Lighthouse
Moon
- Joined
- Nov 18, 2022
Hello Fellow Traveler,
before I begin in earnest, there is a simple foreword that begs attention.
If what you seek is a quick fuck, a verbal roll in the hay, or a quicky little twist of hidden desire...
...I hope you find what you seek.
For I am afraid that this establishment is not the place to have such feasts plated and served.
Here there be Dragons roaring with the waves that strike the shore in the oceans heartbeat.
Here there be Thunder in clouds billowing, thick, and dark with intent of rain.
Here there be Glimpses of the Sun, only to have them hidden by ribbons of thin clouds painted in the pinks of setting light.
Fellow Traveler,
here there be Stories.
Dark? Certainly.
Mercurial? Undoubtable.
Yet, here there are faces carved from the simple wood of the twenty six letters within the English language.
Basics
Samples
Concept - Serial killer learns of supernatural creatures.
Tags - Blood, Monsters, Serial Killer, Monsters
I.
The summer day beat down upon the south of America with relentless pressure, and empty blue skies were beautiful, though offered no protection from the cooking sensation. That's why this was here was Georgia. The South with a big ol' capital S. Home of sweet tea, a Coca-cola factory, and would you believe son? They gone and dressed up a KFC like a Big Chicken. They sure did.
Let me repeat, the South with a big ol' capital S.
Though the things that people would imagine were often tied to the cities, and from what Bill had heard, Atlanta was a very popular place to be these days. Well, should suit them just fine if he remained here where he was in the mountains, away from the daily shenanigans and monkey shines of the big cities. Besides, when you boil it down, there are two types of people down here in Georgia, homegrown and people who simply live here. Now, with all that said, if Bill gave you a few guesses, could you guess which one he was?
Long white beard hung down upon the softening shape of his chest, and at his age the man was permitted to soften a touch. Rounding the edge of sixty, white hair combed back out of face, and a dirty old trucker cap with its oil stained brim and logo of The Seven Wheels shipping company emblazoned upon the brow, Bill sat. No, not just sat… he was perched. Right on the edge of that worn, paint half gone, rocking chair that groaned in protest with every shift of his weight. The porch itself was in similar disrepair, loose nails sticking up like potential landmines of disaster, and the house was more gray wood then… What was it… blue? Eggshell maybe? Well, let's just say the house had lost most of its charm.
All of this used to be a field, Bill's home and another down the way were the only two buildings within more than a stone's throw, and perhaps that memory is what was the source of the man's current frustration. Maybe it was that he was old and crotchety. Maybe even Bill simply decided to be the grumpy old man on the corner of the road. Neighbors often said that he should be put in a home, and they no doubt also whispered behind his back how much meaner he's been since Beth passed on. What did they know? Damnation to them all. He remembered a time when the idiots of this new village, that seemed to have sprung out dirt around him, simply did not exist.
The yard was a mixture of half tended to, and half sprouted with weeds that stretched bright yellow flowers higher than some had known they could go. Maybe it was the fact he was a widower, that there was no HOA, or Bill's simply irritable reputation, but this wasn't even the sort of man others waved to.
So, much to his own delight, Bill was left to his perch to rock slowly back and forth with a glass of sweating sweet tea, and the persistent groaning of old wood. Dimming eyes watched the world like a sentinel, weary crows feet nearby squinting against the harsh glow of the uncaring sun.
Robins mostly, though some blue wings of Jay's were mixed in, sang upon the edge of telephone wires and trees. Chipmunks darted in their cute little war of who was fastest. Squirrels rushed across the roadway, which was empty and safe for now, to bury their caches across the way. Even the soft breeze, a careful hushed puff of air, was too afraid to break the tranquility.
All was peaceful and the tea was perfect.
What more could anyone ask?
Hours dribbled by on the sway of summer time green, and pollen had long ago begun to coat the world in a powdered yellow, but there were memories to which were accessible haunting. Despite the empty rocking chair beside his own, the woman to whom he loved for most of his life filled it still. Beth, with her blue eyes surrounded by a field of nothing but dandelions. Beth's red hair streaming in the wind, as like two hellions they tore through an empty field in that big ol' beat up pickup truck. Beth…
ClickClack.ClickClack. ClickClack. BARK.
… and her smile as she whipped the batter of soon to be pancakes. A poke to Bill's side, a comment about his weight, and motioning towards the syrup on the counter.
ClickClack.ClickClack.
Bewildered old eyes turned away from their inward introspection of the past, and to the present matters of the day once again. A subtle, though even this sounded grumpy, clear of his throat turned attention once more to the song of birds and heavy drenching of sunlight. Old field worn hands, turned a tighter noose upon that water ringed cup of sweet tea, and lifted it to the man's suddenly desperately parched lips. Bill's gaze though… Bill's gaze was sentinel, and it found the boy on the road almost immediately.
To call the one moving down the road a boy, was a misnomer. Yet, it is the word Bill would have used. Anyone not even near the age of thirty was a child, and though that limit had not been reached by any measure, the one moving down the road with that T-shirt that proclaimed a band that the old man had never heard of, was labeled as a youth… a youth on a skateboard being pulled by a dog.
The click clacking were the cheap hard plastic wheels striking against the cracks in the underused, under repaired, and sun baked asphalt. That single punctuation of a bark? Well that was the dog of course, long coat of golden hair claiming heritage from a Lab mixture. Tongue lulled out (Canine tongue that is. Bill wasn't that old yet.), big ol' doofus grin on face, ears flopping this way and that as it marched on with the boy in tow.
Without even understanding what his body was doing, Bill was pulling himself towards the edge of that rocking chair. Still firm hands planted themselves upon the arm rests, and eyes squinted to make out the form against the glaring light that flooded the world from beyond the roof of his porch. Long lines upon his brow straightened, wrinkles at the edges of his cheeks flushed, and flaws smoothing forward in anger building.
It was that Jensen boy for sure.
The one that let that flea bitten beast take a toilet wherever it wanted.
It was just as Bill had gotten up, this time the creaking was not all just the wood moaning in protest, but the man's legs having decided to join in as well. The focus of those old dim eyes was replaced by an older model sedan pulling into the gravel drive in front of Bill's house. It pulled in, and from the lack of sound of the engine it almost coasted into the gravel driveway in front of Bill's house, and the soft click of the parking brake signaled its intent to stay.
Bill had heard about quiet cars. Electric, batteries or something. Had to be a city folk, they loved their new toys.
Maybe it was even Jensen Senior, who came to have another row of shouting at him on his own property for putting the fear of God Almighty into his boy the last time he let the mutt shit on his yard..
All of the eventualities that wheeled through the old man's mind were fruitless, for it was something totally unexpected. The man that stepped out of the sedan had black shoes and was dressed in a cheap black suit. Bill sure as shit knew a Lawyer when he saw one, and this one walked, talked, and smelled like one. Truth of the matter was that just by glancing at him the old timer decided not to have any need for the intruder. Just like Doctors, they flap their gums a lot and then charge you an arm and leg for listening to their nonsense. Beth believed in Doctors and look how that ended up. The big C. Incurable despite all their pills and promises.
No, Bill had no need for Doctors OR Lawyers.
"Mister William Garnil?"
The voice was as sweet as sin, and the confident smile the man wore only reinforced the idea within Bill's mind that this was a worthless visit. The old man waved the younger one aside, lifted his hand to point and shout at the 'kid' who was now well his way down the road, the dog eagerly pulling him along with that click click clack of Walmart made wheels from his skateboard.
"My name is Thomas. I work for Dunlap and Fogle. A law firm sir."
Sneering, turning like a fierce bull towards the interloper who had appeared out of the car like the clown he was, those dark muddled green eyes of Bill's were in full fury. Yet, like a matador, the Lawyer put his hand up to stop the angry bull from charging into the attitude.
"I'm not here to buy or sell anything Sir. Like I said my name is Thomas, and we were placed in charge by the Merryweathers to handle Ms Janice Merryweather's final wishes."
The name Janice rang no bells, but the name Merryweather certainly did. That was Beth's last name before he swept her away from the family. Though it made no difference, his wife of thirty years had moved on. So, with a grunt, another dismissive wave of his hand at last Bill spoke. The voice was tired, filled with aged gravel, and not caring about anything else.
"Beth's in the ground a year now. So, good job on doing your homework."
Already Bill was moving off away towards the door to his house, done with this gibbering monkey.
"I know that sir. I also know you were married for thirty or so years, which according to Miss Merryweather's will, claims you as the beneficiary to the inheritance."
Okay, so maybe Bill wasn't done with the idiot yet.
The man turned on the ball of his foot, gave the stranger a hard long once over. Certainly looked at the part, briefcase and all.
"Inheritance?" The old man inquired cautiously.
Thomas nodded. " All I need is a moment of your time sir and some signatures. We can do it right here if you want."
Ah, old country folk. When it comes to money they loved to keep it private.
All you had to do was suggest a payday, and that alone would buy you entry into their home.
Bill shook his head and motioned towards the house.
"Inside, but I ain't fit to hear no bullshit son."
Thomas, though that was not his real name, smiled and nodded his ascent.
II.
Beauty.
That is a word that has been debated by poets since the dawn of written language. A city on fire, dancing in flickering flames, might be beautiful to some. While others find beautiful notions in the more contemporary style of the world. Art. Ballet. Music. Yet, isn't it all the same word? Can't beauty be found in every creature? Every soul? Every person?
Take Bill for instance.
A grumpy old bastard just living out the rest of his days in the echoes of a life that he shared with someone he loved. Pining away, turning against even polite society, for he had lost that one thing that made him whole… his wife.
The finality of it. The hurt of it. The man shedding tears only within the confines of his own home so no one would whisper about it behind his back. The world saw him as a grumpy old bastard, but now the world would remember just how beautiful his love was. There of course was only one solution, one answer, and Thomas knew just what to do.
Some people were just beautiful to him.
Not because of their shape.
Not because of their features.
But because of what they represented.
Of how the oils were layered in their lives to paint these masterpieces.
Thomas wanted to make them his masterpieces.
His works of art.
His beautiful collection.
Wanted to possess the rarest, most beautiful gems, and polish them.
Horde them.
Keep them… his.
Maybe it was the inability to love anything at all that caused Thomas to choose this. Maybe he himself was simply a cranky old man shaking a stick at the world, but Bill here at least got something right in his life. A love that carried him through, and now… now that old bastard could go be with her.
Once upon a time in a distant memory, this was a field that had pitched up a screen on the west edge. Quickly it had grown into the local drive-in movie theater, but that was generations ago when Bill had been a young man (believe it or not). How many movies had he and his beloved watched together, nestled into one another's embrace while the silver screen in the distance performed all the great hits of the golden black and white age of entertainment?
The idealistic times of such an age were gone, and with the city ever expanding the field had been turned into a parking lot. The parking lot now however, was being turned into a brand named chain of Super Walmarts, and was eagerly waiting to open their doors to serve this underserved community out here in what boondocks still remain in the great state of Georgia.
Surrounded by thin cheap metal walls, the space was huge and cavernous, no shelving, products or even flooring. Every motion, step, or breath seemed to cast a hollow echo through this empty shell of a building. One would expect to find such ghosts in half built structures like this, and truth be told Thomas rather enjoyed the reminder of the lonely nature of such buildings. It did not disturb, deter, or falter his work.
No, Thomas kept to the task.
Before it had been mentioned that Bill had been aging, and feeling it lately... seeing him like this though? Well, the evidence was simply there. Lying unconscious, unable to move, upon a work table, the old man was bare to sight and touch. Bill's skin hung around his arms in loose bags where muscles once were. White long hairs of beard had been shaved away, to reveal a fresh face beneath, and further with the tangles of untended facial hair removed. Weak, frail, bare chested, the body upon the table looked abandoned as a cancer patient.
Though, there was artwork here.
Thomas had cracked open skin, muscle, and bone threaded with metal lines to hold that jagged wound open. Nails, fishing hooks, bits of metal, Bill's wedding ring, and a tiny framed picture of Beth that was in the deadman's wallet were used as props. It was those memories of his wife that kept the wound fresh, and broke his heart. So, it was fitting that the picture and ring were used to hold that wound in the chest open, open enough to see inside. Bill's heart still beats, on clear display, even though Bill's wife.. well hers no longer did.
The old man would give out soon enough as well.
"You will go see her soon enough Bill…" That voice was sweet, soft, tender. It swayed from the pluck of a harp, and wept at the death of a lover. This was Thomas, the real Thomas, and those careful ways his voice lilted to avoid trouble in speech patterns was unmistakable.
Index finger dragged down along the slumbering old man's cheek.
Soon the sedative would wear off, and Bill would find himself blind, unable to speak, and unable to tear his hands away from his chest.
Eyes sewn shut.
Lips sewn shut.
Hands sewn to his own chest, as if trying to hide that exposed heart that beat.
Without her there were no words, no sight of beauty, and all he could do was protect that open heart.
Yes, this was Bill's story.
It just needed one more thing.
So, off to that stolen sedan the killer went.
Looking back on it, James was often surprised that it had not happened before. It was the smell of blood of course, or maybe it was the smell of something nearly dead and bloody. Either way, that was a bit of his own stock and trade, and so the overlap seemed in retrospect natural… even if they tread upon unnatural pathways.
It was the sound when he came back that caused James to stop at first. The noise was perhaps best described as a mixture of slurping and mewling, like some sort of animal eating for the first time in weeks.
A crazed junky?
A homeless person?
What the fuck was making those sounds?
Sounded almost human, but not quite.
There was a hunched shape over Thomas's worktable, and the serial killer felt his heart skip a pace for the first time in many years.
There was a piece nearby of cut rebar that had yet been sent to a burial in concrete, and quietly James collected it. Felines would have been proud with the silence to which the man approached, and serpents would give James praise for the use of that rebar. The man stabbed as if it was a fang, aim true as ever, plunged the ribbed pointed metal through the soft meat of another person's body.
Thomas felt his aim cut true. Felt the rubbery pop of the flesh give away to the spaces between ribs for it to puncture the left lung, and with an extra shove a sickening pop of noise pierced through where the heart should be on the unexpected visitor.
"Do NOT fuck with me."
Thomas announced into the quiet.
Before in that cheap suit, Thomas seemed to have thin arms, but I assure you that was not entirely true. Powerful arms shoved the now limp mass of the intruder to the side, and in horror beheld the shredded heart in Bill's grasp.
Instinct, we all have them, and in that moment Thomas's instinct was to have his lips peel away from his teeth as if a savage animal, and turned towards the dea….
The body was dragging itself towards the window, bright red smear already marking the pathway behind it. Gibberish clearly spoken, not the contents of what it was, but that it was speaking at all without a heart? Without one of its lungs? How was this person even ...
Dumbfounded. Yes, good word for Thomas at the moment.
Owls, felines, dogs, or anything predatory when confused had the habit of tilting their head to the side slightly, as if this perspective change would adjust the very world to make it make sense. Yet, this trick didn't seem to work… the question remains… What the hell?
There was almost a military stride to the man with brown eyes at times like this. When there was something to accomplish, that he wanted, needed, or demanded, there was only force in that near march to the way he moved. Uncaring grip at last took hold of that long length of rebar in the struggling man's body, a jerk to the side to widen the wound, and a jerk back to easily pluck it like a loose quill.
This time James roared… and it didn't sound like him at all.
It was guttural.
Unhinged.
Not in control.
There is a saying 'at the back of the throat', but this didn't even cover the way that reverberation came out of him. It came from a pit, not at the back of simply his lungs. It came from an empty place that had only one single occupant… The Other Person inside of Thomas…
The rebar was brought down in club style,
again… and again… and again… and again… and again…
and again…
and again…
and again…
and again…
Blood had been splashed everywhere. Uncontained, chaotic vengeance had been wrought upon the newcomer which had bitten a dying man's heart. His own body was smeared, splattered, sprayed as well, but for now Thomas only heeded the need to breath heavy and deep as snarl still hung on his lips. Those brown eyes, they flashed a different color in the light. Something just for a fraction of a second that could be mistaken for madness. It was the color of scales, broad wings, and of a mythical greed unmatched… for just a moment a dragon was looking out from behind his eyes.
For just a flicker, brown eyes had been green.
The body twitched below the killer, and the remaining eye left in the corpse… opened…
They were resilient monsters particularly after a good meal, and while the future Thomas knew that lesson… this Thomas… the one who was just learning real monsters existed, was starting only to understand..
Squatting down upon his own haunches, Thomas used his left hand to tangle into the mat of bloodied hair, jerking that face… or what was left of it towards his own.
It had been a woman once, though the rebar had taken any notion of pretty from her visage. Pale, withdrawn skin clung tight to cheekbones, and teeth… with sharp as razor canines.
"What are you?" Thomas asked all but in a whisper to that one eyed thing that looked back at him.
The summer day beat down upon the south of America with relentless pressure, and empty blue skies were beautiful, though offered no protection from the cooking sensation. That's why this was here was Georgia. The South with a big ol' capital S. Home of sweet tea, a Coca-cola factory, and would you believe son? They gone and dressed up a KFC like a Big Chicken. They sure did.
Let me repeat, the South with a big ol' capital S.
Though the things that people would imagine were often tied to the cities, and from what Bill had heard, Atlanta was a very popular place to be these days. Well, should suit them just fine if he remained here where he was in the mountains, away from the daily shenanigans and monkey shines of the big cities. Besides, when you boil it down, there are two types of people down here in Georgia, homegrown and people who simply live here. Now, with all that said, if Bill gave you a few guesses, could you guess which one he was?
Long white beard hung down upon the softening shape of his chest, and at his age the man was permitted to soften a touch. Rounding the edge of sixty, white hair combed back out of face, and a dirty old trucker cap with its oil stained brim and logo of The Seven Wheels shipping company emblazoned upon the brow, Bill sat. No, not just sat… he was perched. Right on the edge of that worn, paint half gone, rocking chair that groaned in protest with every shift of his weight. The porch itself was in similar disrepair, loose nails sticking up like potential landmines of disaster, and the house was more gray wood then… What was it… blue? Eggshell maybe? Well, let's just say the house had lost most of its charm.
All of this used to be a field, Bill's home and another down the way were the only two buildings within more than a stone's throw, and perhaps that memory is what was the source of the man's current frustration. Maybe it was that he was old and crotchety. Maybe even Bill simply decided to be the grumpy old man on the corner of the road. Neighbors often said that he should be put in a home, and they no doubt also whispered behind his back how much meaner he's been since Beth passed on. What did they know? Damnation to them all. He remembered a time when the idiots of this new village, that seemed to have sprung out dirt around him, simply did not exist.
The yard was a mixture of half tended to, and half sprouted with weeds that stretched bright yellow flowers higher than some had known they could go. Maybe it was the fact he was a widower, that there was no HOA, or Bill's simply irritable reputation, but this wasn't even the sort of man others waved to.
So, much to his own delight, Bill was left to his perch to rock slowly back and forth with a glass of sweating sweet tea, and the persistent groaning of old wood. Dimming eyes watched the world like a sentinel, weary crows feet nearby squinting against the harsh glow of the uncaring sun.
Robins mostly, though some blue wings of Jay's were mixed in, sang upon the edge of telephone wires and trees. Chipmunks darted in their cute little war of who was fastest. Squirrels rushed across the roadway, which was empty and safe for now, to bury their caches across the way. Even the soft breeze, a careful hushed puff of air, was too afraid to break the tranquility.
All was peaceful and the tea was perfect.
What more could anyone ask?
Hours dribbled by on the sway of summer time green, and pollen had long ago begun to coat the world in a powdered yellow, but there were memories to which were accessible haunting. Despite the empty rocking chair beside his own, the woman to whom he loved for most of his life filled it still. Beth, with her blue eyes surrounded by a field of nothing but dandelions. Beth's red hair streaming in the wind, as like two hellions they tore through an empty field in that big ol' beat up pickup truck. Beth…
ClickClack.ClickClack. ClickClack. BARK.
… and her smile as she whipped the batter of soon to be pancakes. A poke to Bill's side, a comment about his weight, and motioning towards the syrup on the counter.
ClickClack.ClickClack.
Bewildered old eyes turned away from their inward introspection of the past, and to the present matters of the day once again. A subtle, though even this sounded grumpy, clear of his throat turned attention once more to the song of birds and heavy drenching of sunlight. Old field worn hands, turned a tighter noose upon that water ringed cup of sweet tea, and lifted it to the man's suddenly desperately parched lips. Bill's gaze though… Bill's gaze was sentinel, and it found the boy on the road almost immediately.
To call the one moving down the road a boy, was a misnomer. Yet, it is the word Bill would have used. Anyone not even near the age of thirty was a child, and though that limit had not been reached by any measure, the one moving down the road with that T-shirt that proclaimed a band that the old man had never heard of, was labeled as a youth… a youth on a skateboard being pulled by a dog.
The click clacking were the cheap hard plastic wheels striking against the cracks in the underused, under repaired, and sun baked asphalt. That single punctuation of a bark? Well that was the dog of course, long coat of golden hair claiming heritage from a Lab mixture. Tongue lulled out (Canine tongue that is. Bill wasn't that old yet.), big ol' doofus grin on face, ears flopping this way and that as it marched on with the boy in tow.
Without even understanding what his body was doing, Bill was pulling himself towards the edge of that rocking chair. Still firm hands planted themselves upon the arm rests, and eyes squinted to make out the form against the glaring light that flooded the world from beyond the roof of his porch. Long lines upon his brow straightened, wrinkles at the edges of his cheeks flushed, and flaws smoothing forward in anger building.
It was that Jensen boy for sure.
The one that let that flea bitten beast take a toilet wherever it wanted.
It was just as Bill had gotten up, this time the creaking was not all just the wood moaning in protest, but the man's legs having decided to join in as well. The focus of those old dim eyes was replaced by an older model sedan pulling into the gravel drive in front of Bill's house. It pulled in, and from the lack of sound of the engine it almost coasted into the gravel driveway in front of Bill's house, and the soft click of the parking brake signaled its intent to stay.
Bill had heard about quiet cars. Electric, batteries or something. Had to be a city folk, they loved their new toys.
Maybe it was even Jensen Senior, who came to have another row of shouting at him on his own property for putting the fear of God Almighty into his boy the last time he let the mutt shit on his yard..
All of the eventualities that wheeled through the old man's mind were fruitless, for it was something totally unexpected. The man that stepped out of the sedan had black shoes and was dressed in a cheap black suit. Bill sure as shit knew a Lawyer when he saw one, and this one walked, talked, and smelled like one. Truth of the matter was that just by glancing at him the old timer decided not to have any need for the intruder. Just like Doctors, they flap their gums a lot and then charge you an arm and leg for listening to their nonsense. Beth believed in Doctors and look how that ended up. The big C. Incurable despite all their pills and promises.
No, Bill had no need for Doctors OR Lawyers.
"Mister William Garnil?"
The voice was as sweet as sin, and the confident smile the man wore only reinforced the idea within Bill's mind that this was a worthless visit. The old man waved the younger one aside, lifted his hand to point and shout at the 'kid' who was now well his way down the road, the dog eagerly pulling him along with that click click clack of Walmart made wheels from his skateboard.
"My name is Thomas. I work for Dunlap and Fogle. A law firm sir."
Sneering, turning like a fierce bull towards the interloper who had appeared out of the car like the clown he was, those dark muddled green eyes of Bill's were in full fury. Yet, like a matador, the Lawyer put his hand up to stop the angry bull from charging into the attitude.
"I'm not here to buy or sell anything Sir. Like I said my name is Thomas, and we were placed in charge by the Merryweathers to handle Ms Janice Merryweather's final wishes."
The name Janice rang no bells, but the name Merryweather certainly did. That was Beth's last name before he swept her away from the family. Though it made no difference, his wife of thirty years had moved on. So, with a grunt, another dismissive wave of his hand at last Bill spoke. The voice was tired, filled with aged gravel, and not caring about anything else.
"Beth's in the ground a year now. So, good job on doing your homework."
Already Bill was moving off away towards the door to his house, done with this gibbering monkey.
"I know that sir. I also know you were married for thirty or so years, which according to Miss Merryweather's will, claims you as the beneficiary to the inheritance."
Okay, so maybe Bill wasn't done with the idiot yet.
The man turned on the ball of his foot, gave the stranger a hard long once over. Certainly looked at the part, briefcase and all.
"Inheritance?" The old man inquired cautiously.
Thomas nodded. " All I need is a moment of your time sir and some signatures. We can do it right here if you want."
Ah, old country folk. When it comes to money they loved to keep it private.
All you had to do was suggest a payday, and that alone would buy you entry into their home.
Bill shook his head and motioned towards the house.
"Inside, but I ain't fit to hear no bullshit son."
Thomas, though that was not his real name, smiled and nodded his ascent.
II.
Beauty.
That is a word that has been debated by poets since the dawn of written language. A city on fire, dancing in flickering flames, might be beautiful to some. While others find beautiful notions in the more contemporary style of the world. Art. Ballet. Music. Yet, isn't it all the same word? Can't beauty be found in every creature? Every soul? Every person?
Take Bill for instance.
A grumpy old bastard just living out the rest of his days in the echoes of a life that he shared with someone he loved. Pining away, turning against even polite society, for he had lost that one thing that made him whole… his wife.
The finality of it. The hurt of it. The man shedding tears only within the confines of his own home so no one would whisper about it behind his back. The world saw him as a grumpy old bastard, but now the world would remember just how beautiful his love was. There of course was only one solution, one answer, and Thomas knew just what to do.
Some people were just beautiful to him.
Not because of their shape.
Not because of their features.
But because of what they represented.
Of how the oils were layered in their lives to paint these masterpieces.
Thomas wanted to make them his masterpieces.
His works of art.
His beautiful collection.
Wanted to possess the rarest, most beautiful gems, and polish them.
Horde them.
Keep them… his.
Maybe it was the inability to love anything at all that caused Thomas to choose this. Maybe he himself was simply a cranky old man shaking a stick at the world, but Bill here at least got something right in his life. A love that carried him through, and now… now that old bastard could go be with her.
Once upon a time in a distant memory, this was a field that had pitched up a screen on the west edge. Quickly it had grown into the local drive-in movie theater, but that was generations ago when Bill had been a young man (believe it or not). How many movies had he and his beloved watched together, nestled into one another's embrace while the silver screen in the distance performed all the great hits of the golden black and white age of entertainment?
The idealistic times of such an age were gone, and with the city ever expanding the field had been turned into a parking lot. The parking lot now however, was being turned into a brand named chain of Super Walmarts, and was eagerly waiting to open their doors to serve this underserved community out here in what boondocks still remain in the great state of Georgia.
Surrounded by thin cheap metal walls, the space was huge and cavernous, no shelving, products or even flooring. Every motion, step, or breath seemed to cast a hollow echo through this empty shell of a building. One would expect to find such ghosts in half built structures like this, and truth be told Thomas rather enjoyed the reminder of the lonely nature of such buildings. It did not disturb, deter, or falter his work.
No, Thomas kept to the task.
Before it had been mentioned that Bill had been aging, and feeling it lately... seeing him like this though? Well, the evidence was simply there. Lying unconscious, unable to move, upon a work table, the old man was bare to sight and touch. Bill's skin hung around his arms in loose bags where muscles once were. White long hairs of beard had been shaved away, to reveal a fresh face beneath, and further with the tangles of untended facial hair removed. Weak, frail, bare chested, the body upon the table looked abandoned as a cancer patient.
Though, there was artwork here.
Thomas had cracked open skin, muscle, and bone threaded with metal lines to hold that jagged wound open. Nails, fishing hooks, bits of metal, Bill's wedding ring, and a tiny framed picture of Beth that was in the deadman's wallet were used as props. It was those memories of his wife that kept the wound fresh, and broke his heart. So, it was fitting that the picture and ring were used to hold that wound in the chest open, open enough to see inside. Bill's heart still beats, on clear display, even though Bill's wife.. well hers no longer did.
The old man would give out soon enough as well.
"You will go see her soon enough Bill…" That voice was sweet, soft, tender. It swayed from the pluck of a harp, and wept at the death of a lover. This was Thomas, the real Thomas, and those careful ways his voice lilted to avoid trouble in speech patterns was unmistakable.
Index finger dragged down along the slumbering old man's cheek.
Soon the sedative would wear off, and Bill would find himself blind, unable to speak, and unable to tear his hands away from his chest.
Eyes sewn shut.
Lips sewn shut.
Hands sewn to his own chest, as if trying to hide that exposed heart that beat.
Without her there were no words, no sight of beauty, and all he could do was protect that open heart.
Yes, this was Bill's story.
It just needed one more thing.
So, off to that stolen sedan the killer went.
Looking back on it, James was often surprised that it had not happened before. It was the smell of blood of course, or maybe it was the smell of something nearly dead and bloody. Either way, that was a bit of his own stock and trade, and so the overlap seemed in retrospect natural… even if they tread upon unnatural pathways.
It was the sound when he came back that caused James to stop at first. The noise was perhaps best described as a mixture of slurping and mewling, like some sort of animal eating for the first time in weeks.
A crazed junky?
A homeless person?
What the fuck was making those sounds?
Sounded almost human, but not quite.
There was a hunched shape over Thomas's worktable, and the serial killer felt his heart skip a pace for the first time in many years.
There was a piece nearby of cut rebar that had yet been sent to a burial in concrete, and quietly James collected it. Felines would have been proud with the silence to which the man approached, and serpents would give James praise for the use of that rebar. The man stabbed as if it was a fang, aim true as ever, plunged the ribbed pointed metal through the soft meat of another person's body.
Thomas felt his aim cut true. Felt the rubbery pop of the flesh give away to the spaces between ribs for it to puncture the left lung, and with an extra shove a sickening pop of noise pierced through where the heart should be on the unexpected visitor.
"Do NOT fuck with me."
Thomas announced into the quiet.
Before in that cheap suit, Thomas seemed to have thin arms, but I assure you that was not entirely true. Powerful arms shoved the now limp mass of the intruder to the side, and in horror beheld the shredded heart in Bill's grasp.
Instinct, we all have them, and in that moment Thomas's instinct was to have his lips peel away from his teeth as if a savage animal, and turned towards the dea….
The body was dragging itself towards the window, bright red smear already marking the pathway behind it. Gibberish clearly spoken, not the contents of what it was, but that it was speaking at all without a heart? Without one of its lungs? How was this person even ...
Dumbfounded. Yes, good word for Thomas at the moment.
Owls, felines, dogs, or anything predatory when confused had the habit of tilting their head to the side slightly, as if this perspective change would adjust the very world to make it make sense. Yet, this trick didn't seem to work… the question remains… What the hell?
There was almost a military stride to the man with brown eyes at times like this. When there was something to accomplish, that he wanted, needed, or demanded, there was only force in that near march to the way he moved. Uncaring grip at last took hold of that long length of rebar in the struggling man's body, a jerk to the side to widen the wound, and a jerk back to easily pluck it like a loose quill.
This time James roared… and it didn't sound like him at all.
It was guttural.
Unhinged.
Not in control.
There is a saying 'at the back of the throat', but this didn't even cover the way that reverberation came out of him. It came from a pit, not at the back of simply his lungs. It came from an empty place that had only one single occupant… The Other Person inside of Thomas…
The rebar was brought down in club style,
again… and again… and again… and again… and again…
and again…
and again…
and again…
and again…
Blood had been splashed everywhere. Uncontained, chaotic vengeance had been wrought upon the newcomer which had bitten a dying man's heart. His own body was smeared, splattered, sprayed as well, but for now Thomas only heeded the need to breath heavy and deep as snarl still hung on his lips. Those brown eyes, they flashed a different color in the light. Something just for a fraction of a second that could be mistaken for madness. It was the color of scales, broad wings, and of a mythical greed unmatched… for just a moment a dragon was looking out from behind his eyes.
For just a flicker, brown eyes had been green.
The body twitched below the killer, and the remaining eye left in the corpse… opened…
They were resilient monsters particularly after a good meal, and while the future Thomas knew that lesson… this Thomas… the one who was just learning real monsters existed, was starting only to understand..
Squatting down upon his own haunches, Thomas used his left hand to tangle into the mat of bloodied hair, jerking that face… or what was left of it towards his own.
It had been a woman once, though the rebar had taken any notion of pretty from her visage. Pale, withdrawn skin clung tight to cheekbones, and teeth… with sharp as razor canines.
"What are you?" Thomas asked all but in a whisper to that one eyed thing that looked back at him.
Concept - The word 'destiny' is merely a matter of numbers, figures, and equations. Things happen for a reason... him.
Tags - Murder, Final Destination like events, Mystery.
In graph theory, a tree is an undirected graph in which any two vertices are connected by exactly one path, or equivalently a connected acyclic undirected graph.
In graph theory, a forest is a set of these trees.
The squaring math of it doesn't really matter in the long run, but rather the concept of it is what one must grasp. At all times, at all moments, breaths, and seconds… we have lost ourselves in a forest. Even if we are in our own rooms, behind our own screens, the forest not only surrounds us, but grows unseen by every point. It is a unifying totalitarian force unseen, unchallenged, and immeasurable.
The phrase really shouldn't be 'Can't see the forest through the trees', but rather 'Can't see ourselves in the forest through the trees'.
It may not have been an Eureka moment that changed the world, but it was a moment that changed the world as he saw the world.
--- Pos 340.A - 437.B- 56.C 7:04A.M.
Jane Austen, no not that one, was running late for work. Flats slapped against the ground in hurried steps, but the crowd around her left little room to weave or pass. Mind swirled with the 'fuck fuck fuck' of every ticking second that goes by, and frustration at the inability to get by drove what slow steps she did take harder against the pavement.
If only she hadn't hit the snooze alarm. If only Jerry would have not been in the bathroom. Come on people...move.
Stuck behind an elderly man who looked like she was about to faint from the sheer volume of people pushing by him, Jane glanced down at her iwatch to check the time, and the digital read caused a low growl at the back of her throat. Stare had now turned to daggers that plunged into the back of the older gentleman's head, and suddenly there was the regurg of despise at the back of her throat.
Just get out of the way already!
The thought was nasty, uncalled for, but true to Jane at the moment.
No more politeness for her. The woman in her red power suit, particularly chosen to show off her red hair, shoved her shoulder forward at an angle to jostle the man out of her way. A passerby moving along the other way was another victim of this aggression, being jostled by the sudden impact of the unconcerned woman who seemed draped in the color red. This sort of thing was common, and it could almost be called a tradition in cities like this to simply shove passed people without a second thought. Jane gave it nothing once she managed by at last, nor did she pay any heed to the older man who teetered dangerously to the side from the impact before being swallowed by the crowd.
I'm Late. I'm Late. I'm Late.
The words an unstoppable montra in Jane's head, feet an unstoppable rhythm now below her, and so possessed by her own voice on repeat in her skull that she didn't notice the tip of her flats knocking against a clear marble that pinballed across the cement.
--- Pos 337.A - 435.B- 58.C 7:05A.M.
Nero. Yes, that was really his name. The man with green eyes was never quite sure of why he was named that. Even after all these years never was it discovered if it was mother or father who had dubbed him with such an oddity. Yet, it was who he was. It was labeled clear across all the paperwork of the orphanage and governmental systems that could put a snail to shame with its sluggishness.
On the fire escape as usual, long legs dangling out between the old paint rusted bars, the window to his apartment opened behind him. Two floors below the world was a tide of people bustling about. Men in suits, some with briefcases, others with phones to their ears, intermingled with women in business attire and all of them with the perfumes of self importance.
Nero did not fiddle, nor did the city burn, but he watched them with casual interest all the same. Tracking was that green eyed gaze, watching the mass as a whole rather than the individuals that comprised it. Some days humanity moved on these streets like a flock of birds, confused swirls in their patterns that bent to slow the entire group down. Some days like today, there was a sheer anger to the flow of bodies. Direct, veinlike, heavy flows of people moving down the street like blood flow, while only a few stragglers were left amongst the churning tides to fend for themselves.
Left hand held a mug, coffee steaming even in the summer heat, slipping tendrils of white up over the edge of words that claimed 'Worlds best Rockstar'. There was no apostrophe on worlds, but that didn't bother him one bit. Besides, it was not a true statement for Nero, but when you lived paycheck to paycheck, a nice big mug the right size was gold. The sticker on it is what sold the strangely named man on the purchase though, for only a dollar on clearance it quickly became his.
Right hand gently brushed against the side of his own head, clearing off a few droplets of sweat that accumulated like dew just along sideburns. The man had a practiced care for the motion though, the lit cigarette almost full burning cherry stayed clear of hair or ear.
Nero was watching a branch of the rush hour starting to break off into a new direction, the herd behavior confusing some in the sudden shift, but attention was broken by the sound of a wet -Plop- hitting liquid.
Left eyebrow lifted itself, cigarette dangled from between his lips, and a huff of frustration cast out a cloud of cancerous smoke. Attention shifted to that mug that had days before had become his favorite, and the white smear of birdshit at the edge of it was telling. Instantly attention flicked up towards the sky seeking the offending no doubt pigeon, the flying rats shit everywhere.
With a heavy sigh Nero reached out over the edge of his fire escape, and poured the coffee out.
Trapped within his own frustrations, the green eyed man didn't care about the small puddle of steaming liquid he had made at the entrance to the alley. No, he had to go inside, clean the mug, and make more coffee. Already tucking himself back into that open window, Nero didn't see the marble glint in the light, nor knew that it came to rest in that very puddle.
--- Pos 337.A - 435.B- 56.C 7:06A.M.
Freedom. The American dream and all that jazz right? Though as an adult that feeling had quickly shown itself to be a misconception. Nowadays the only time Mike was able to rouse that sensation was doing exactly what he was doing now.
No lovers' names to keep straight. No pressure from the job. Just the music pouring out of the earpods and into his mind. Legs thrummed with muscle use, the petals of the bike being pushed against, even the air rushing passed his face.
Of course the man in his biking shorts would have to weave in and out of the flow of traffic, people, both of which were idiots, but there were these short gaps between that he enjoyed the most. Dirty, smelly, possibly a bum or two, most people in the city avoided alleyways. Yet, with the wheels cutting a quick path, never had he had an issue. It was a straight shot and the music in his mind was cresting so into another alley space he peddled.
At the other side already, Mike had kept his momentum and was about to turn out, but it was a woman in red that sharply changed his plans. Without even looking down the pathway, the woman marched right out into his path without a thought.
Attempting to turn the back sideways, allowing the wheels to drag against the cement in skidding stop, what Mike had not accounted for was the small puddle that suddenly the bike sputtered through. Wheels skipped for a moment before skipping out from under his control. Mike for the first time in a few years hit the ground… hit the ground hard. It may have looked dumb on him, that overly expensive race styled helmet, but it saved him some hurt.
The city being the city, the woman in red didn't even glance his direction before vanishing back into the crowd.
Dazed, half aware of surroundings, Mike sat up to look at the skinned palm of his left hand. In the moments of panic, even during small falls, our bodies enter a state of shock that blinds us from the world around us at first. So, it was excusable that the man was unaware that during this mishap his wheels had run over a marble and the pressure spat it out like a bullet.
--- Pos 336.A - 434.B- 56.C 7:37A.M.
Believe it or not it wouldn't have been the first death caused by a marble. True, some of them were from choking, particularly in early days when children's toys had little regulation, but there had been other reasons in the mix. Sling shots, air cannons, and just stupid people on roofs to name a few other causes as well though this one was odd.
At the moment the current theory was sling shot, given the angle, the side window being open, and no gunshot like sounds being reported.
In the scale of deaths, this one was particularly uneventful all things considered.
Almost a half an hour ago it was reported a car in slow moving traffic drifted off to the right, bumped into a parked car barely marking either, and came to a rest. The now deceased driver was one Helen Laplace. Mother of two, accountant, husband with alibi at work.
"Hate to see it."
That was Jack, another hard working, nose to the grindstone cop. There was little sensitivity in the other man's voice, years of being on the job making the tone of it as if it was just something they say. Thomas didn't begrudge the other law enforcement agent though, only turned his own dark eyes back to the scene.
Thomas was handsome enough to not be ugly, but wasn't a dream boat. Square shoulders, good jawline, and calm voice gave him the impression of authority. As if custom molded for this job, the man was quick and could easily turn his mind into those darker places that most seemed not capable of. It scared Jack from time to time when they were out drinking after a shift, but Thomas was a good man all the same.
Bending down near the lowered driver side window, dark eyes squinted against the growing glare of the sun off the vehicle. It would be easy to think Mrs. Laplace was just sleeping, head peacefully resting against the steering wheel, blond hair draped over her face.
FOTS. First on the scene had thought perhaps a drunkard, or a drug user drifting off to momentary heaven, but when they brushed the hair back away from the left side of her face, all notions of those were dismissed.
Where her beautiful blue eye should be, was just an empty bloody hole of meat with something embedded deep. Glittering there in the cavity that should be sight, the now exposed roundness of cracked marble was given to the sunlight.
"It's another one."
Thomas with his calm voice stated with certainty, causing a follow up of 'fuck' from the other man.
A small crowd had gathered around the tape that blocked the section to which they worked, people of all descriptions standing about with meek interest at another person's misery. Thomas looked at them, counting them, seeking anyone who might be a little too interested, but these were the typical vultures.
Street officers with their uniforms stood at the border between this no man's land, and the general populace that would be eager to rush in for something as petty as a souvenir. They gleefully raised their cellphones high to try to snap a picture, or paint themselves with filters to proudly proclaim 'I was here'.
Jack had the same distasteful look on his face that Thomas found himself as having, but it was Jack that broke the silence as they looked at the crowd.
"You know, I stopped looking for suspects in crowds, mostly it's just the crowds themselves that make me sick these days. It's not frogs and boils, but its sure as fuck coming up on the end times."
Thomas with his dark eyes looked to Mrs. Laplace's restful body against her steering wheel.
They weren't exactly no bodies but they weren't gangsters. They weren't drug lords. They weren't smuggles. Yet, three bodies now in three days dying in strange circumstances that made no sense. If there had been only two, they would have chalked it up to AOG Acts of God, but this? This put that whole thing into question.
All three killed in various ways, each with a round clear marble nearby or in this case embedded in them.
Was this really an AOG? Had the most high reached down from His throne in heaven just to pluck these souls from the earth? Certainly there were less gruesome ways of going about that little task.
Jack was right, Thomas said to himself as the meat wagon at last pulled up to take away Mrs. Laplace. There were some strange almost biblical 'fuck yous' going on as of late.
--- Pos 333.A - 432.B- 53.C 7:01A.M.
Nicolas Sterling Laplace.
A name that sounded like it belonged on some library plaque somewhere, or some park should be named after him. Maybe one day, but for now Nicky, as most people were prone to calling him, was simply enjoying the imaginary invasion from another world.
At the age of seven, the boy wasn't tall, nor was he charming, just one of those children to which bullies would turn their eyes on with malicious intent. Yet clad in the small plastic helmet, the shade visor down, it wasn't the hall way of the building that he was stalking in.
No, it was the planet Snarklack and at the moment he was cleaning out beasts of green skin and growing red eyes. Nicky's teammates, Sarg at least to them, shouted, died, and fired upon the alien scum with all their might. It took him, the brave war hero to trudge down the hall, light pistol in hand to shred the on coming foes.
Pew pew. Bang. Woosh. GET TO COVER MEN.
All of it played out from behind that fake helmet, and the toy blaster in his hands that swung wildly this way and that to dispatch those blasted bugs. A noise behind him!
Spinning wildly upon his heel the brave soldier pulled the trigger.
-Pop!- Said the compressed air chamber, and from the orange banded muzzle that all toy guns must have these days, a soft foam dart vomited out. The boy's reaction was good, the aim not so much. The projectile impacted against the man's shoulder to no effect, and the dart fell lifelessly to the floor near the adults shiny black shoes.
Of course there was a bit of fear in Nicky, but that dissolved quickly once that visor tilted up to face the adult to which had just come under his fire. Much taller, though most men were to the child, the man with a white beard raised his hands in surrender.
Sparkling once blue eyes had turned gray and had lost some of their sight, but the kindness was there all the same in the adults' gaze. This man who now shared the hallway with the boy looked like a thin santa, even the jolly nature in the air surrounded him, and the way the man spoke did little to dissuade Nicky that this just might be a relative to the jolly red gift giver.
"Ugh, I've been hit! Quick Sarg, send the medic!"
Lately Mom and Dad had been fighting. They've been fighting alot and the sudden attention from a stranger caught a string in him that instantly resonated with a note of friendship. The blaster suddenly raised, aimed at the man with all seriousness, and shoulders squared on the child like the hero he was.
"Name and rank soldier!"
The boy commanded, and lack of experience brushed over the fact the man had called him 'Sarg'. It was a new friend to play with after all.
The man laughed softly, lowered himself down onto one knee in front of Nicholas, and their eyes met from even behind the visor that the boy wore. It was as if the man knew exactly where to look to find those windows to his soul. Only now when the older man's beard shifted along the neckline did the boy notice the white band of clerical collar.
Suddenly Nicky was feeling nervous again, he had after all just gunned down a Father. Feet planted themselves below the boy, and his gaze dropped to the tips of his shoes that shuffled with nervousness.
"I uh… I'm sorry Father."
A hand that was more of an aged paw was reached up to solidly pat the top of that plastic shell that had been a mimicry of some space movie or other, and the man before Nicky smiled steadily.
"It's okay. We were all young once Nicky. It's good to play. I still do it from time to time myself to be honest with you. Though I don't condone gun violence, you're just a boy with lots of learning yet to do."
Never before had they met, and while yes his Dad was a good Catholic who attended mass, their Father wasn't this discount price Santa in a priests get up. It was that fact coupled with the outright use of his name that only now set off alarm bells within the child's mind.
The brave Sargent of the United Space Marines felt suddenly as he was, small, incapable, and an easy target. Unlike such an imaginary action star, Nicky knew enough to step back slowly.
The strange man dressed in black and whites seemed to have turned into a magician, a large board hand was held over to wave over the dim and dirty carpet of the building's hallways to the elevator. Those dimming blue eyes of the Father's never losing hold of the retreating child, and never did that almost painted on smile falter.
"I'm going to give you a wish Nicky, just one for now."
His name again spooked him further.
Cheap carpet, old paint, the faint smell of cigarettes, one could almost imagine themselves inside of a hotel rather than the apartment block to which his family rented. Old damages, doors with bolts and extra locks. It wasn't a deathtrap by any means to live here, but it wasn't exactly upper class either.
To Nicky though right now, it was a prison. One side of the hall blocked by the man led to the stairs, while the closed doors of the elevator jailed him in place.
Ping
Normally it wouldn't cause the jump, but already stressed Nicky hopped in place like a silly rabbit. The old brass colored doors to the elevator jerkily ground open, and still shaded eyes swung in terror towards the thing that the boy thought for sure wanted to kill him.
Heart thump thump thumping in his chest, the child again swung with abandon youth to look back towards the Father… the Father was no longer there.
For a long moment Nicholas Sterling Laplace stared at the now nearly spot where the strange 'gift giver had been'. Stared long and hard at the clear marble that now lay upon the carpet, and pondered what just happened.
A wish?
All he wanted was Mom and Dad to stop fighting.
That's all he needed. Not this strange 'toy' or 'candy' from that creepy man that had just simply vanished.
Leveling his blaster towards the clear marble that glinted in the sunlight that was cast by a nearby window Nicholas radioed into his team quietly.
"This is the Sarg, we have an egg here. Requesting orders."
Though he was talking in the helmet in that other world voice, his shaken gaze slipped along the hallway to make sure that he was alone.
"Destroy target. Roger."
With expert aim Nicky again pointed his weapon, this time at that clear alien sphere that lay there plotting the downfall of humanity.
All he wanted was Mom and Dad to stop fighting. That was the only wish he ever had.
-Pop- said the air chamber sending out another dart, and the aim was proved to be true.
The marble was sent rolling down the hallway, tapping against the runner board that protected the lower side of the wall. If a sphere could smile, it did with one last wink of sunlight before rolling out of sight towards the stairs.
In graph theory, a forest is a set of these trees.
The squaring math of it doesn't really matter in the long run, but rather the concept of it is what one must grasp. At all times, at all moments, breaths, and seconds… we have lost ourselves in a forest. Even if we are in our own rooms, behind our own screens, the forest not only surrounds us, but grows unseen by every point. It is a unifying totalitarian force unseen, unchallenged, and immeasurable.
The phrase really shouldn't be 'Can't see the forest through the trees', but rather 'Can't see ourselves in the forest through the trees'.
It may not have been an Eureka moment that changed the world, but it was a moment that changed the world as he saw the world.
--- Pos 340.A - 437.B- 56.C 7:04A.M.
Jane Austen, no not that one, was running late for work. Flats slapped against the ground in hurried steps, but the crowd around her left little room to weave or pass. Mind swirled with the 'fuck fuck fuck' of every ticking second that goes by, and frustration at the inability to get by drove what slow steps she did take harder against the pavement.
If only she hadn't hit the snooze alarm. If only Jerry would have not been in the bathroom. Come on people...move.
Stuck behind an elderly man who looked like she was about to faint from the sheer volume of people pushing by him, Jane glanced down at her iwatch to check the time, and the digital read caused a low growl at the back of her throat. Stare had now turned to daggers that plunged into the back of the older gentleman's head, and suddenly there was the regurg of despise at the back of her throat.
Just get out of the way already!
The thought was nasty, uncalled for, but true to Jane at the moment.
No more politeness for her. The woman in her red power suit, particularly chosen to show off her red hair, shoved her shoulder forward at an angle to jostle the man out of her way. A passerby moving along the other way was another victim of this aggression, being jostled by the sudden impact of the unconcerned woman who seemed draped in the color red. This sort of thing was common, and it could almost be called a tradition in cities like this to simply shove passed people without a second thought. Jane gave it nothing once she managed by at last, nor did she pay any heed to the older man who teetered dangerously to the side from the impact before being swallowed by the crowd.
I'm Late. I'm Late. I'm Late.
The words an unstoppable montra in Jane's head, feet an unstoppable rhythm now below her, and so possessed by her own voice on repeat in her skull that she didn't notice the tip of her flats knocking against a clear marble that pinballed across the cement.
--- Pos 337.A - 435.B- 58.C 7:05A.M.
Nero. Yes, that was really his name. The man with green eyes was never quite sure of why he was named that. Even after all these years never was it discovered if it was mother or father who had dubbed him with such an oddity. Yet, it was who he was. It was labeled clear across all the paperwork of the orphanage and governmental systems that could put a snail to shame with its sluggishness.
On the fire escape as usual, long legs dangling out between the old paint rusted bars, the window to his apartment opened behind him. Two floors below the world was a tide of people bustling about. Men in suits, some with briefcases, others with phones to their ears, intermingled with women in business attire and all of them with the perfumes of self importance.
Nero did not fiddle, nor did the city burn, but he watched them with casual interest all the same. Tracking was that green eyed gaze, watching the mass as a whole rather than the individuals that comprised it. Some days humanity moved on these streets like a flock of birds, confused swirls in their patterns that bent to slow the entire group down. Some days like today, there was a sheer anger to the flow of bodies. Direct, veinlike, heavy flows of people moving down the street like blood flow, while only a few stragglers were left amongst the churning tides to fend for themselves.
Left hand held a mug, coffee steaming even in the summer heat, slipping tendrils of white up over the edge of words that claimed 'Worlds best Rockstar'. There was no apostrophe on worlds, but that didn't bother him one bit. Besides, it was not a true statement for Nero, but when you lived paycheck to paycheck, a nice big mug the right size was gold. The sticker on it is what sold the strangely named man on the purchase though, for only a dollar on clearance it quickly became his.
Right hand gently brushed against the side of his own head, clearing off a few droplets of sweat that accumulated like dew just along sideburns. The man had a practiced care for the motion though, the lit cigarette almost full burning cherry stayed clear of hair or ear.
Nero was watching a branch of the rush hour starting to break off into a new direction, the herd behavior confusing some in the sudden shift, but attention was broken by the sound of a wet -Plop- hitting liquid.
Left eyebrow lifted itself, cigarette dangled from between his lips, and a huff of frustration cast out a cloud of cancerous smoke. Attention shifted to that mug that had days before had become his favorite, and the white smear of birdshit at the edge of it was telling. Instantly attention flicked up towards the sky seeking the offending no doubt pigeon, the flying rats shit everywhere.
With a heavy sigh Nero reached out over the edge of his fire escape, and poured the coffee out.
Trapped within his own frustrations, the green eyed man didn't care about the small puddle of steaming liquid he had made at the entrance to the alley. No, he had to go inside, clean the mug, and make more coffee. Already tucking himself back into that open window, Nero didn't see the marble glint in the light, nor knew that it came to rest in that very puddle.
--- Pos 337.A - 435.B- 56.C 7:06A.M.
Freedom. The American dream and all that jazz right? Though as an adult that feeling had quickly shown itself to be a misconception. Nowadays the only time Mike was able to rouse that sensation was doing exactly what he was doing now.
No lovers' names to keep straight. No pressure from the job. Just the music pouring out of the earpods and into his mind. Legs thrummed with muscle use, the petals of the bike being pushed against, even the air rushing passed his face.
Of course the man in his biking shorts would have to weave in and out of the flow of traffic, people, both of which were idiots, but there were these short gaps between that he enjoyed the most. Dirty, smelly, possibly a bum or two, most people in the city avoided alleyways. Yet, with the wheels cutting a quick path, never had he had an issue. It was a straight shot and the music in his mind was cresting so into another alley space he peddled.
At the other side already, Mike had kept his momentum and was about to turn out, but it was a woman in red that sharply changed his plans. Without even looking down the pathway, the woman marched right out into his path without a thought.
Attempting to turn the back sideways, allowing the wheels to drag against the cement in skidding stop, what Mike had not accounted for was the small puddle that suddenly the bike sputtered through. Wheels skipped for a moment before skipping out from under his control. Mike for the first time in a few years hit the ground… hit the ground hard. It may have looked dumb on him, that overly expensive race styled helmet, but it saved him some hurt.
The city being the city, the woman in red didn't even glance his direction before vanishing back into the crowd.
Dazed, half aware of surroundings, Mike sat up to look at the skinned palm of his left hand. In the moments of panic, even during small falls, our bodies enter a state of shock that blinds us from the world around us at first. So, it was excusable that the man was unaware that during this mishap his wheels had run over a marble and the pressure spat it out like a bullet.
--- Pos 336.A - 434.B- 56.C 7:37A.M.
Believe it or not it wouldn't have been the first death caused by a marble. True, some of them were from choking, particularly in early days when children's toys had little regulation, but there had been other reasons in the mix. Sling shots, air cannons, and just stupid people on roofs to name a few other causes as well though this one was odd.
At the moment the current theory was sling shot, given the angle, the side window being open, and no gunshot like sounds being reported.
In the scale of deaths, this one was particularly uneventful all things considered.
Almost a half an hour ago it was reported a car in slow moving traffic drifted off to the right, bumped into a parked car barely marking either, and came to a rest. The now deceased driver was one Helen Laplace. Mother of two, accountant, husband with alibi at work.
"Hate to see it."
That was Jack, another hard working, nose to the grindstone cop. There was little sensitivity in the other man's voice, years of being on the job making the tone of it as if it was just something they say. Thomas didn't begrudge the other law enforcement agent though, only turned his own dark eyes back to the scene.
Thomas was handsome enough to not be ugly, but wasn't a dream boat. Square shoulders, good jawline, and calm voice gave him the impression of authority. As if custom molded for this job, the man was quick and could easily turn his mind into those darker places that most seemed not capable of. It scared Jack from time to time when they were out drinking after a shift, but Thomas was a good man all the same.
Bending down near the lowered driver side window, dark eyes squinted against the growing glare of the sun off the vehicle. It would be easy to think Mrs. Laplace was just sleeping, head peacefully resting against the steering wheel, blond hair draped over her face.
FOTS. First on the scene had thought perhaps a drunkard, or a drug user drifting off to momentary heaven, but when they brushed the hair back away from the left side of her face, all notions of those were dismissed.
Where her beautiful blue eye should be, was just an empty bloody hole of meat with something embedded deep. Glittering there in the cavity that should be sight, the now exposed roundness of cracked marble was given to the sunlight.
"It's another one."
Thomas with his calm voice stated with certainty, causing a follow up of 'fuck' from the other man.
A small crowd had gathered around the tape that blocked the section to which they worked, people of all descriptions standing about with meek interest at another person's misery. Thomas looked at them, counting them, seeking anyone who might be a little too interested, but these were the typical vultures.
Street officers with their uniforms stood at the border between this no man's land, and the general populace that would be eager to rush in for something as petty as a souvenir. They gleefully raised their cellphones high to try to snap a picture, or paint themselves with filters to proudly proclaim 'I was here'.
Jack had the same distasteful look on his face that Thomas found himself as having, but it was Jack that broke the silence as they looked at the crowd.
"You know, I stopped looking for suspects in crowds, mostly it's just the crowds themselves that make me sick these days. It's not frogs and boils, but its sure as fuck coming up on the end times."
Thomas with his dark eyes looked to Mrs. Laplace's restful body against her steering wheel.
They weren't exactly no bodies but they weren't gangsters. They weren't drug lords. They weren't smuggles. Yet, three bodies now in three days dying in strange circumstances that made no sense. If there had been only two, they would have chalked it up to AOG Acts of God, but this? This put that whole thing into question.
All three killed in various ways, each with a round clear marble nearby or in this case embedded in them.
Was this really an AOG? Had the most high reached down from His throne in heaven just to pluck these souls from the earth? Certainly there were less gruesome ways of going about that little task.
Jack was right, Thomas said to himself as the meat wagon at last pulled up to take away Mrs. Laplace. There were some strange almost biblical 'fuck yous' going on as of late.
--- Pos 333.A - 432.B- 53.C 7:01A.M.
Nicolas Sterling Laplace.
A name that sounded like it belonged on some library plaque somewhere, or some park should be named after him. Maybe one day, but for now Nicky, as most people were prone to calling him, was simply enjoying the imaginary invasion from another world.
At the age of seven, the boy wasn't tall, nor was he charming, just one of those children to which bullies would turn their eyes on with malicious intent. Yet clad in the small plastic helmet, the shade visor down, it wasn't the hall way of the building that he was stalking in.
No, it was the planet Snarklack and at the moment he was cleaning out beasts of green skin and growing red eyes. Nicky's teammates, Sarg at least to them, shouted, died, and fired upon the alien scum with all their might. It took him, the brave war hero to trudge down the hall, light pistol in hand to shred the on coming foes.
Pew pew. Bang. Woosh. GET TO COVER MEN.
All of it played out from behind that fake helmet, and the toy blaster in his hands that swung wildly this way and that to dispatch those blasted bugs. A noise behind him!
Spinning wildly upon his heel the brave soldier pulled the trigger.
-Pop!- Said the compressed air chamber, and from the orange banded muzzle that all toy guns must have these days, a soft foam dart vomited out. The boy's reaction was good, the aim not so much. The projectile impacted against the man's shoulder to no effect, and the dart fell lifelessly to the floor near the adults shiny black shoes.
Of course there was a bit of fear in Nicky, but that dissolved quickly once that visor tilted up to face the adult to which had just come under his fire. Much taller, though most men were to the child, the man with a white beard raised his hands in surrender.
Sparkling once blue eyes had turned gray and had lost some of their sight, but the kindness was there all the same in the adults' gaze. This man who now shared the hallway with the boy looked like a thin santa, even the jolly nature in the air surrounded him, and the way the man spoke did little to dissuade Nicky that this just might be a relative to the jolly red gift giver.
"Ugh, I've been hit! Quick Sarg, send the medic!"
Lately Mom and Dad had been fighting. They've been fighting alot and the sudden attention from a stranger caught a string in him that instantly resonated with a note of friendship. The blaster suddenly raised, aimed at the man with all seriousness, and shoulders squared on the child like the hero he was.
"Name and rank soldier!"
The boy commanded, and lack of experience brushed over the fact the man had called him 'Sarg'. It was a new friend to play with after all.
The man laughed softly, lowered himself down onto one knee in front of Nicholas, and their eyes met from even behind the visor that the boy wore. It was as if the man knew exactly where to look to find those windows to his soul. Only now when the older man's beard shifted along the neckline did the boy notice the white band of clerical collar.
Suddenly Nicky was feeling nervous again, he had after all just gunned down a Father. Feet planted themselves below the boy, and his gaze dropped to the tips of his shoes that shuffled with nervousness.
"I uh… I'm sorry Father."
A hand that was more of an aged paw was reached up to solidly pat the top of that plastic shell that had been a mimicry of some space movie or other, and the man before Nicky smiled steadily.
"It's okay. We were all young once Nicky. It's good to play. I still do it from time to time myself to be honest with you. Though I don't condone gun violence, you're just a boy with lots of learning yet to do."
Never before had they met, and while yes his Dad was a good Catholic who attended mass, their Father wasn't this discount price Santa in a priests get up. It was that fact coupled with the outright use of his name that only now set off alarm bells within the child's mind.
The brave Sargent of the United Space Marines felt suddenly as he was, small, incapable, and an easy target. Unlike such an imaginary action star, Nicky knew enough to step back slowly.
The strange man dressed in black and whites seemed to have turned into a magician, a large board hand was held over to wave over the dim and dirty carpet of the building's hallways to the elevator. Those dimming blue eyes of the Father's never losing hold of the retreating child, and never did that almost painted on smile falter.
"I'm going to give you a wish Nicky, just one for now."
His name again spooked him further.
Cheap carpet, old paint, the faint smell of cigarettes, one could almost imagine themselves inside of a hotel rather than the apartment block to which his family rented. Old damages, doors with bolts and extra locks. It wasn't a deathtrap by any means to live here, but it wasn't exactly upper class either.
To Nicky though right now, it was a prison. One side of the hall blocked by the man led to the stairs, while the closed doors of the elevator jailed him in place.
Ping
Normally it wouldn't cause the jump, but already stressed Nicky hopped in place like a silly rabbit. The old brass colored doors to the elevator jerkily ground open, and still shaded eyes swung in terror towards the thing that the boy thought for sure wanted to kill him.
Heart thump thump thumping in his chest, the child again swung with abandon youth to look back towards the Father… the Father was no longer there.
For a long moment Nicholas Sterling Laplace stared at the now nearly spot where the strange 'gift giver had been'. Stared long and hard at the clear marble that now lay upon the carpet, and pondered what just happened.
A wish?
All he wanted was Mom and Dad to stop fighting.
That's all he needed. Not this strange 'toy' or 'candy' from that creepy man that had just simply vanished.
Leveling his blaster towards the clear marble that glinted in the sunlight that was cast by a nearby window Nicholas radioed into his team quietly.
"This is the Sarg, we have an egg here. Requesting orders."
Though he was talking in the helmet in that other world voice, his shaken gaze slipped along the hallway to make sure that he was alone.
"Destroy target. Roger."
With expert aim Nicky again pointed his weapon, this time at that clear alien sphere that lay there plotting the downfall of humanity.
All he wanted was Mom and Dad to stop fighting. That was the only wish he ever had.
-Pop- said the air chamber sending out another dart, and the aim was proved to be true.
The marble was sent rolling down the hallway, tapping against the runner board that protected the lower side of the wall. If a sphere could smile, it did with one last wink of sunlight before rolling out of sight towards the stairs.
What to expect from me
Some people have a destination in their stories.
Some people like to have their goal posts.
I am not so organized of a writer, or perhaps the characters themselves will not allow me to be so.
A single post, word, or punctuation, can change the very course of what I was seeing.
A single sentence, idea, or sway from either of us can change the very world they live in.
I breathe life into the masks that I paint the best I am able, but what they do with it?
I may have an idea, but no certainty.
To sum it up, I set my clockwork toys in an arena I've built for them, and watch them go.
With purpose, much of my ideas forward or even backward, are left vague, dislocated, or disjointed.
There are always opportunities in later places for either of us to navigate.
Holes in the complete picture only grants chance of more pieces to fall into place as if they were there from the very start.
In this vein, most of my stories are not so complex as to one needs to read a novel before even a single post.
If I have to look through ten pages of information, notes, histories of locations, or peoples... I will lose place, hope, or interest.
So, my worlds are very plug and play.
Build a character and tell them to open their eyes to see the world around them.
Simple as that.
I ask only three simple things of you as a writer.
Three little rules.
Respect
Honesty
and your words.
The real reason though? The reason I'm here?
Is because of you Fellow Traveler.
I can write in a notepad. I can scribble like a madman with crayon on a wall. I can dear diary my feelings away.
Here though?
Here, there is a voice to the echo of words.
Here, you can be found Fellow Traveler.
Here, we can dance with the twenty six letters that I am capable of.
So, with that said, shall we?
Partners required for ideas
Concept - Onsight Gardner needed for a gated private community. A community where things are not what they seem.
Tags - Obsession, Stalking, Voyeurism, Supernatural, Modern, Fear of water
Take small breaths.
Do not seek to inhale a moment in one lungful.
The sun had yet to lift itself over the horizon, and has abandoned the world in the darkness of a moonless predawn . Stars, jaded by their chill of a winter that just now had made itself known, hung among the thin shredded colorless clouds that the atmosphere above pushed with bitter wind into tattered lines. Shadows form trees in the distance, and they blocked black shapes of houses, fences, and parked cars on the road into existence.Do not seek to inhale a moment in one lungful.
In this post daylight savings time of day, the man ran alone.
There were only the shadows that formed the world around him, the rhythm of his heart matching that of his tennis shoes, and the voice being fed to his mind through those inexpensive earbuds. So, the man sailed on in the predawn, one jogging step in front of another.
Take small breaths.
Do not seek to know love with one kiss.
Do not seek to know love with one kiss.
Lamp posts, thought to bring more value, importance, and desired curb side appeal, were that of black straight shapes. One might see such glow givers in old noir films, glass boxes on top of black metal posts which puddle soft white glow around them. Through these glows, one by one, those gray tennis shoes splashed through the light. Soft white clouds escaped the nostrils and edge of cracked open mouth that let lungs have a bit more oxygen, but though the man's body felt worn, he forced himself onward.
Take small breaths.
Taste a victory but do not feast on it.
Taste a victory but do not feast on it.
Five and a half miles, nine houses, fourteen fancy light posts, and a couple dozen souls. Those are the numbers that filled the road known as Lighthouse Circle. The 'lake' though that sat silently at the center of the community, truth be told, was more of a pond. Barely two miles across at its widest, water, a dark oily surface in the lack of light, sat unmoving as the man ran about the sidewalk just off the roadway.
In the gloom, upon a few of the properties was the evidence of families.
Childrens bikes sat rooted upon porches, a mere suggestion of long streamers on handlebars barely drifting in the light as feathers touch of a breeze. A rope swing with a wooden board, tied to the outstretched limb of old oak, drifted back and forth aimlessly, almost offering the man a wave as gray tennis shoes padded by.
Take small breaths.
Have you ever lost time? Have you ever blinked and been someplace else? Has the world ever seemed to move around you, while all the while you were standing still?
Time has a funny way of dilating or contracting when someone is lost inside their head, constant or steady body movements meeting that steady accord of muscle memory.
The man, running in the dark, forgot for just a moment… just a second… what that voice inside those earbuds was telling him. To slow down. To savor. To take small breaths.
Instead the man was lost and fell into the confines of his own thoughts.
So, Fellow Traveler, join me in that moment of lost time.
Let the sands slip away between fingers.
Go ahead, take a good ol' blink and end up somewhere else.
mrEeeee
The hand towel, a cheap thing of turquoise and brown, swiped across the steam laden mirror. Behind that once clouded reflection was the runner, and by his own action, he now stared at himself with those hazel eyes reflected right back at him.
Six foot, and just with that one extra inch taller, the man was a sight in that reflection. Body had been worked by almost the compulsive need to run. Fat padding, a thing that once had clung to that body, had been burned away into lean, long, hard muscle. Though with an almost sad note, his hands, broad powerful things, drifted down over bare stomach. Fingertips touched that dented line along pelvic bone. Though no matter how the man wished it, this was not a superhero fantasy, there was no six pack on lewd display, but the man had turned his life around.
In just over a year, a new man was looking back at him through that lens of the steam edged mirror.
Short, well shortish, brown hair had been trimmed almost a month ago, and hung down nearly to the tops of his eyes with its still wet weight. Hands were littered with small scars, lines, circles, things carved into his skin by what one could either consider tooth or nail. His body too was marked by animals, such was the way of the industry that once he had been part of.
Right thigh still held a nasty pinkish scar from where a Great Dane had clamped onto his leg.
Left forearm still had almost tribal-like markings, from when a Rag Doll wrapped about him and used it as a chew toy. That part of his life was not so long ago, and reminded him of those years with every glance of them.
That was the past though.
That was something the man left behind.
The man took a small breath and moved on.
Perhaps we should do the same Fellow Traveler, perhaps we should follow.
Perhaps we should blink.
Gray sweatpants, now clinging lopsidedly and loose about his waist, had been pulled on. Bare chested, hands having run through and slicked back that tousled and cleaned hair. The man had somewhere in that absence of time procured himself a steaming mug, and bare feet padded across the chilled floorboards.
The man's skin flourished with small goosebumps, the heater only now having been clicked on, their old grumbly voices grumbly coming alive in the vents. Though he was doing well with the slight chill. The body he was in possession of these days was seemingly able to produce more and more heat, despite the fallen size in the clothing department.
Out to the left, a backdrop for us to watch as the man moved in front of it, was a window that viewed Lighthouse Circle. This home was at the outlet to the main road, and it stood sentinel to all who would enter this way. The man was at the mouth of it, in a place of possession, though this is not the reason it is pointed out.
Look and see as amber and pink rises into the air.
Watch as yellow and orange bloom against the glass windows.
Watch the colors lift above the roof and tree and splash into the lake-pond.
The man sat at a computer, framed by the dawning light through the window.
Though do not feel safe, or even unaware Fellow Traveler.
Let not this next part surprise.
For Lighthouse Circle is not what it seems to be.
Tak.
The keyboard was pressed as a steaming rim of coffee lifted to lips.
Tak.
The keyboard was pressed again, a different image appearing on the screen.
Tak.
Now take a small breath, Fellow Traveler.
Step behind the man and see.
Take a glance at those images.
Tak.
An older couple, drifting together in the mingled embrace of decades together, even if one of them was snoring. Beneath covers and blankets, the image was projected with a clearly night vision green hue. In the bottom right of the image a green set of words. 'Malin 129B'.
Tak.
A single man, in the torrent of a bad dream, thrashed this way and that as if the covers itself were attempting to strangle him. In the bottom right corner of the screen 'Triffin 130I'
Tak.
Tak.
Tak.
One by one the houses of the circle would be glanced through.
Image by image, every inch of the community could be seen, witnessed, guarded.
Blink
Tak.
At last the man ended upon the image of the exterior of the only remaining houses yet to be rented out, and through the interior the watcher flicked without so much as moving a muscle. Well, that was of course except to sip on his coffee.
Today was a big day.
The circle would be filled.
It would be complete.
You are moving in.
His name is James, and James took a small breath.
Concept - A slave taken by a monster. Beauty and the Beast in a darker realm.
Tags - Monsters, Madness, Alice in Wonderland like ideas, Theology Myths, Medieval, Fantasy, Language Barrier
The shadows have grown long upon their thickening stems, and while they did not swallow the forest whole, their teeth were close enough. The sun brimmed just at the top of the trees, and the leaves rustled in the slight breeze that signaled the change of day. Birds, those of jay, coral tail, and wrens, chirped, sung, and chittered in the branches.
Here it would seem even in the change of seasons, for many of the plants here had begun to varnish deep reds, ambers, and scarlets in their plumage, the air would remain warm enough. Perhaps there would be a slight prick of a chill, or so that momentary breeze promised, but warm enough all the same.
Those who managed the caravan had stopped for the evening, fires with their hung cooking pots stocked and blooming in fresh flames. The smells of fresh caught meat bristled the air with the crackling of fat, and the roasting smell of flanks being turned over the cooking heat. Though while some of the workers seemed to relax, lean back against the wooden wheels of their cargo hauling carriages, the dozen or so guards did not.
Dressed in leathers studded with crude wrought iron, they moved around the portion of the road that the others had circled off, a fortified position against bandits, wolves, or any manner of creature that may be lurking just over there in those deep pockets of shadows. Some held crossbows, others pikes, but the boss… for clearly that what he was, held a two handed sword.
With practiced, repeated patterns, they were wedging wooden branches beneath wheels to keep their caravan from rolling away or crushing a sleeping man in the night. The cook moved from pot to pot, adding this or that. The guards moved about, their stomachs rumbling loudly. The merchant, the only fat one among the lot, sat upon that wooden throne of his own carriage, observing from on high the proceedings of tonight's routine stop.
It would seem peaceful.
It would seem routine.
It was for most of them, but for the occupants of that third carriage?
Well, they perhaps thought differently.
The bottom of the wood was lined with crude iron plates, and the railing led into black bars that arched up and over the cargo area. It was a cage, a cage that smelled of slavery. Thin, tattered, and hole covered tarp had long ago been cast over the shape, and tied in place. Fresh air did seep in through those worn gaps in the material, and brief glimpses of moon or sunlight crept in. Though perhaps it was just enough to hide the fact that there was suffering inside, for those outside the carriage at least of course.
To say that all the people of the caravan were villains in this story would be inaccurate, not so many events in life are so simple. There was one, who was particularly a bastard, and had been eyeing you through that little peep hole that his dagger at one point had made. Though there was the other, the one with blue eyes and youthful face. That one had brought not only you but the others food and drink. There was pity in that one's sea colored eyes, pain as well in the very edges of his gaze, but loyalty to either oath of coin kept the handsome figure from doing much else.
Routine.
As it was the day before, and the day before, and the day before.
Just another day on the road, to wherever it was they thought they were going.
And yet, like a single misplaced punctuation, a stranger stood on the road just up the way casting a long sunset shadow off into oblivion.
There was a yell in common, the words and tongue that easily could be understood.
"Identify yourself!"
The billow of the lungs was none other than the near giant of a man who led the other leather bound guards. That was the one with the large two handed sword, for those keeping track, and seemed to move with military brute strength.
What came in response, well, that wasn't a language that was known. It was words certainly, had a rhyme and reason to them. Structure. All the hallmarks of a spoken communication, but it was crude, heavy and thick on the strangers tongue. It sounded…venomous to even untrained ears.
"Highwayman or madman?"
The one who leered often at you walked by the locked carriage, that weasel like voice of his easily cutting through the fabric even though there was no obvious hole nearby. It was him though, that much any of the occupants of the cage would know. Even the outline of his short frame crossed the light against the tarp like a black and white film of a prisoner walking to his execution.
I must ask some questions Fellow Traveler.
Have you ever been caught in a flash flood?
Have you ever been taken off your feet by a jet engine blast?
Have you ever stood in the water at the change of a tide?
It is a feeling like no other.
Suddenly you are lifted up, gathered into a force that is unstoppably more powerful than yourself. It happens so fast that even at first the human mind doesn't comprehend that its very will, its desires or wants, is no longer part of the equation.
You are simply moved by whatever chaotic force the event forces on you.
So, at this moment Fellow Traveler, gravity seems to longer exist. Screams of confusion, panic, and terror fill that two second space. Oh, the mind would catch on at last as it drifted into the air, the caravan rolled… and I'm about to…
A skull can impact metal with great force, enough so that one can go unconscious.
Wavy lines for You as consciousness returns in blurry vision, pain rolling through skull like a jackhammer, but alive.
One of the other slaves within the belly of the cage, his arm twisted at an odd angle was wide eyed, but not with pain despite the broken limb. Lips rolling words, over and over and over and over again. Eyes wild, dark, maddened. The gaze focused on you.
"He opened his wings and swallowed the sun. He opened his wings and swallowed the sun."
Others moaned, but only those within the cage seemed to be speaking. Only those within the bars seemed to be alive enough to feel pain. Out there beyond the tarp that still clung to the cage, there was not a noise as of yet. Not even the crackling of campfires, or the smell of roasting meats.
Something moved at last as those within the metal box started to grow more confused, but the shape wasn't that of the weasel guard. It was as big as a man, yes, but it seemed to have a countless count of legs along its side. The long slender outline that was painted by the dying sun against the tarp looked like that of a centipede, yet the size of childish nightmares.
In long scythe-like jaws an outline of a man hung, but thankfully the body was dropped and the monster dove down after it and off the 'screen' of the tarp. That didn't stop the sounds though. Sickening cracks of bone, snapping of sinew, and flesh being wrought.
All grew silent again, till the tarp itself would be torn away with a sharp powerful tug of an arm. There standing beside the overturned carriage, looking through what was meant to be the roof of the cage, was the guard who often gave them bread. Yet, those eyes in the failing light were no longer that of water. No, emerald green, the color of insect shells peered in from his skull now, and the chitins single click of his teeth against one another showed interest in what it saw.
The stranger stood behind the once-guard, his hand outstretched and something resting in his palm, a treasure yet unseen. Dressed in a black suit that was favored by royalty perhaps a few generations ago, not a stick of color in that cloth beside that lack of color. The stranger had dark eyes, dark as burnt coals, and used them to speak.
That gaze, the one that commanded authority with simply a glance, lanced itself towards the once-blue-eyed-guard, who without a word turned and began to walk away.
One of the other slaves slapped the injured man, for quicker and quicker his gibberish was becoming. "Shut up you fool!"
"He opened his wings and swallowed the sun. Heopenedhiswingsandswallowedthesun."
Perhaps he was handsome, but such words are often not used in nightmares such as this, though there was a gentleness to those features that almost asked for trust. His right hand, gloved in black fabric, the same as the rest of him beside his neck and face, tilted down just enough to get a look at what the dark stranger was holding.
It was a crude thing of brass, circular object with a little glass cover. It was no bigger than a pocket watch, and most would know it almost instantly as a compass.Though that name alone would be wrong, for a compass would lead you to navigate across a map. It would teach you North, South, East, or West.
So, no, this was decidedly not a compass because it seemed to follow none of those rules.
As the man moved his hand in a small sweep to point across the slaves, the needle jittered, jolted and kept itself pointed … right…at…You.
Dark eyes that were somehow molten, moving parts like liquid deep in that unseen depths, moved up to meet Your gaze.
"Tavala rit-al"
That gloved hand, the one that simply seemed to be dipped in ink itself was free from the not-compass extended towards your direction. The metal of bars distorted without a sound, silent as shadows, and simply were bent open by unseen hands without effort.
The madman in the back continued to grow more rapidly tongued.
"Heopenedhiswingsandswallowedthesunheopenedhiswingsandswallowedthesun"
Despite what madness tells You, do not be fooled.
It was the horizon that at last devoured the sun, leaving the first blanket of true night across them.
Leaving the words of the stranger to be repeated in a tongue that sounded monstrous in the gloom.
"Tavala rit-al"
Here it would seem even in the change of seasons, for many of the plants here had begun to varnish deep reds, ambers, and scarlets in their plumage, the air would remain warm enough. Perhaps there would be a slight prick of a chill, or so that momentary breeze promised, but warm enough all the same.
Those who managed the caravan had stopped for the evening, fires with their hung cooking pots stocked and blooming in fresh flames. The smells of fresh caught meat bristled the air with the crackling of fat, and the roasting smell of flanks being turned over the cooking heat. Though while some of the workers seemed to relax, lean back against the wooden wheels of their cargo hauling carriages, the dozen or so guards did not.
Dressed in leathers studded with crude wrought iron, they moved around the portion of the road that the others had circled off, a fortified position against bandits, wolves, or any manner of creature that may be lurking just over there in those deep pockets of shadows. Some held crossbows, others pikes, but the boss… for clearly that what he was, held a two handed sword.
With practiced, repeated patterns, they were wedging wooden branches beneath wheels to keep their caravan from rolling away or crushing a sleeping man in the night. The cook moved from pot to pot, adding this or that. The guards moved about, their stomachs rumbling loudly. The merchant, the only fat one among the lot, sat upon that wooden throne of his own carriage, observing from on high the proceedings of tonight's routine stop.
It would seem peaceful.
It would seem routine.
It was for most of them, but for the occupants of that third carriage?
Well, they perhaps thought differently.
The bottom of the wood was lined with crude iron plates, and the railing led into black bars that arched up and over the cargo area. It was a cage, a cage that smelled of slavery. Thin, tattered, and hole covered tarp had long ago been cast over the shape, and tied in place. Fresh air did seep in through those worn gaps in the material, and brief glimpses of moon or sunlight crept in. Though perhaps it was just enough to hide the fact that there was suffering inside, for those outside the carriage at least of course.
To say that all the people of the caravan were villains in this story would be inaccurate, not so many events in life are so simple. There was one, who was particularly a bastard, and had been eyeing you through that little peep hole that his dagger at one point had made. Though there was the other, the one with blue eyes and youthful face. That one had brought not only you but the others food and drink. There was pity in that one's sea colored eyes, pain as well in the very edges of his gaze, but loyalty to either oath of coin kept the handsome figure from doing much else.
Routine.
As it was the day before, and the day before, and the day before.
Just another day on the road, to wherever it was they thought they were going.
And yet, like a single misplaced punctuation, a stranger stood on the road just up the way casting a long sunset shadow off into oblivion.
There was a yell in common, the words and tongue that easily could be understood.
"Identify yourself!"
The billow of the lungs was none other than the near giant of a man who led the other leather bound guards. That was the one with the large two handed sword, for those keeping track, and seemed to move with military brute strength.
What came in response, well, that wasn't a language that was known. It was words certainly, had a rhyme and reason to them. Structure. All the hallmarks of a spoken communication, but it was crude, heavy and thick on the strangers tongue. It sounded…venomous to even untrained ears.
"Highwayman or madman?"
The one who leered often at you walked by the locked carriage, that weasel like voice of his easily cutting through the fabric even though there was no obvious hole nearby. It was him though, that much any of the occupants of the cage would know. Even the outline of his short frame crossed the light against the tarp like a black and white film of a prisoner walking to his execution.
I must ask some questions Fellow Traveler.
Have you ever been caught in a flash flood?
Have you ever been taken off your feet by a jet engine blast?
Have you ever stood in the water at the change of a tide?
It is a feeling like no other.
Suddenly you are lifted up, gathered into a force that is unstoppably more powerful than yourself. It happens so fast that even at first the human mind doesn't comprehend that its very will, its desires or wants, is no longer part of the equation.
You are simply moved by whatever chaotic force the event forces on you.
So, at this moment Fellow Traveler, gravity seems to longer exist. Screams of confusion, panic, and terror fill that two second space. Oh, the mind would catch on at last as it drifted into the air, the caravan rolled… and I'm about to…
A skull can impact metal with great force, enough so that one can go unconscious.
Wavy lines for You as consciousness returns in blurry vision, pain rolling through skull like a jackhammer, but alive.
One of the other slaves within the belly of the cage, his arm twisted at an odd angle was wide eyed, but not with pain despite the broken limb. Lips rolling words, over and over and over and over again. Eyes wild, dark, maddened. The gaze focused on you.
"He opened his wings and swallowed the sun. He opened his wings and swallowed the sun."
Others moaned, but only those within the cage seemed to be speaking. Only those within the bars seemed to be alive enough to feel pain. Out there beyond the tarp that still clung to the cage, there was not a noise as of yet. Not even the crackling of campfires, or the smell of roasting meats.
Something moved at last as those within the metal box started to grow more confused, but the shape wasn't that of the weasel guard. It was as big as a man, yes, but it seemed to have a countless count of legs along its side. The long slender outline that was painted by the dying sun against the tarp looked like that of a centipede, yet the size of childish nightmares.
In long scythe-like jaws an outline of a man hung, but thankfully the body was dropped and the monster dove down after it and off the 'screen' of the tarp. That didn't stop the sounds though. Sickening cracks of bone, snapping of sinew, and flesh being wrought.
All grew silent again, till the tarp itself would be torn away with a sharp powerful tug of an arm. There standing beside the overturned carriage, looking through what was meant to be the roof of the cage, was the guard who often gave them bread. Yet, those eyes in the failing light were no longer that of water. No, emerald green, the color of insect shells peered in from his skull now, and the chitins single click of his teeth against one another showed interest in what it saw.
The stranger stood behind the once-guard, his hand outstretched and something resting in his palm, a treasure yet unseen. Dressed in a black suit that was favored by royalty perhaps a few generations ago, not a stick of color in that cloth beside that lack of color. The stranger had dark eyes, dark as burnt coals, and used them to speak.
That gaze, the one that commanded authority with simply a glance, lanced itself towards the once-blue-eyed-guard, who without a word turned and began to walk away.
One of the other slaves slapped the injured man, for quicker and quicker his gibberish was becoming. "Shut up you fool!"
"He opened his wings and swallowed the sun. Heopenedhiswingsandswallowedthesun."
Perhaps he was handsome, but such words are often not used in nightmares such as this, though there was a gentleness to those features that almost asked for trust. His right hand, gloved in black fabric, the same as the rest of him beside his neck and face, tilted down just enough to get a look at what the dark stranger was holding.
It was a crude thing of brass, circular object with a little glass cover. It was no bigger than a pocket watch, and most would know it almost instantly as a compass.Though that name alone would be wrong, for a compass would lead you to navigate across a map. It would teach you North, South, East, or West.
So, no, this was decidedly not a compass because it seemed to follow none of those rules.
As the man moved his hand in a small sweep to point across the slaves, the needle jittered, jolted and kept itself pointed … right…at…You.
Dark eyes that were somehow molten, moving parts like liquid deep in that unseen depths, moved up to meet Your gaze.
"Tavala rit-al"
That gloved hand, the one that simply seemed to be dipped in ink itself was free from the not-compass extended towards your direction. The metal of bars distorted without a sound, silent as shadows, and simply were bent open by unseen hands without effort.
The madman in the back continued to grow more rapidly tongued.
"Heopenedhiswingsandswallowedthesunheopenedhiswingsandswallowedthesun"
Despite what madness tells You, do not be fooled.
It was the horizon that at last devoured the sun, leaving the first blanket of true night across them.
Leaving the words of the stranger to be repeated in a tongue that sounded monstrous in the gloom.
"Tavala rit-al"
Tags - Worlds waiting to be born
Waiting for words, dreams, and ink.
Afterword
I fall Fellow Traveler.
I descend.
I come crashing right down into the ground.
I do not have wings, and so I have yet to learn to soar.
For those brief moments that I fall however?
Those spaces between writing and reading?
I tumble head over heel into the story, and for the briefest of moments I am weightless.
For the most fragile of seconds, I can be someplace else.
For almost a breaths length, I am someone else.
It is my addiction.
Hell, it's even in my F-list.
Story above all else.
Signed,
The Man beside the Lighthouse
I descend.
I come crashing right down into the ground.
I do not have wings, and so I have yet to learn to soar.
For those brief moments that I fall however?
Those spaces between writing and reading?
I tumble head over heel into the story, and for the briefest of moments I am weightless.
For the most fragile of seconds, I can be someplace else.
For almost a breaths length, I am someone else.
It is my addiction.
Hell, it's even in my F-list.
Story above all else.
Signed,
The Man beside the Lighthouse