strenuously, to complete his work. Failure could not be an option.
If performed correctly, the music was a release. The audience would be enthralled. Freed from the breathe that kept them alive.
He stared. It waited. The sonata demanded to be played.
He stared.
The night outside waned. Soon, the sun would rise.
The man stood up, and went to shower. It was a new day. And he had an appointment to keep tomorrow night.
(Original date 10/30/2009)
When We Met
Remember when we met?
The night sky spotted with dark clouds
Rain fell upon us
As we jumped in puddles
And laughed about our clothes.
Remember when we dated?
Unsure of what to do
Afraid to cross a line
Nervously reaching out hands
Scared the other won't link.
Remember when we kissed?
When we walked through
The dewy grass
Outside the fountain
Were we wished for luck
Remember when we loved?
Heart given freely
Trust fully relinquished
The gentle thumb of heatbeat
Sweet music to our ears
Remember when we sat?
Sat still in life together
Unsure where to go next
Realizing we may not be
Forever.
Remember when we fought?
Petty differences thrust out
Anger sparked where passion was
Pain the only goal in mind
Reconciliation unheard.
Remember when we just gave up?
Called it quits
Ended the pain
Move away from each other
Life's better alone.
Remember when we missed each other?
Silently hoping them the best
Or sometimes harm
Remembering the past
Forgetting the latter.
Remember when we met?
(Original date 10/29/2009)
The night sky spotted with dark clouds
Rain fell upon us
As we jumped in puddles
And laughed about our clothes.
Remember when we dated?
Unsure of what to do
Afraid to cross a line
Nervously reaching out hands
Scared the other won't link.
Remember when we kissed?
When we walked through
The dewy grass
Outside the fountain
Were we wished for luck
Remember when we loved?
Heart given freely
Trust fully relinquished
The gentle thumb of heatbeat
Sweet music to our ears
Remember when we sat?
Sat still in life together
Unsure where to go next
Realizing we may not be
Forever.
Remember when we fought?
Petty differences thrust out
Anger sparked where passion was
Pain the only goal in mind
Reconciliation unheard.
Remember when we just gave up?
Called it quits
Ended the pain
Move away from each other
Life's better alone.
Remember when we missed each other?
Silently hoping them the best
Or sometimes harm
Remembering the past
Forgetting the latter.
Remember when we met?
(Original date 10/29/2009)
My Muse
I have a muse,
Who flees my view.
I search and seek,
While she ducks and peeks.
She flirts, and flitters,
Grazing by my side,
But never lets me touch her,
As she giggles by.
I pry my eyes,
To catch a glance.
She disguises herself,
And laughs as my gaze passes.
She's just around the corner,
She's just around the bend,
But she outruns me still,
Leaving nothing but a trail.
I wish I could smell her sweet perfume,
And taste her delectable ambrosia,
Instead I sit alone,
And strain my thoughts,
Thinking of how it was,
Before I lost my muse.
(Original date 9/10/2009)
Who flees my view.
I search and seek,
While she ducks and peeks.
She flirts, and flitters,
Grazing by my side,
But never lets me touch her,
As she giggles by.
I pry my eyes,
To catch a glance.
She disguises herself,
And laughs as my gaze passes.
She's just around the corner,
She's just around the bend,
But she outruns me still,
Leaving nothing but a trail.
I wish I could smell her sweet perfume,
And taste her delectable ambrosia,
Instead I sit alone,
And strain my thoughts,
Thinking of how it was,
Before I lost my muse.
(Original date 9/10/2009)
Paladin - Ascent of the Greedy
A gruff, middle aged man sits in a chair in the middle of the room, breathing a heavy sigh in boredom. It'd been months since there was a good fight, and his arm was feeling rusting. His men set around the room in similar boredom, his three elite guards playing a game which was similar to modern day rummy. The others had long been asleep in the barracks, figuring the chance of an assault wasn't very likely. The leader was known amongst the empire as The Beggar King, and he was the head of the best mercenary troop money could buy. He pulled a thick bundle of tobacco to his lips, and thought of the past.
He wasn't always the Beggar King. In his youth, he was a noble prince, in a land long forgotten after assault from Atrox. The prince was lucky to be spared, as he and his men were on an expedition to the far south, trying to conquer lands in the name of their kingdom. They failed, and returned to shambles and ruins. Having no money and no possessions other than their royally assigned gear, they saw nothing to do but sell their sword arms. Swift and deadly, they quickly gained a reputation for dispatching enemies with harsh precision and utter lack of regard for their foes. Their infamy attracted the eye of Atrox, though, who hired them to serve as his elite soldiers. By this point, the young prince failed to care that he was working for the man who had killed his family, friends, and kingdom, he just craved battle and fame.
He breathed in the smoke one more, then heard a cracking of the doorknob. Was it the doorman, that weak gimp who failed to even defeat a single of his men? Slouching lowly in his throne, he grabs for his sword, the royal crest barely visible in the torchlight. The door opened.
---
As the hero climbs the stairs into the Ascent, he can't help but think of the stories he's heard of the Beggar King and his men. He knew rumours of how they were once the prized Templars of the Gods themselves, fallen low and bought by Atrox with his very soul. He'd also heard they were nothing but low-lifes, begging scraps from their master. Regardless, they excelled at combat far mor than most mortals had even heard of. Fearless in combat, and seeing nothing but money in combat, they killed without worry or morals. He gripped his sword hilt tight, knowing his death could be at the top of the stairs.
Instead, he saw a tired old man and three others looking confused as they looked up from their playing cards.
"Oh. A fight, then? I just thought... Nevermind, I'm just suprised to see someone else take the Emperor up on his stupid offer. I mean, hey, your life. In that case," he breathed a heavy breath, and stood up, fully straightening his back, "I am the Beggar King, and I'll be overseeing your death today!"
The three dropped their cards and drew their weapons, standing in combat poses. They placed themselves in front of their king in his defense.
"Jenrick, you go first."
The soldier to his right, a plump, short man in red stained armor nodded, and charged full force. The Paladin raised his shield, as the charging man lifted a heavy hammer. His goal, it would seem, was to make the would-be hero resemble a cracked egg. And the footsteps closed the gap, and the hammer was about to be swung into his head, Paladin dropped fully to the ground. The hammer swung harmlessly overhead, and the plump mercenary fell on top of it, his feet seperated from his legs with a stiff swing from Paladin as he landed on the floor. He squealled as he fell, landing his unhelmeted head directly on his heavy steel hammer. Then there was no more noise.
The Beggar King look stunned. It had been years since he lost a soldier, but the change of pace was welcome. "Come on then, stand up. We're men of honor here, we don't kill a man when he's face down on the floor."
After a little work, Paladin stood up. He knew he'd made a mistake. Had the Beggar King chosen to send his other dogs after him, he'd have surely died on the floor their. He was fortunate, then, that these were men with a reputation, which he knew that they would not want to tarnish by killing an entirely helpless man. He wiped the blade, and readied his sheild again.
"You ready then, kid? You want a job? A position just opened up." No response. "Alright then, I offered. Go for it, boys."
The other two stepped forward confidently their swords braced in both hands. They cautiously circled the room, getting into position on either side of the hero. It was obvious what their plan was, flank the poor bastard and run him through. Paladin stood perpendicular to them, watching each out of the corner of his eye. With a very slight nod, they both attacked. Paladin closed his eyes, and held his shield to the left, harmlessly deflecting the first blow. His right arm parried the other sword blow. Again, they swung in unison. This time, he merely dodged to the right, while pushing his sheild in to foe on his left, effectively giving him no room to swing. The nodded, ready to swing again.
Unarmored, the men had a distinct advantage of mobility. Paladin knew that if he tried to withdraw from this position, he would soon be pierced by the the blades. He also knew, though, that eventually, he would fail to deflect these blows. He reacted quickly to the next swing.
Using his right arm to deflect the oncoming sword blow, he used his left arm to bash his other foe in the face with his shield. A broad surface, with little force behind it, this didn't kill the soldier. In fact, all it served to do was stun him briefly, which was enough for the hero. He drops his sword, and grabbed the stunned soldier and throws him to his right, the entirety of his body falling onto the other soldier, both collapsing in a heap together. Their swords harmlessly fall to the ground, and figure out what happened too slowly to save themselves. By the time they untangled themselves, Paladin had already retrieved his sword, and swiftly, but painlessly, killed them both with one blow each.
When he turned towards the Beggar King, the bolt of wood entered his left shoulder, just above his pauldron. The King dropped his crossbow, and pulled up his sword. "Sorry, knight, but I have to look out for my own neck, too. You fight well, I wish you'd taken up my offer."
Paladin dropped his shield, the weight too heavy at the moment. He walked forward to meet the king, his sword raised as well.
The two men moved closer and closer, each measuring the other up. The King looking forward to this, the tower was stuffy and he thristed for the battle it refused to give him. When within five feet of one another, the King smiled and raised his sword. The paladin fell to his knees, holding the sword up like a gift. The king frowned, and lowered his own.
"What trickery?" He grips his sword ready for an attack.
"Let me pass. I have no intention of killing another human until I find your master. I would rather avoid this bloodshed, and give up a relic of my own. This sword has passed amongst my family for many generations. The blade is forged of dalmascus steel, and can cut through the very stone of these walls. The hilt is made of solid silver, forged by man's own hands. This gem, on the pommel? An emerald that, if removed, is the size of a human eye. It's yours, if you let me pass." He bowed his head, and let the King make his decision.
"Hmph," he looked at the sword. It was of sturdy construction. Needed a good cleaning, especially after killing three men. The stone, in particular, was muddied, but he could see the Paladin spoke true. This was a weapon of value. It had cut bone like a hot iron cuts paper, and this would make a lovely weapon for his collection.
"Let me take a better look." The king cautiously sheathes his own sword, and takes the blade from the kneeling warrior. "Hmm... You got a nice blade here, indeed. Now, though, I have it. And what can you do to stop me? You don't have time to get to another weapon, and if you turn your back, this blade will go straight through it. So you sit here and behave, while I give this a once over." He smiled. He wasn't sure if he was going to kill him or not yet, but wanted to inspect the beauty. The weight was good, he could see himself cleaving into foes with it. The silver was tarnished black, but that could be fixed. And the stone...
The kings eyes grew wide as he looked at the stone, which flaked off as he ran his finger on it, like a weak paint. This hilt was just iron wrapped in black leather! That Paladin had tricked him!
But before he could exact his vengeance, the dagger pierced his gut. His interest in the sword had clouded his vision, and he failed to see the knight pull his dagger from his boot sheathe, and slip it carelessly into the gap in his armor. The King coughed once, and felt his strength draining.
"You... You fool! You lied! You're a knight, are you not? You can not break the chivalrous code!" The blade dropped from his hand and onto the floor, the King himself falling back onto his throne, sitting down.
"I never said I who I was. And I only lied about the hilt. The blade is true."
The king coughed, and laughed a little. Paladin lowered himself, and picked up his fallen sword. He raised it, and looked to the King.
"Soon, you will bleed to death. I can make it swift for you."
The King nodded, closed his eyes, and lowered his head. His reign had ended.
---
The Paladin stayed in the room for around an hour, patching up his shoulder. He gripped his shield, and headed towards the stairwell. He took a deep breath and lifted his feet to accept his next challenge.
(Original date 7/23/2009. Paladin is a yet unfinished short story I may return to once I gather the creative gusto. As of July 2010, it will go unfinished.)
He wasn't always the Beggar King. In his youth, he was a noble prince, in a land long forgotten after assault from Atrox. The prince was lucky to be spared, as he and his men were on an expedition to the far south, trying to conquer lands in the name of their kingdom. They failed, and returned to shambles and ruins. Having no money and no possessions other than their royally assigned gear, they saw nothing to do but sell their sword arms. Swift and deadly, they quickly gained a reputation for dispatching enemies with harsh precision and utter lack of regard for their foes. Their infamy attracted the eye of Atrox, though, who hired them to serve as his elite soldiers. By this point, the young prince failed to care that he was working for the man who had killed his family, friends, and kingdom, he just craved battle and fame.
He breathed in the smoke one more, then heard a cracking of the doorknob. Was it the doorman, that weak gimp who failed to even defeat a single of his men? Slouching lowly in his throne, he grabs for his sword, the royal crest barely visible in the torchlight. The door opened.
---
As the hero climbs the stairs into the Ascent, he can't help but think of the stories he's heard of the Beggar King and his men. He knew rumours of how they were once the prized Templars of the Gods themselves, fallen low and bought by Atrox with his very soul. He'd also heard they were nothing but low-lifes, begging scraps from their master. Regardless, they excelled at combat far mor than most mortals had even heard of. Fearless in combat, and seeing nothing but money in combat, they killed without worry or morals. He gripped his sword hilt tight, knowing his death could be at the top of the stairs.
Instead, he saw a tired old man and three others looking confused as they looked up from their playing cards.
"Oh. A fight, then? I just thought... Nevermind, I'm just suprised to see someone else take the Emperor up on his stupid offer. I mean, hey, your life. In that case," he breathed a heavy breath, and stood up, fully straightening his back, "I am the Beggar King, and I'll be overseeing your death today!"
The three dropped their cards and drew their weapons, standing in combat poses. They placed themselves in front of their king in his defense.
"Jenrick, you go first."
The soldier to his right, a plump, short man in red stained armor nodded, and charged full force. The Paladin raised his shield, as the charging man lifted a heavy hammer. His goal, it would seem, was to make the would-be hero resemble a cracked egg. And the footsteps closed the gap, and the hammer was about to be swung into his head, Paladin dropped fully to the ground. The hammer swung harmlessly overhead, and the plump mercenary fell on top of it, his feet seperated from his legs with a stiff swing from Paladin as he landed on the floor. He squealled as he fell, landing his unhelmeted head directly on his heavy steel hammer. Then there was no more noise.
The Beggar King look stunned. It had been years since he lost a soldier, but the change of pace was welcome. "Come on then, stand up. We're men of honor here, we don't kill a man when he's face down on the floor."
After a little work, Paladin stood up. He knew he'd made a mistake. Had the Beggar King chosen to send his other dogs after him, he'd have surely died on the floor their. He was fortunate, then, that these were men with a reputation, which he knew that they would not want to tarnish by killing an entirely helpless man. He wiped the blade, and readied his sheild again.
"You ready then, kid? You want a job? A position just opened up." No response. "Alright then, I offered. Go for it, boys."
The other two stepped forward confidently their swords braced in both hands. They cautiously circled the room, getting into position on either side of the hero. It was obvious what their plan was, flank the poor bastard and run him through. Paladin stood perpendicular to them, watching each out of the corner of his eye. With a very slight nod, they both attacked. Paladin closed his eyes, and held his shield to the left, harmlessly deflecting the first blow. His right arm parried the other sword blow. Again, they swung in unison. This time, he merely dodged to the right, while pushing his sheild in to foe on his left, effectively giving him no room to swing. The nodded, ready to swing again.
Unarmored, the men had a distinct advantage of mobility. Paladin knew that if he tried to withdraw from this position, he would soon be pierced by the the blades. He also knew, though, that eventually, he would fail to deflect these blows. He reacted quickly to the next swing.
Using his right arm to deflect the oncoming sword blow, he used his left arm to bash his other foe in the face with his shield. A broad surface, with little force behind it, this didn't kill the soldier. In fact, all it served to do was stun him briefly, which was enough for the hero. He drops his sword, and grabbed the stunned soldier and throws him to his right, the entirety of his body falling onto the other soldier, both collapsing in a heap together. Their swords harmlessly fall to the ground, and figure out what happened too slowly to save themselves. By the time they untangled themselves, Paladin had already retrieved his sword, and swiftly, but painlessly, killed them both with one blow each.
When he turned towards the Beggar King, the bolt of wood entered his left shoulder, just above his pauldron. The King dropped his crossbow, and pulled up his sword. "Sorry, knight, but I have to look out for my own neck, too. You fight well, I wish you'd taken up my offer."
Paladin dropped his shield, the weight too heavy at the moment. He walked forward to meet the king, his sword raised as well.
The two men moved closer and closer, each measuring the other up. The King looking forward to this, the tower was stuffy and he thristed for the battle it refused to give him. When within five feet of one another, the King smiled and raised his sword. The paladin fell to his knees, holding the sword up like a gift. The king frowned, and lowered his own.
"What trickery?" He grips his sword ready for an attack.
"Let me pass. I have no intention of killing another human until I find your master. I would rather avoid this bloodshed, and give up a relic of my own. This sword has passed amongst my family for many generations. The blade is forged of dalmascus steel, and can cut through the very stone of these walls. The hilt is made of solid silver, forged by man's own hands. This gem, on the pommel? An emerald that, if removed, is the size of a human eye. It's yours, if you let me pass." He bowed his head, and let the King make his decision.
"Hmph," he looked at the sword. It was of sturdy construction. Needed a good cleaning, especially after killing three men. The stone, in particular, was muddied, but he could see the Paladin spoke true. This was a weapon of value. It had cut bone like a hot iron cuts paper, and this would make a lovely weapon for his collection.
"Let me take a better look." The king cautiously sheathes his own sword, and takes the blade from the kneeling warrior. "Hmm... You got a nice blade here, indeed. Now, though, I have it. And what can you do to stop me? You don't have time to get to another weapon, and if you turn your back, this blade will go straight through it. So you sit here and behave, while I give this a once over." He smiled. He wasn't sure if he was going to kill him or not yet, but wanted to inspect the beauty. The weight was good, he could see himself cleaving into foes with it. The silver was tarnished black, but that could be fixed. And the stone...
The kings eyes grew wide as he looked at the stone, which flaked off as he ran his finger on it, like a weak paint. This hilt was just iron wrapped in black leather! That Paladin had tricked him!
But before he could exact his vengeance, the dagger pierced his gut. His interest in the sword had clouded his vision, and he failed to see the knight pull his dagger from his boot sheathe, and slip it carelessly into the gap in his armor. The King coughed once, and felt his strength draining.
"You... You fool! You lied! You're a knight, are you not? You can not break the chivalrous code!" The blade dropped from his hand and onto the floor, the King himself falling back onto his throne, sitting down.
"I never said I who I was. And I only lied about the hilt. The blade is true."
The king coughed, and laughed a little. Paladin lowered himself, and picked up his fallen sword. He raised it, and looked to the King.
"Soon, you will bleed to death. I can make it swift for you."
The King nodded, closed his eyes, and lowered his head. His reign had ended.
---
The Paladin stayed in the room for around an hour, patching up his shoulder. He gripped his shield, and headed towards the stairwell. He took a deep breath and lifted his feet to accept his next challenge.
(Original date 7/23/2009. Paladin is a yet unfinished short story I may return to once I gather the creative gusto. As of July 2010, it will go unfinished.)
Paladin - Prologue
A heavy hand lays a firm thud on the banded wooden door. The noise echos through the stone towers, and can be heard nearly a mile in every direction. The gloomy tower eclipses the man who dared knocked on the door, an imposing building meant to scare away those who dared approach it. Seven tall floors make up Atrox Tower, the new memorial meant to be used as a capitol under Atrox's new government.
When no one answers, the man knocks again. Again, the sound reverberates against the heavy granite of the tower, and even the winds stop in fear of annoying the Emperor more. The sun waits on the horizon, ready to light up a new day. The early caller stands, his armor reflecting just the barest rays of light. Once more he knocks, not impatiently, and waits for an answer.
The heavy slider on the door is pushed to the side. A man stands on the other end, looking at the caller. He looks at his eyes, then his armor, to the tip of his sword. He lets out a mixture of a chuckle and a yawn, and his eyes return to the callers.
"Yeah? What ya be wantin'? I can tell by ya gear there that ya ain't gonna be askin' for no favors, and I can tell ya that I ain't at liberty to be givin' any..."
The caller stares back at him, tapping his sword hilt.
"Ah..." The man behind the door smiles and looks to his feet. "It's about that then... Well, alright, I'll let ya know now. Ya won't live. Ya won't stand a challenge. Ya'll just be a trainin' dummy for his latest. I don't like him, and ya obviously don't neither, but this ain't gonna be solving anyone's problem. Sure, he's done some... awful, terrible things, but noone's gonna be stoppin' him. Not til he's dead. This his trick he's pullin'? The 'Call ta Challenge' as he dubs it? It's a trick, a gimmick, he wants tha folks like ya to be comin' out and dyin' at his feet while he laughs and laughs and another good man be down. Ya want that? Ya want that for yaself? Ya want to look down and see ya wife and mother in tears, ya father buryin' ya on the family plot?"
The caller responds, "There is no one left to bury me. If I die, noone will weep. I've seen the crimes Emporer Atrox has committed against his fellow man. His legions sweep through towns killing mercilessly, he works his farmers to bare bone for less food than is necessary for survival, he tears the ground asunder just to pilfer it's gold. His employ kill, rob, rape, and torture all they come across, for their own sick pleasure, while he idly encourages them. Therefore, if my death comes, it can only be an improvement. Contrary, if I walk away now, I live in shame, watching this cruelty and know I gave up my chance to end this ring. I will slay this demon myself, and end this tyranny."
Moments pass, the two men reading the others intentions in their eyes. The man behind the doors sighs.
"Ya want this that badly, eh? Then I'll tell ya. All I know about is the Ascent of the Greedy, his first trial. Ya'll meet his best mercs. They don't care 'bout nothin', but money. And ya know how well he pays. Expect no compassion, no fear, no mercy, nothin'. Beat them, and ya can move on. I can't tell ya no more, cause I don't know."
He disappears from the door, while the caller waits. The noise of several locks and chains being taken apart is heard. The man is heard behind the door.
"I'll tell ya what, though. I don't mean ta sound like a disbeliever or nothin' like that, I've just seen too much death cause 'a this mess. But ya want it, so ya get it..... And personally?"
The door opens, and the sun lights up the man who was hidden behind the door. His left leg completely void of his body, and his right one flayed and mangled. His left arm is perfectly maintained, so he can manage the locks, but his right hand has be ripped off and replaced with a large passkey, which matches the main lock of the door. His back covered in heavy scars from years of torture, and his eyes stained with blood and tears.
"Personally, I wish ya luck, And give ya my prayers, paladin."
The caller enters the doors, bows his head, and heads towards the stairs.
(Original date 7/17/2009)
When no one answers, the man knocks again. Again, the sound reverberates against the heavy granite of the tower, and even the winds stop in fear of annoying the Emperor more. The sun waits on the horizon, ready to light up a new day. The early caller stands, his armor reflecting just the barest rays of light. Once more he knocks, not impatiently, and waits for an answer.
The heavy slider on the door is pushed to the side. A man stands on the other end, looking at the caller. He looks at his eyes, then his armor, to the tip of his sword. He lets out a mixture of a chuckle and a yawn, and his eyes return to the callers.
"Yeah? What ya be wantin'? I can tell by ya gear there that ya ain't gonna be askin' for no favors, and I can tell ya that I ain't at liberty to be givin' any..."
The caller stares back at him, tapping his sword hilt.
"Ah..." The man behind the door smiles and looks to his feet. "It's about that then... Well, alright, I'll let ya know now. Ya won't live. Ya won't stand a challenge. Ya'll just be a trainin' dummy for his latest. I don't like him, and ya obviously don't neither, but this ain't gonna be solving anyone's problem. Sure, he's done some... awful, terrible things, but noone's gonna be stoppin' him. Not til he's dead. This his trick he's pullin'? The 'Call ta Challenge' as he dubs it? It's a trick, a gimmick, he wants tha folks like ya to be comin' out and dyin' at his feet while he laughs and laughs and another good man be down. Ya want that? Ya want that for yaself? Ya want to look down and see ya wife and mother in tears, ya father buryin' ya on the family plot?"
The caller responds, "There is no one left to bury me. If I die, noone will weep. I've seen the crimes Emporer Atrox has committed against his fellow man. His legions sweep through towns killing mercilessly, he works his farmers to bare bone for less food than is necessary for survival, he tears the ground asunder just to pilfer it's gold. His employ kill, rob, rape, and torture all they come across, for their own sick pleasure, while he idly encourages them. Therefore, if my death comes, it can only be an improvement. Contrary, if I walk away now, I live in shame, watching this cruelty and know I gave up my chance to end this ring. I will slay this demon myself, and end this tyranny."
Moments pass, the two men reading the others intentions in their eyes. The man behind the doors sighs.
"Ya want this that badly, eh? Then I'll tell ya. All I know about is the Ascent of the Greedy, his first trial. Ya'll meet his best mercs. They don't care 'bout nothin', but money. And ya know how well he pays. Expect no compassion, no fear, no mercy, nothin'. Beat them, and ya can move on. I can't tell ya no more, cause I don't know."
He disappears from the door, while the caller waits. The noise of several locks and chains being taken apart is heard. The man is heard behind the door.
"I'll tell ya what, though. I don't mean ta sound like a disbeliever or nothin' like that, I've just seen too much death cause 'a this mess. But ya want it, so ya get it..... And personally?"
The door opens, and the sun lights up the man who was hidden behind the door. His left leg completely void of his body, and his right one flayed and mangled. His left arm is perfectly maintained, so he can manage the locks, but his right hand has be ripped off and replaced with a large passkey, which matches the main lock of the door. His back covered in heavy scars from years of torture, and his eyes stained with blood and tears.
"Personally, I wish ya luck, And give ya my prayers, paladin."
The caller enters the doors, bows his head, and heads towards the stairs.
(Original date 7/17/2009)
Fixer-Upper
On a finely trimmed lawn,
With a wrought-iron fence,
Sits a house.
The paint is fresh,
The trim is in place,
With only minor imperfections,
And aesthetic choices some prefer more than others.
Quaint,
Yet noticeable.
Simple,
Yet unique.
Built upon a solid foundation,
On the exterior.
The threshhold is a portal.
The other side,
Diametrically opposed to the exterior.
The wallpaper ripped,
Drywall punched through,
Soiled carpet,
Caved-in stairs,
Torn-up baseboards,
Weakened support beams.
Torn asunder,
From years of conflict.
A treat on the eyes,
When viewed from the street.
"For Sale" sign sits abandoned.
Sellers push the facade,
Buyers flee from truth.
(Original date 5/13/2009)
With a wrought-iron fence,
Sits a house.
The paint is fresh,
The trim is in place,
With only minor imperfections,
And aesthetic choices some prefer more than others.
Quaint,
Yet noticeable.
Simple,
Yet unique.
Built upon a solid foundation,
On the exterior.
The threshhold is a portal.
The other side,
Diametrically opposed to the exterior.
The wallpaper ripped,
Drywall punched through,
Soiled carpet,
Caved-in stairs,
Torn-up baseboards,
Weakened support beams.
Torn asunder,
From years of conflict.
A treat on the eyes,
When viewed from the street.
"For Sale" sign sits abandoned.
Sellers push the facade,
Buyers flee from truth.
(Original date 5/13/2009)
Dull Knives and Vinegar
I slice by heart with a butterknife
And wash the wound with vinegar.
My serpentine tongue spews hate to mask the hurts
While eyes drills for false flaws made fact.
I strike my claws in hope of a vein
To make crude bile flow forth from you.
Love inverts into macabre lust
Feelings of spite replace soft touch
As I scar myself with cheap cutlery.
Trust, love, honesty, faith
Concepts made alien by our tryst.
Memories of sweet nights buried
Under quilted blankets of white lies and black tar.
Illusion takes the forefront
To comfort the condemned.
I climb into the attic of my mind
With full intent to cleanse the soul
And calm the scent of vinegar.
(Original date 3/20/2009)
And wash the wound with vinegar.
My serpentine tongue spews hate to mask the hurts
While eyes drills for false flaws made fact.
I strike my claws in hope of a vein
To make crude bile flow forth from you.
Love inverts into macabre lust
Feelings of spite replace soft touch
As I scar myself with cheap cutlery.
Trust, love, honesty, faith
Concepts made alien by our tryst.
Memories of sweet nights buried
Under quilted blankets of white lies and black tar.
Illusion takes the forefront
To comfort the condemned.
I climb into the attic of my mind
With full intent to cleanse the soul
And calm the scent of vinegar.
(Original date 3/20/2009)
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