Scenes From My Mind

Love At First Sight

2010-12-08T18:02:00.000-08:00

(Warning: contains some explicit and adult content)

Last night, I forgot how to talk. I think it was her eyes, green diamonds hiding behind impossibly long eyelashes, but it could have been her long brown hair, almost black, falling to her shoulders, just gleaming in the fluorescent light. She had high cheek bones that blushed a light red, and her full lips curved in a seductive grin. She stood within a circle of guests right in the middle of the room, and every eye was on her. She practically glowed with attention.

I was so drawn in to her to that I found myself making my way towards the circle. I placed my beer on a table as I passed it, uncaring that it was still half full. I watched myself, in an almost out of body feeling, as I brushed two members of the circle out of the way and knelt before her. Her eyes perplexedly looked down at me as I took her hand in mine. I told her that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and that I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the night getting to know her. I openly gazed at her perfect face, her cute little nose, the light freckles that I couldn’t see before, and I realized that she was even more striking than I had thought. I just had to have this girl.

She smiled mischievously and led me away by hand. The circle stared at me, their eyes in a losing battle between jealousy and admiration. They couldn’t help but respect my bravado, my confident and shameless attempt at love. The exquisite figure of splendor before me led us down a hallway, passing a long line of guys waiting to use the bathroom. Their faces were painted with envy as they watched this goddess lead me to her dwelling. She opened a door, pulled me in, and closed it quickly behind her.

I expected an immediate avalanche of lust and unleashed desire, but instead she sat me down on the bed and held my hand, looking adoringly into my eyes. Her brilliant green eyes pierced my heart, and I knew I would never look at another girl the same again. I was pulled back into reality when she opened her mouth and told me that her name was Sarah. I introduced myself and then we fell into conversation.

Her voice was like an angel, serenading my soul. I felt so worthless next to this divine creature. How could she possibly be wasting her time with me when she could be out there getting courted by anyone she wanted. Yet her eyes were all for me. She found me charming, handsome, and courageous, noting that my little proposal in front of all those people was so daring. She was so tired of guys always showing off to her. I was her Prince Gallant.

The talks eventually slowed down as we ran out of things to say, but I swear we must have talked for hours. By the time I had gotten over her allure enough to notice my surroundings, I realized that it was dead quiet. All the guests must have left the party. I asked her if she needed a ride home as it was only a matter of time before we were kicked out, but she told me that she was staying there. It turned out that it was her house. She invited me to stay.

My heart soared at the prospect of spending the night with this girl in my arms. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt anywhere near this high. My expression radiated delight. Before I could help myself, I pulled her toward me and kissed her full on the mouth. She was a little surprised at first, but she almost instantly got into it. We rolled over onto the bed, and she began pulling my shirt off. My hands grasped her back, exploring her smooth skin. She got more aggressive, ripping at my jeans, and I helped her pull them off. All of a sudden, my head started to swim and it felt like the world was spinning. I must have done something because she asked me if I was okay. I told her I was fine, only a little dizzy.

She giggled and told me that it was fine, and she’d take it from here. She pulled off her jeans and climbed on top of me. She started slowly, and my headache was forgotten. I started to help her out, but then my head started to pulse, an intense pressure behind my eyes. I ignored it.

She rode me for a long time, emitting moans of rapture before eventually falling away exhausted. I enjoyed it immensely, but I could barely keep my eyes open after she stopped. I rolled over and thanked her, kissing her gently on the forehead. She returned my kiss with one of her own, a tender one on the lips. I rolled back over and fell deep asleep.

I dreamed of adventure in love. Sarah and I traveling the world, hand in hand, always happy and joyful. Her green eyes were forever mine. We graduated college and moved into the city. We got a little apartment, and we brought home a little puppy. I was halfway through a real proposal, a fancy dinner at an Italian restaurant, when I heard a cough.

I woke up with a screaming headache, confused as to where I was. I glanced around the room and then I saw her. As I lay there in bed, watching this extraordinarily normal looking girl struggle to pull her jeans on, I think, Man I must have been drunk last night.

Corruption

2010-12-06T07:25:00.000-08:00

I guess you could say that I was a little bit of a bastard growing up. Not the kind with the parents who never got married or anything like that; my parents tied the knot a full year before I was born, so you couldn’t even make the argument that I was a secret bastard. No, I was the kind of bastard who ignored those parents.

There are a lot of good kids out there. They were brought up properly by their parents and were taught right and wrong. They made it through high school, maybe went to college, got a girlfriend, got married, and then became those same parents who brought them up in the first place. Full circle, right? Circle of life or whatever.

Then there are bad kids. Most bad kids you can look at their life stories and find some event that made them do whatever bad shit that they did. Their folks split up and the trauma of seeing their family ripped apart sent them down the wrong path. Their mom died, so they went into a fog, blindly going through the motions of life, eventually turning to the bottle and fucking up their life. Or maybe their dad bailed before they were even born, and they grew up without a father figure, forced to be tougher than the other kids, ultimately cracking some idiot’s skull and spending some time. Yep, most bad kids have excuses.

Then there are those kids that are just born bad. Maybe dad was planting some bad seed or something went wrong when mom was cultivating the garden. Either way, those kids don’t have any excuses. Their parents tried their best to raise him, referencing Dr. Phil books, teaching him lessons, disciplining when they needed to, but nothing worked. The kid just wasn’t a good one, and it didn’t matter how many fables you read him, he just wasn’t going to learn any morals.

I wasn’t any of those kids. Those parents with the kids that rebel for no reason? They praise gods that they don’t even believe in that I wasn’t their kid. Too bad those gods aren’t listening to them.

I was, and I guess I still am, blessed with as impossibly perfect a memory as ever existed. I remember each and every scene from my life. My mind’s hard drive has infinite capacity, and I swear I’ve got DVD like playback for every single moment that I’ve experienced.

Anyway, I was born on a Friday—not the thirteenth, the eleventh—just a typical Friday. Only, who would have known that the worst thing since the Antichrist was about to be born?

* * * * *

I was bad from the second I left that womb, and more than likely, while I was in it. I came out thrashing like a hurricane, unleashed fury coming straight from its origin. If there were ever an eye of my storm, it was there; everything since has spiraled outward from those first moments of life.

The first months of my life weren’t anything that could be classified as horrific, but they certainly weren’t the stories of blissful infancy. Hell, I take it back—they were borderline horrific.

I cried like a bitch the instant they brought me home and no combination of breast milk, classical music, cheap plastic toys, or jolly purple dinosaurs was about to calm me down. The only thing that could get me to shut up every once in a while was myself and my desire to drive people to depths they couldn’t even imagine. I’d cry for hours straight, stopping only to nibble at my mom’s tit every once in a while. A baby’s got to keep up his strength, you know. Then after I was sure that my parents were on the brink of insanity, I’d stop. I’d lull them into a trance where they would both sigh the most audible sounds of relief you ever heard and lay down to finally get the sleep that had seemed so unattainable only moments before. I’d let them approach the brink of sleep, that moment where your still aware of your surroundings, but you can feel sleep slowly shrouding your senses, blanketing you in its greedy little clutches. Trust me, sleep is the cousin of death. And he is one envious cousin. Letting sleep envelop you like that is dangerous shit. You’re lucky you’re a born a pussy because if you ever made it all the way through that nightmare—well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be getting out of it anytime soon.

So I’d let them get to that point, allow my parents to feel the strains of my burden begin to loosen off of their shoulders. Allow them one sweet taste of that bliss that is rest. And then I’d scream. I’d scream bloody murder like no serial killer’s ever even dreamed of. I’d wake up the neighbors, I’d shatter windows, I’d rupture eardrums. I still remember the first time I made my father’s ears bleed. I think that that was the first time he ever truly realized that his son wasn’t like other babies.

* * * * *

When I turned 9 years old, I had already accumulated a rap sheet that was longer than most cons. I’d been kicked out of four schools, excommunicated from two churches, killed three puppies, and though no one knew it yet, recruited over sixty men to my cause.

My parents did everything they could think of and then some in trying to help me. If only they know that there was no help for me. They should have thrown me into a lake with stones tied to me, or saved some time and just bashed me in the head with those stones instead. Not that that would have stopped me, but it certainly would have spared them.

But I’ve got them some credit, my parents were resilient. I almost find myself impressed by their actions. I don’t know if it was my father’s pride, my mother’s inability to believe that her son could be so rotten, or something else, but damn it if they didn’t do everything in their power to try to fix me. But trying to fix me was like trying to lasso the moon for your lover: It might happen in a movie, but you’re not doing it in the real world. So try as they might, my parents’ mission remained unfulfilled, the only thing stemming from their attempts was the slow destruction of their wills to exist.

* * * * *

Eventually, they gave up. I came home late one night, and my mother wasn’t waiting for me in the armchair of the living room. Good thing, too, because the bloodstains on my shirt probably would have made for awkward conversation. I have to admit I was disheartened though. There was no one there to lecture me, to tell me that I shouldn’t be out at 2 AM on a Wednesday night. That I was only 14 years old and that I had to go to school in the morning. Right then, in the closest thing I had ever shed to a tear up until that point in my life, my eyes drooped. I had pushed away the only two people in the world who loved me.

I rushed up the stairs, taking three at a time, and skidded into my parents’ bedroom. My mother was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of the room, knitting a scarf. It was blood red, and I remember thinking that it was a peculiar color to wear around your neck. My dad was in the bed, his back against the headboard, staring me right in the eyes. It was as if they were waiting for me.

Then I saw the gun in his hand. He pointed it at my chest and pulled the trigger. As I lay in a growing poodle of my blood, my father kneels down beside me. He brushes aside my unkempt hair, and says, “I know you’re not going to heaven, but maybe since you died while you were feeling compassion and remorse, you’ll be forgiven for some of your sins.”

I contemplated what he said carefully as life left me, but forgiveness wasn’t on my mind. No, there would be no heaven for me. I looked forward to my rebirth and my chance at destroying another set of parents. A smile crept onto the dead lips as my blackened soul sank from my corpse, flowing throw the floorboards, and making its way back to its master.

A Dance With the Devil

2010-11-30T21:47:00.000-08:00

An elderly man sat before him. He was dressed in a well-worn gray suit, all the color faded except for the brass buttons which looked to have been recently polished. It was evident that the man was paralyzed: his pants were too loose, his legs failing to fill them out. His chest and arms swelled enough to make up for it, especially considering his age. His face was weathered, wrinkles cracked over his forehead, heavy dark circles under his eyes, yet he was clean shaven and still appealing enough. Darkly shaded glasses rested just before the point of his nose, his eyes scanning the black leather book in his hands.

Rick noted the man with a curiosity unbecoming of a man of his station. Lawyers were supposed to remain strictly professional, yet this man had a grandfather-like quality that beckoned him to beseech the man’s opinion.

“What are your feelings on religion, Frank?” he asked glancing down at the man, feeling a sense of discomfort as the question left his lips. He felt himself reaching for the verbalized thought, attempting in vain to return it to its proper place: the dregs of his mind.

A sly grin appeared on the elderly man’s withered lips. His eyes rose to meet Rick, and for the first time Rick was able to see the man’s white eyes. It had been a long time since those eyes had been able to observe their surroundings, but they met his easily.

The sightless eyes’ ability to find his left him unsettled. “Sorry, Frank. I just saw that you were reading the bible, so I thought—.”

His lips parted, but those white eyes never left Rick’s. “You are wondering why a man who can’t see is reading the bible?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his raspy voice. Frank had been one of the few men in his line of devotion who smoked.

Rick felt even more uneasy about his query. It was very personal, asking a man about his faith. “Never mind, Frank. It was a stupid question. I shouldn’t have asked it. My apologies,” he said, finally breaking eye contact and giving his attention to the Persian carpets that adorned the floors of his client’s living room.

The old man chuckled as if he were aware of Rick’s nervousness. He can’t know that I broke eye contact, can he? The thought brought his eyes back the man in the chair.

Frank closed the bible and placed it on the table next to his stuffed armchair. He then brought his hands together, lacing his fingers, and leaned back in the chair, resting his bald head on a pillow. “There is no need for apology, my friend. And indeed, you are my friend. You’ve been my lawyer for what, 12 years now?” he asked.

“14, sir.”

“Oh that’s right,” he replied, unlacing his fingers and moving them to the arms of the chair. He was silent for some time. “It’s really been 14 years since Helen passed.”

Again, Rick couldn’t maintain eye contact, so his eyes ventured forth into the living room, admiring the bookshelf beside the man’s armchair, the fire softly crackling in the far wall, and the collection of globes, mathematical instruments, and statuettes that were littered throughout the room. They ornamented several small tables that were scattered across the room. There were sheets upon sheets of paper, all scribbled on until there was no more space to write, resting on those tables, as well. Why is he writing? It’s not like he can ever read it again. Frank lived alone.

Frank broke the silence, Rick’s eyes finding the white ones waiting. “Back to your question, Rick,” he said.

Rick’s sense of unease returned, the calmness allotted to him by appreciating the room’s relics fleeing quickly. He grasped fruitlessly at the escaping serenity before settling into his disquiet. “It’s really okay, sir. It was an inappropriate question. You really don’t need to answer it.”

Frank’s haunting laugh echoed through Rick’s mind, his white eyes seemed to concentrate hard on Rick, somehow becoming even whiter. Rick silently shuddered, encircling his arms around him.

“Cold, Rick?” Frank asked. “There are several fine coats in the closet in the hallway. You’d certainly be entitled to borrow one.”

Rick’s mind was racing. How the hell did he know that I shuddered?

“No, I’m fine. The fire’s keeping this place plenty warm,” he replied. “Why did you think I was cold anyway?”

Frank’s mouth crested into a small smile. It was a genuine smile. It reached his eyes.

Rick felt all the hairs on his body rise, expressing his sentiments better than words ever could. There’s something wrong here.

Frank started again. “But back to your question, Rick. My views on religion? Well, they are many, and they are varied. As a man of God, a priest you would say, I viewed religion as a way for people to find their way in life. A way for people to learn what it was that the Lord wanted them to do. Sinners would come to me asking for forgiveness, and I would grant it to them in the name of the Lord. All they had to do was reveal their dark secrets, repent, and they were forgiven. Clean again in the eyes of the Lord.

“But those were the early days. The Lord took my eyes from me on the first day that I was to give mass at my very own church. I looked at it as a sacrifice. The Lord needed my eyes for a higher purpose, and in a way He was challenging me. He wanted me to rise above my fellow clergymen. I became a sightless priest, yet I did not need eyes to read scripture. Those holy words are forever engraved in my mind, plain as you see here in this book,” he said stroking the soft leather cover.

Rick thought that he had found a perfect opportunity to take his leave. “Well, thanks for that Frank. That definitely clears up my curiosity. I should have known that you’d have memorized the bible. I’d just never seen you reading it before.” Rick turned to go, but a violent cough from Frank turned him back. “You alright, sir?”

Frank coughed again, clearing his throat. “I’m fine, Rick. But you can’t leave yet, I haven’t finished answering your question,” he said, gesturing towards the wooden chair across from him. “Take a seat.”

Rick sighed, took a deep breath and strode towards the chair, taking his seat. He was determined to maintain eye contact with the blind man this time.

“You see, I preached at that church for thirteen years. Families from all over the state would come to hear my Sunday morning mass. I guess you could say that I gathered quite a gathering. Men would give up their seats to women and children and stand in the back. Or so I’ve heard.

“Of course, I couldn’t see these people. These wonderful people of faith that came from so far to hear my words. It broke my heart that I couldn’t see their smiling faces, that I couldn’t witness the guidance that I gave them take hold of their hearts. But I thought that I could feel it.”

Frank stopped and pursed his lips. Rick’s comfort level was returning to normal, and he felt brave enough to ask his client a question. “So what happened after those thirteen years, Frank? Did you retire?”

Frank’s mouth tightened up, and Rick’s unease poured back. He had never seen the old man this angry before. Frank loosened his lips, and snarled, grinding his teeth. Then he cracked his neck and continued, “No, Rick. I didn’t retire. One night, while I prayed before the foot of my bed, a voice came to me. For a moment, I felt enlightened. God had visited me! After all of these years of challenging me and putting through extreme adversity, He was here to shower me with His praise. I sang the Lord’s Prayer and raised my head to the heavens.”

Frank closed his eyes for a moment, and his face took on a look of forced calm. “Then I heard a chuckle. A deep, guttural chuckle. I lowered my head and stood up, and when I turned around, the Devil stood before me. I fell back, my hands finding a pillow, and I held it in front of me as a shield. I dropped the pillow. I could see. My eyes were working. I began blinking rapidly, believing myself to be having a terrible dream.

The devil shook his head and laughed at me. He said ‘Frank, do you really think that He would visit you? After everything he’s done to you, you still do good work in His name. I just don’t understand humans sometimes.’ I held my cross in my hands and uttered a silent prayer. Then I faced the devil. ‘God has plans for everyone, and they are different for all us. My path has just been harder than most, but it only means that I will be rewarded for my strength in heaven!’

“The devil threw back his head and laughed. ‘Fine. If you truly believe that God has such great plans for you then I offer you this challenge. If I win, I get your soul, and if you win, I will submit myself to God’s judgment and will leave your eyes restored.’ Immediately, I became elated. This was my destiny! I was to be the one that ended Satan’s reign. I was a chosen one. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal there, Lucifer.’ The devil smiled, convinced of his triumph, yet I had faith in the Lord, and I knew that He would save me. ‘What is this challenge?’ I asked.

“Satan smirked, ‘It’s a simple one. All you have to do is give your sermon on Sunday morning.’ I instantly laughed, ‘That’s all? I do that anyway.’ I grinned, confident of my ability to reward God for his choosing of me as the slayer of evil. The devil looked at my grin and returned one to me. ‘You will give your sermon the same as you do each Sunday, only this time you will be able to see your faithful. There is only one rule: you must not let anyone know that your sight has returned.’ With that, the devil spun on the spot and was gone.

“I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep. I would finally be able to see all of the people that came to hear my words. The people that came from so very far to hear me preach.”

Rick was leaning forward in his chair, his jaw dropped. He envisioned the devil appearing in his own bedroom and shuddered. What on earth is going on? When did Frank go mad? Rick couldn’t hold in his curiosity, “What happened at mass, Frank?”

Frank’s face curled inward, his expression grotesque. “I waited at my door like I did every Sunday morning, awaiting the arrival of one of the altar boys. They would lead me to the church since I couldn’t manage it by myself. I heard a knock on my door and I opened it. An altar boy took me by the hand and led me on my way. My house was about half a mile from the church, but back then my legs still worked, so I enjoyed the short walk. I kept my eyes closed the entire time despite the sunglasses I wore. I knew the devil to be a cheat, and he would look for any reason to deem my challenge a failure.

“We reached the church, and the altar boy led me up the stairs and inside. He brought me to the back of the church and helped me put on my robe. As I got ready, I heard the doors opening and closing, announcing the arrival of the church members. I smiled gleefully. I was very excited to see their faces, but I kept my eyes closed, so instead visions of the devil danced in my mind.

“The doors continued to open and close as people poured into the church. Their footsteps echoed off the pews and the stained glass windows that I was about to see for the first time in over twelve years. Finally, the boy told me that it was time to begin, and he led me to the altar. I placed my hands on the wooden surface as I did every Sunday morning to steady myself. I took a deep breath, and then I began to speak. I spoke of the difficulties of staying faithful and happy when life threw you curveballs, and for the first time since I’d lost my eyesight, I spoke of how hard it was for me to stay positive when the light had gone out in my life. I told them that God had needed my eyes for some other purpose, and that instead of eyesight, I had faith to guide me through life. A few claps and murmurs of assent reached my ears, and I smiled.

“When the organ began to play, I thought it would be safe to take a peek at my audience. I lowered my head and reached down as if I was adjusting my belt, but as I came back up, I took a glance outward. What I saw haunted me. There were three people sitting in the church. My mother, my brother’s son, and an old neighbor. Tears began to fill my eyes as I realized the deception. My entire life was a lie.

“I knew he was there before I heard the terrible laugh. I turned and saw the devil snap his fingers. I closed my eyes as the world shook, but when I opened them there was nothing. I was blind again. ‘Are you there?’ I murmured pitifully. The devil snickered and replied, ‘Oh yes, I’m here, Frank. Are you ready to lose your soul?’ I didn’t really think there was any point in fighting, so I nodded. What happened next was so painful that putting it to words is impossible. All I know is that my mind has done all it could to erase it, but my mind’s not really mine anymore, so it doesn’t matter.

“I heard the devil smacking his lips in delight as he devoured my soul, and then he left. He visits me sometimes to let me know that even if God betrayed me, Satan would always be there for me.”

Rick’s face was a painting of horror. “Uh, I think I should go now,” he stuttered. He tried to rise from his chair, but it was as if he was chained down. “What the hell’s going on, Frank?”

“Ah, now that calls for an explanation of the true reason for why I called you hear today,” Frank said slowly. “It appears that the devil has admired some of your recent handiwork. Something to do with a little boy at a rest stop bathroom. Ringing any bells?” The look on Frank’s face was pure evil.

How the hell did Frank know about that? Rick was sure that his exploits were entirely unknown. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Frank, and I’d appreciate it if you freed me from this chair.”

Frank bit his tongue and snorted. “Rick, it’s not me that you’re going to need to plead your case to.” Frank looked up from his chair, the corners of his lips rising. “Well, how about that? It appears that you won’t have to wait too long to discover your fate.”

Rick heard the guttural chuckle from behind his chair and screamed.

I'll Let You Guess :)

2010-11-29T20:05:00.000-08:00

I couldn’t have been standing in front of that door for more than a minute, but I swear to God it felt like lifetimes. I could draw it up right now for you if I wanted to—the magnificent cobbled walkway, the stained glass windows with scenes of childhood ecstasy, and the scarlet door that beckoned us forth. I still see it today in my mind, every time I close my eyes. But it’s not the sight that stills me to my core. It’s the smell. That odor that just seemed so wrong.

It’s hard for me to describe. I guess I’d have to start by saying that it stank like fresh baked angel cake, that warm sweet smell that drives your tongue insane. The scent was almost overwhelming, and it took everything in me to take a deep breath and wait for my knock to be answered.

Only there was more to it than that. Behind that sweet smell was a sickly stench that just licked at the edges of my senses. It felt so out of place that I dismissed it at first. My sister, her eyes so full of wonder, never had a chance. As the wait continued, my thoughts kept flickering to that mysterious smell, masked by the glory of sweet wonders you can’t even imagine. Yet the sights were so magical, and the powerful smells so enticing, that I was convinced that I must be imagining it.

I was ever a pessimistic child. My mother had always told me that one day I’d grow up to be a miserable old man, like the banker. He was a miserly old fellow, who didn’t care much for company, but he was rich and he seemed comfortable enough. Growing up to be like the banker wouldn’t be too bad.

But my mother was dead now, and in her stead, my father had placed a wicked woman who wanted nothing to do with us. She drained my father of all his resources and poisoned his mind while we slept. She convinced him that he could no longer support my sister and me, and being a simple woodcutter, he had no chance in the argument. Still, I don’t pretend that I never wished for a father with more backbone.

Maybe I was right to be so negative all the time, so I thought that it must be the constant doubt that was clouding my opinion about this majestic house.

Surely, this day was different than all the others. We had wandered our way so deep into the forest that we had become lost, and just when we felt that all hope was gone, a puff of smoke sparked a glimmer of hope. My sister climbed a tree, for she was the more adventurous of us, always exploring the woods near our home and mingling with nature. She constantly chided me for acting so old, spending all of my time with my nose in a book or a pen in my hand. It appeared that for once, her wildish ways were to an advantage.

She climbed high into the trees, so high that I eventually couldn’t see her though I could still hear her rustling through the branches. I waited patiently at the foot of that great elm. It took her longer to reach the top than I envisioned, and the gurgling of my stomach reminded me that we hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was tough to tell in such a dense forest, but I estimated that it was approaching dinner time. I silently cursed myself for not bringing along a basket of goods, but escaping with just ourselves had been difficult enough.

Eventually, the rustling stopped and a whistle called my attention. I whipped my head in her direction and heard her call, though it was muffled by the leaves: “There’s a house not too far from here. If we hurry we can make it before dark.”

Her guess turned out to be accurate, and we arrived just as the sun was setting. The final blaze of light illuminated the house in all its beauty, and it is here where we return to the start of this story.

The door opened and any thoughts I had of strange smells disappeared with the sunset. A hooded woman stood in the doorway, her back bent so low that I had to kneel to see her face. I regret that kneel almost immediately. An ugly, wrinkled face, tinged a light greenish hue greeted my eyes, and I had to swallow a shudder. She coughed violently, spraying phlegm onto my cheek. I fell back in disgust, but my sister rushed forward to take the old woman by the arm. The woman whispered something into my sister’s ear, and my sister then led her into the house. I had no choice but to follow.

I stepped through the doorway and was instantly blinded by the smell. I know it sounds strange, to be blinded by a scent, but I’m telling you the truth—my eyes were forced shut and my body was engulfed with rapture. I’m still not entirely sure what happened next, but the next thing I remember is tripping over what I prayed was an animal bone and falling onto my hands. When I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by thick metal bars. After my initial bewilderment, I glanced up and saw the old woman, her back now straight, smiling viciously at me. She licked her lips and then slammed the cage door shut. I threw myself at the cage door, but it was no use. All I accomplished was a bruised shoulder.

The next few weeks were the most terrifying of my life. Thank the Lord that the woman was blind because otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. She began giving me loads of delicious food, which I accepted eagerly at first, until I took a closer look at the bones that littered the floor. There was no doubt; they were human bones. She was trying to fatten me up.

My sister was enlisted into the old woman’s service. She was so intoxicated by the old woman’s sweets that she obliviously assisted my demise. She even helped the woman brew the stew that I was to be cooked in. I delayed my death by holding out a bone to the blind woman, ensuring her that I was not gaining weight. She took the bone to be my emaciated finger, and for a time, she waited. Her patience eventually waned, and she turned her sights on an entrée of an entirely different flavor: my sister.

The old woman lured my sister to the stove, promising the treats of her wildest dreams if she would come check the temperature. My sister was easily swayed and almost skipped to the stove. She lowered her head towards the opening and just when I was sure that she would be thrust into the glowing embers, my sister jumped back and shoved the witch into the oven.

The old woman’s howls were silenced as my sister shut the stove door. My sister then rushed over to me and unlocked my prison. I appreciated it, but I was also extremely frustrated. “Why did you wait so long to save me?”

My sister looked at me with pursed lips. “You were getting fed, weren’t you?”

I was silent for a moment and thought about that. I certainly wasn’t going to be able to get food anywhere else. My father had kicked me out of his house, and I had no other family to speak of. I smiled and glanced at my little sister, “You’re a clever one. You are.”

She smiled satisfactorily and said, “Thanks.” Then she tugged me up. My muscles felt like they were on fire as they stretched properly for the first time in weeks. I made my way towards the door, but my sister pulled my arm. I asked her, “What are you doing?”

Her eyes pinched inward. “What am I doing,” she asked. “More like where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You want to stay here?”

My sister chuckled. “We have a house now! And wait until you taste this candy.” With that, she took off running up the stairs of the little house. Our home.

The sickly smell lingered as the witch broiled in the oven, but after a few weeks the smell was gone. We never did open that stove again, but there was another one.

We still bake that angel cake, hoping that if there are any lost children in the woods, they will find their way to our house.

How the Bum Got His Fix

2010-11-29T08:08:00.001-08:00

James blinked. His eyelids felt like cinderblocks, but he managed to force them wide. Sunlight scored his eyes, and he quickly closed them, covering his face with his hands.

God does my head hurt. James slowly opened and closed his eyes, adjusting them to the harsh sunlight. It was hot. His shirt was already moist and clung to his skin. A cough racked his chest, and he soon found himself hurling up whatever he had eaten last night. James looked around, surveying the alley he had woken up in. It was a narrow one, cracked pavement separating two gray buildings. There was a dented trash barrel a few yards from him, so he struggled his way towards it. He sifted through the garbage—some rotten Chinese food, a few apple cores, and a pile of yesterday’s newspapers—before he found what he was looking for.

James pulled a bottle from among the rest of the trash, and inspected its eroded description. Ah, gin. He put his lips to the glass and desperately sucked for the contents. A small stream made its way down his throat, and his bloodshot eyes gleamed in delight. A small grin appeared under his dirty, raggedy beard. That should last me an hour or so.

Having had his morning wake-me-up, James decided he ought to figure out where he was. He ambled his way out of the alley, his ankles cracking from the exertion. He came onto the sidewalk, admiring the generous view from an approaching woman’s skirt. The woman, olive-skinned and curvy, noticed him eyeing her and quickly made for as wide a circuit around him as she could. The woman’s aversion didn’t bother James. He kept on leering at her luscious thighs. Not going to let a little attitude ruin my view.

As the woman’s figure stalked farther and farther away, James turned his attention towards his surroundings. There was a fair amount of traffic, which meant it was probably somewhere around 2 o’clock. How the hell did I sleep that late?

James spent the rest of the day wandering around the city in pursuit of happiness. He stopped at all the usual spots. He rummaged through the garbage behind some of the finer restaurants, eating whatever he could find. He also went to the bottle collection at his favorite liquor store and scrounged up what he could.

He managed to get himself rather liquored up. So much so that he decided he would go for a swim in the ocean. It was a good way to clean up, as well. He did try to stay clean, but it was rather difficult when you found yourself waking up in garbage on most mornings. Of course, inebriated swimming probably wasn’t a very good idea because James soon found himself vomiting seawater on the sand. He was so exhausted that he walked up to the boulevard and passed out on a bench. Nothing wrong with retiring early; he had had a pretty successful day, after all.

Ricky slowed as his car approached a stop sign. He put his hands to his head in frustration and grunted, breathing heavily. He punched the steering wheel with a closed fist.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” asked his friend who was sitting in the front seat. “Why the hell are you punching shit?”

Ricky shook his head. “Man, this shit sucks. How the hell are we going to go to this party tonight if we don’t have any fuckin’ booze?” The light turned green, and Ricky took a right turn, one hand on the wheel with his head resting against his window.

The kid riding shotgun, Eric, tapped his fingers against his head in thought. “How about that kid who was on your baseball team when you were a freshman? The one with the chinstrap? He could buy for us couldn’t he?”

Ricky snorted derisively. “Do you ever read the friggin’ paper, you moron? The chinstrap kid, whose name is Brad, by the way, just got arrested for buying for minors. The cops claimed that he purchased all of the booze for an entire house party. Kids probably going to jail, so I doubt he’ll go to the store for a five fucking dollar tip.”

Ricky noticed Eric's glare from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry, man. I’m just pissed off. Angela asked me to grab her some vodka, and I’m not in the mood to listen to her bitch later.”

Eric laughed. “Well, I can’t blame you for being uptight when you’re facing those kind of possibilities.” He shook his head and gave Ricky an incredulous look. “What the hell were you thinking offering to buy her stuff?”

Ricky gently pressed down on the brake as the car approached a red light. He leaned his neck side to side, hearing a few satisfying cracks. He turned to his friend. “The vodka’s not technically only for Angela,” he said with a grin.

Eric looked at Ricky questioningly. Then laughed. “Which girl is it this time, Rick? Please tell me it’s not Olivia.”

Ricky’s face flushed. “Hell no, you asshole! I would never touch that whale.” He shook his head frowning. “Dude what the fuck.”

Eric’s head lolled about the place emitting sounds of laughter. “Damn, you suck at sarcasm.” He looked at Ricky, who had turned the car left, heading towards the beach. “I was obviously kidding, you idiot. But seriously, who is the broad?”

Ricky pursed his lips and scratched the top of his head. “Amanda,” he muttered.

Eric broke out laughing. “You got to be kidding me, dude. Amanda? That chick is fuckin’ crazy, man! She just broke up with Alex like a month ago, and she’s been on a rampage ever since. Why on earth would you even consider trying to get with her?”

Ricky shrugged. “I’ve dealt with crazier chicks, and besides, she’s got a great ass.”

Eric nodded. “I can’t fight you there. She does indeed have a particularly fine bottom.”

Ricky glanced out the window, enjoying the silence that was so evasive whenever he was with Eric. Of course, it never did last that long. “Which girls that you’ve chilled with have been crazier than this lunatic?”

“I’d say that Julie was pretty crazy,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she had her period for the entire two months I was with her.”

“True,” replied Eric. “But I never heard of her slapping a guy in the face for telling her that he liked her hair.” Ricky turned to Eric, confused. Eric chuckled. “Please tell me that this isn’t the first time you’ve heard this story?”

Ricky pulled his car into a parking spot overlooking the ocean. “Sadly, I’m going to have to admit that I haven’t had the privilege of hearing this one yet? Though I did hear that she did a number on a guy last week who tried to cop a feel on the dance floor.”

“That’s a good one too, bro,” he laughed. “But yeah, last Monday Derek commented on her new hair color in the cafeteria, and let’s just say that she was not very appreciative of his compliment.

Ricky watched the waves crash on to the beach, envisioning the pretty recently-turned blonde girl slapping Derek in front of everyone. His vision really seemed to hark on the red bruise replacing the kid’s usually smug look. “Well, Eric. I really can’t blame her for hitting Derek. He’s a pompous ass, and I’m sure she—just like the rest of us—was just looking for any excuse to slap that piece of work.”

Both of them laughed. Derek was notorious for believing himself to be a player. Ricky had more than one memory of Derek wronging him, so he felt no pity that his adversary had been publicly humiliated. It only made the prospect of getting with Angela that much sweeter. Besides, she was definitely cute, and he loved a good challenge. Why go for a raging slut, when you could try to tame a girl like Angela?

He rolled down his windows and opened the sunroof, letting the cool ocean breeze into the car. He turned off the A/C, and reclined his seat all the way back so that he was looking out the sunroof. The fresh air felt nice on his skin. It had been so hot lately that he’d become accustomed to air conditioning. The sky above had become an almost navy blue. It was nearing seven o’clock. This reminded him of the fact that he still hadn’t gotten any booze yet.

Eric, who had followed Ricky’s lead in leaning his seat back, appeared to have dozed off. Ricky thought about shaking him, but instead turned the radio’s volume all the way up. Eric jumped up with a start, just missing banging his head against the dashboard. “What the fuck, man!”

“Shut up,” Ricky said. “We still don’t have any booze, man! What the hell are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Eric said as he brought his seat back to its regular position. “Why don’t we ask that guy?” he asked, pointing towards a bum lying face down on a bench on the boardwalk.

James grumbled to himself in his sleep. He dreamed of beaches full of beautiful women, clad in string bikinis, each and every one of them wanting nothing more than to please his every wish. His every wish, of course, was another drink. Dream James reclined on a beach chair, the glorious sun washing his body over with warmth. He sipped pina colada after pina colada savoring the strong island rum that constituted most of the drink. He was just getting his lips ready for another go when all of a sudden a huge towering wave appeared out of nowhere, crashing over him.

He awoke with a start staring at some kid, who for some reason decided that today was a great day to go poking homeless people.

“What do you want?” he muttered, rubbing his face. James eyed the young man before him, and then realized that there was another one a few yards back. The kid in front of him looked timid; the other one looked mortified. Guess I’m some kind of modern day monster.

The kid who had poked him bit his thumb nail. “Um, I was just—well, we,” he stuttered, gesturing to his companion, who nodded. “We were just wondering whether you’d want to go to the store for us.”

Were kids really this useless these days, he thought. When James was these kids’ age, he and his buddies would wait outside the liquor store until they saw someone who fit the general description of a potential buyer: basically someone who needed the few nips that a small tip would garner them. They would never have resorted to waking up a bum on the beach. Better to leave him to his death.

James considered the situation. He could keep sleeping, or—“Six bucks,” he grunted.

“Deal,” the poker blurted.

Kiss from a Rose

2010-11-29T08:07:00.001-08:00

Belle wandered the endless hallways of the castle, passing room after room of luxury. She glanced in each as she passed, unsure of what she was looking for, but sure that she would know when she found it. She passed scarlet carpeted rooms, with tables laden with feasts, lanterns bracketed on the walls blazing proudly. One room contained a small fountain in its center, water dancing over a crystal orb, lit only by a small glint of moonlight from the window. Another was filled with statues, many of them Greco-Roman, most certainly originals, yet all were immaculate and unharmed.

The never-ending hallways ended abruptly, reaching a spiral staircase. Strangely, there was no railing. The stairs were of a rusted metal that had seen better days. It seemed a stark distinction from the finery the castle had formerly displayed.

Belle hesitated, noting the difference in the air. It was cooler by the staircase. The air was stale and smelled of mold. The silence was unnerving. Belle wondered why the lavish hallway would lead to such an ugly thing. She expected a grand dining hall with tables running across the room, adorned with silver plates and crystal glittering from the firelight. At least, that had been her idea when she had left the library.

The hair on her neck rose, and she suddenly had a violent feeling that someone was coming for her. The feeling arose from the hallways she had just come from.

Still, the staircase in front of her, without any railing or carpeting of any kind, did not give her any motivation to ascend. She stalled, but then hearing footsteps echo from the hallway, she dashed for the first step.

She tripped on the stair, fell and skinned her shin. Blood began to seep to the surface of the cut, and she cursed herself for wearing such a short dress. She realized that she had released a distressed yell, and hurriedly resumed making her way up the staircase.

It was higher than she had thought, and climbing it quickly was difficult without any railing. She nearly slipped again as she began, and then kicked off her dress shoes, feeling much more comfortable on her own feet. Her speed increased dramatically, and she thanked God that she spent so much time barefoot outside. She looked forward to explaining to her mother that her lack of ladylike qualities had actually benefited her for once. Then a shadow danced across the wall, and she swore she saw fur and teeth. She quickly focused on climbing.

It took her a few more minutes to reach the top, but it felt like hours. She was sweating profusely now, and her dress clung to the hips tighter than was comfortable. She paused for a moment to catch her breath, but then heard the surprisingly unmistakable sound of claw grinding on metal. Fear struck her like a shattered bell, and her breath caught in her throat. She ran forward, blindly making her way through the dimly lit corridor that she had ascended to. The corridor went on for what felt like miles, but Belle’s bare feet padded along the stone floor in a rhythm that would have made Gaston blush. Her hair flew behind her, streaking like a cape.

She noticed the wooden door just in time to slow down. She put her hands up against it, panting, her exhaustion finally allowed to take control.

The door fell inward, and with it fell Belle. Her adrenaline brought her to her feet in an instant, and she threw her arms out in front of her like a drunken boxer. There was no one there. She quickly inspected the room, but realized that no one could be hiding in it. The door must have fallen open when she put her weight on it.

It was a small square room with a black lacquered table in the center. Light fought its way into the room through slits in the ceiling. The light shone, like a single ray from the sun, onto the center of the table. A half-filled vase basked in the light, a lone flower dressing it. Belle approached the table slowly, her eyes filled with wonder at the sight of the flower.

As she reached the table, she realized that it was a rose. It was blood red, the red of the deepest wine and of the deepest kiss. Its petals were slightly parted at its outermost, yet they were closed at the center, protecting its heart. The rose was the most beautiful thing that Belle had ever seen in her life. All she had ever wanted was forgotten and replaced with the rose. She bent her down, hoping to breathe in its essence.

She didn’t hear the creak as the door opened, didn’t hear the stride of heavy paws towards the table, and didn’t hear the knife leave its sheath. Hers was the taste of the roses and their nectars consumed her as the blade plunged deep into her heart.

I watched as her body fell forward. Her head lull as it hit the ground. She lay, back straight, with her face looking towards heaven. Her dead eyes were filled with ecstasy.

The vase followed her to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces, but I didn’t hear them. The rose had fallen out of the vase, and it fell slowly through the air. It landed, as if by magic, on her left breast, its thorns kissing tip of my knife.

I looked down at this scene—this beautiful dead woman in her white dress, blood pouring from her wound—yet all my eyes could see was that rose.

Its petals fell apart as I watched. It was dead. I won’t lie, in that moment I did shed a tear. It’s not every day that a woman steals your heart.

A Medieval Affair

2010-11-29T08:06:00.003-08:00

The party wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. His invitation had included phrases like “gourmet buffet”, “decadent furniture”, and “sophisticated social interaction”. He had envisioned a magnificent grand hall, with blazing chandeliers and a feast from some medieval celebration. Aaron shook his head and surveyed the room: the “gourmet buffet” was set atop a 6x2 tables (sans tablecloth) and upon inspection was home to a single block of dry cheddar cheese, a few sleeves of the local grocer’s take on Ritz crackers, and some purple grapes that were more vine than fruit. There wasn’t even any punch, let alone wine. The table looked like it ought to be at a high school art gallery reception. He sighed. At least those had cookies.

The “decadent furniture” turned out to be fold-up metal auditorium chairs from middle school set in front of cheap imitation-wood tables that were remarkably similar to the table hosting the “gourmet buffet”. Aaron sighed, and looked around the room, hoping that the party’s “sophisticated social interaction” would be less disappointing than its meager fare. He spotted a trio of gentleman a few tables away and approached them.

“Did you see the dunk Shaq threw down in the first quarter?” asked one man. He wore an awkwardly tight t-shirt that read “Uncle Bob’s Annual Softball Tournament 1983”. Aaron wagered that the shirt severely missed those 80’s summers when its wearer was significantly slimmer.

“Oh yeah,” replied the man across the table from him. He was sweating profusely as he tore into a McDonald’s cheeseburger. A gathering of wrappers on the table revealed that this wasn’t his first. Aaron envied the heavy man’s smuggling abilities. The guy wolfed down the rest of his burger and continued through bites of lettuce, “Those 38-year-old legs looked awfully fresh. Let’s just hope Doc knows how to keep them that way.”

Aaron’s mind drifted. He had no idea why a shack would be throwing down dunks, and he didn’t really care. The “sophisticated social interaction” aspect of this party was just as dismal as the rest of its content. On all accounts, this party failed to live up to its standards.

His attention was brought back to the three men, who had still failed to acknowledge his presence. The third man had begun to cough violently.

The man’s face had looked rather downcast before this episode, but Aaron hadn’t likened it to an illness. He was wearing a white fisherman’s sweater that had been dug out of the closet at least a month earlier than was reasonable. Perhaps, he had a cold.

Aaron’s face flushed as he watched the man’s head fall to the table, scattering yellow McDonald’s wrappers onto the floor. What the hell was happening? The man in the fisherman’s sweater convulsed, spittle frothing from his lips, some of it with a tint that was too red.

Aaron wanted to help, but he had no experience in these sorts of things. He was an aspiring poet, and damn good one in his own humble opinion. He could capture the feeling of budding love or describe the essence of a single blade of grass, but when it came to—well, practical things—he was all but useless.

The other men at the table were oblivious to the writhing pain of their friend, who was now hyperventilating so loudly that Aaron was having trouble hearing himself think. Aaron was terrified. He was also frustrated. Why weren’t the other men helping him? Aaron had a very valid excuse for his lack of initiative: his purpose in life was for the aesthetic betterment of others. Surely, these men, with their adoration of such futile and insignificant topics as sports, should be more inclined to help their fellow man.

Aaron’s face grew red, and after several moments of hesitation, filled with introspection and a careful analysis of the situation, he took a final step toward the table and pounded his fist upon it. The two men turned and looked up, thoroughly confused. The McDonalds eater looked at him with eyes full of disgust, “What do you want, Aaron?”

Aaron was taken aback by the man’s knowledge of his name. How could this stranger possibly know his name? He shook away the question; there would be time for that later. “Why aren’t you helping this man out?” he demanded, his heart beating rapidly at his brazen display of confrontation.

The man in the softball t-shirt sighed, muttering, “Oh lord, not this again,” and put his forehead to his palms. All this time, the man in the fisherman’s sweater condition continued to worsen; it seemed that a heart attack was imminent.

Completely befuddled and angry at the man in the softball t-shirt’s response, he trained his eyes on the McDonalds eater. In his mind, his gaze was so powerful that it must have been boring deep into the man’s soul. The man shook his head and looked towards the ceiling. “Do I really have to do this every friggin’ week?” he asked, more to himself than Aaron.

“What are you talking about?” asked Aaron. “Look at the man right next to you. He’s dying!” Aaron waved his hands wildly about, astonished that the man wasn’t grasping the gravity of the situation.

“Sit down, Aaron,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from the dying man. Aaron contemplated continuing his argument from his feet, but determined that he was a better thinker whilst seated. He also approved of the man’s willingness to engage in this artful sport of educated debate. He took his seat, clasped his hands on his hands on his lap, and brought his eyes up to his opponent.

“Now, Aaron,” he continued. “And no, please do not ask me why I know your name yet, I’ll get to that.” Aaron nodded, satisfied that he would gain that knowledge in time. The man continued speaking, “Each and every night, you wake up; you find a letter embossed in fancy fonts and sealed with a wax signet; you come down here expecting a ball from some King Arthur’s tale; and each and every night you are thoroughly disappointed. Of course, when someone actually dies, you are even more upset than usual, and you judge us on our lack of valor or some other absurd quality that you think we all ought to have.”

Aaron’s mind was swimming. What did he mean he received a letter every night? He had just received the letter a few hours earlier. This was in fact, the only party he had ever been invited to as far as he could remember. Aaron looked up and realized that the dying man had stopped moving. He hadn’t noticed the final cardiac arrest occur, but the man was certainly dead. Aaron whispered a quick prayer to the Lord above, and then turned his attention back to the McDonalds eater.

“Please elaborate,” Aaron instructed.

“Yes, sir,” the man said mockingly. “Aaron, my friend, you are dying of a terminal disease. All of us are. That would be why our friend here, whose name was Albert, just had a heart attack. He had some pretty shitty cancer.”

Aaron’s heart dropped. He had a terminal disease? What the hell was this party? Was this some elaborate prank that his younger brother was playing on him? Robert had always admired Aaron’s intellectual depth. Perhaps he had thought that by undermining Aaron, he could prove himself the better. Well, Aaron wasn’t about to lose this easily. His eyes scanned the room, intent on finding his brother’s menacing figure lurking somewhere.

Aaron continued the conversation, “So my friend, what terminal disease am I suffering from?” Aaron hoped his sarcasm would cause the man’s confidence to falter, which would assure him that this was all a game.

“You’ve got pancreatic cancer,” he replied without emotion. “The doctor said you’ve got a few weeks more at most.”

Aaron opened his mouth to counter, but he was cut off. “You also have some severe memory loss issues. You ever see that Adam Sandler movie?” Aaron shook his head. “Shit, I forgot it was the ‘90s when you were in that car accident. You’ve only been here a few months; the doc says you were living in a mental institution before they brought you here.”

Aaron was shaking, but he managed to ask, “And what exactly is here?”

“This is a housing complex for people with terminal diseases. The founders believed that it was better to let us live our lives out with others rather than being cooped up in a hospital hooked up to a bunch of tubes that only delayed the inevitable. Can’t say I disagree with ‘em.”

Aaron racked his brain, trying to put the pieces together. He didn’t remember a car accident. And had he said that it wasn’t 1998? “What year is it?” he croaked.

The man in the softball t-shirt, who had been silent up until now, brought his head up from his hands. “It’s 2010, bud.”

Aaron’s world crashed. He realized that he had woken up in a room two floors up from this hall. The pieces fit. He began to sob fitfully.

The man next to him, threw an arm around his shoulder, and whispered reassuringly into his ear. “Don’t worry, bud. It’ll all be over soon.”

After he finally stopped crying, he asked the men where his room was and made his way to it. He immediately got into bed, fully dressed, and sulked. After hours of tossing and turning in his bed, struggling to find any hole in the scenario, he had to accept it. He was determined to remember the truth in the morning.

As his eyes finally closed and sleep took him in its embrace, visions of servants scurrying across an elaborate dining hall filled his head. The room was massive, with blazing chandeliers illuminating stained glass portraits of valiant knights, beautiful queens, and sly druids. Aaron smiled and gossiped with the rest of his table. Everyone was beautiful. He sat straight-backed, his poster impeccable. His right hand was at his heart, and he was reciting a ballad about the spirit of the human soul. All eyes were on him. The court scribe had finally received his due.

The Last Vampire

2010-11-29T08:06:00.001-08:00

The corridor opened up to a magnificent ballroom, its rounded glass ceiling illuminating the floor with moonlight. A wooden dance square was set in the center of the room, isolated amongst a sea of dining tables, all of them laden with deep burgundy tablecloths. The polished maple of the square gleamed in the moonlight, and a lone couple danced slowly across the floor, following some unheard rhythm.

A balcony overlooked the floor, almost hidden in the far corner of the room. A lantern, hung in the covered booth, flickered, revealing a solitary figure reclined in a chair. The figure’s eyes were closed. Long fingers hooked around a glass of blood-red wine. Eyes opened slowly, and the glass was brought to lips, white as winter.

The man set the crystal upon a bar adjacent to the chair, spreading dust into the air. The dust reached his nostrils, but he did not cough or sneeze. His eyes, hauntingly bored, glanced around the ballroom, surveying its emptiness. His eyes found the lone couple; color flooded into his pupils.

Emotion and blood coursed through his veins as he admired the rosy flesh of the woman’s cheeks, the plump shape of her swaying body under the black dress. He rose from his chair, black cape flowing behind him. He reached for the glass and drained it, a small red rivulet streaming down his chin. He smacked his lips, paused for a moment, and then leapt from the balcony.

His body plunged towards the ground at a violently alarming pace, yet at the very last moment time seemed to slow. He landed, straight-backed, and strode forward, brazenly making his way to the dance floor. He maneuvered around the tables, annoyed by their random assortment. He reached the edge of the dance floor, and pulled a seat to face the couple. His ice cold hand grasped the top of the leather-backed chair, and he lowered himself into it. He was within a dozen feet of their dance, easily close enough to smell their blood. The hairs on his neck rose, and his dead heart beat expectantly. His pupils were wide and red.

He frowned. The couple had made no reaction to his proximity. They just continued their dance. He wondered for a second if this was a dream or illusion, but the strong scent of blood in the air quickly disproved that thought. He was annoyed by this ignorance, so he left his seat and approached the couple, planning to let them know what he felt of their oblivious behavior.

The smell of blood increased as he closed in on his prey. He licked his lips. He could hear their hearts beating in their chests, but they were still at a normal pace. That would change. He stopped about a foot from them, watching their dance. The woman’s head was nestled on her partner’s shoulder, and they twirled slowly, peacefully.

The smell of blood was so strong. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He reached for the woman’s buried neck. His fingers hungered for her touch. His dead fingers brushed her warm skin, and in that moment he felt ecstasy. His eyes closed, and he drank in the essence of that moment. He slowly opened his eyes. The woman had lifted her head off the man’s shoulder and was looking directly at him. There was no fear in those eyes. She turned to her partner, whispered something in his ear, and they disappeared.

He stood there, shock painting his every expression. The couple had just vanished. They hadn’t flown away, or even evaporated. They were just gone. It was as if they had never existed.

It dawned upon him. It was a trap. But how had they found him? How could he have been so stupid to have not noticed it? The smell of blood had been too strong. He fell to his knees, bracing himself for the silver bullets that he knew would be peppering his chest at any moment. He closed his eyes, wishing that he had some god to pray to.

Beginning of Young Adult Fantasy Novel

2010-11-29T08:04:00.000-08:00

Prologue:

The Wind arose in the peaks of faraway mountains, mountains yet to be seen by man. Its thrust blew the wind through the glacial peaks of its origin, sending it in the direction of the sea. Harsh wind it was, and it brought with it ice as sharp as steel. Castings the ice out into the blue-gray sea, the Wind continued on its journey. The Wind swept out over the ocean, its gaze taking in the rough waters crashing against each other in all directions. Sea life was tossed through the air at the mercy of the sea.

Abandoning its glare, the Wind pushed over a rocky cliff, a direct vision of death along the ever-deteriorating shoreline. The Wind spared not even a casual glance. Its journey was not yet finished, and it knew better than to stall and disobey its master’s orders. It trekked on, scaling a small mountain range—a distant cousin of its home—before flying over a barren desert.

A small gathering of birds attempted to rest within the Wind’s strength and glide over the wasteland. The Wind would have none of that. Increasing its velocity, the wind pushed the creatures beyond their limits, and then paused to admire their quick descents to the earth—to their deaths.

Pleased with its work, the Wind resumed its usual pace, yet it was not one of comfort. Exiting the sands, the wind grimaced as it took in the scene before it, as it viewed the green hills of the plains. Trees dotted the ground in all directions, giving the land a look of illustrious life. Beauty.

The Wind hated beauty. It much preferred the freezing gray of the north, the arctic blue of the storm-ravaged sea. Maddened to a point of blind exhilaration, the Wind swept through the land with reckless abandonment, baring all the trees of their leaves, all the ground of its grass. When the Wind finally exited its momentary rage of insanity, the land was but a shell of its former self. The ground was dry and black. Scattered everywhere were the skeletons of the oaks and pines that had been there only moments before.

Slowing from its exertion, yet laughing wildly at its destruction, the Wind continued on its way, sweeping through the land like the uncontrollable wind that it was. Stone, rising high above the mountain peaks it was encircled by, greeted the wind. Along the tops of the stone, men stood at the ready, armed with crossbows, bows of yew, and spears. Ballistae, strategically placed in the towers of the castle, were manned by soldiers in chainmail. Inside the castle walls, legions of soldiers were gathered. Maces stood side by side with lances. Swords shared terrain with horses. The roofs of the houses were occupied by yet more archers. All in all, the castle seemed to be well protected.

So the men were ready. They knew more attacks would come. No matter. The Wind was surprised by men’s knowledge. Mankind always seemed to be smarter than the Wind gave it credit. Building a stronghold in this high valley was a stroke of brilliance within itself. How could creatures, burdened by bodies, come to be so intelligent? Yet the master never underestimated them. That was why he had sent the Wind.

The Wind chortled at the idea of arrows and blades attempting to obstruct it. It could destroy all of them in a moment if it wished, but that was not its goal. No, the master had been very specific. The Wind had to be careful, or it risked alerting the Wizard to its presence. The Wizard. The one who had repeatedly stalled the master’s plan. The so-called savior of mankind.

Some wizard, the Wind thought, sending men armed with weapons to halt the advance of his master, commander of the elements. Yet the wizard had defeated so many of his brethren, prevailing again and again. Fire, cocky as it was, should have been able to consume mankind with little effort, but the wizard extinguished Fire before it could claim even one life. After Fire’s unexpected failure, the Wind had been sure that Water would be able to wash the humans out. For weeks, rain had spilled upon the castle—ocean’s worth of water had been poured onto the men, yet the wizard had taken the water and distributed it among the seas, even creating a lake where a desert had been.

Water continued its attempt until it had exhausted all of its energy, and with that it was destroyed. The other elements had been shocked, yet the master had seemed unsurprised by the outcome. The other elements had thought for sure that mankind could be easily destroyed. Yet the master continued to be thwarted.

Next, he sent out Ice, an offspring of water, the most powerful of the elements controlled by the master. Ice could rain hail the size of small children among its prey, and it could lower temperatures so low that none but itself could survive. Surely, Ice should have been able to destroy the castle, the last stronghold of men. The master had been confident of Ice’s potential for success. Yet Ice had gone to that valley in the mountains, rained what should have been destruction among the populace, and had been defeated. The wizard had somehow thawed Ice, reducing it to the water that it had been composed of.

The master had been furious. The wizard’s consecutive victories were really weighing on him, so he turned to the last element that he controlled. With the destruction of Fire, Ice, and Water, the Wind was the only element the master had left at his command. He was yet to discover the ability to harness Earth or Air, and Ǣther was beyond even his comprehension. The Wind was his last chance, his last opportunity to strike at mankind.

The Wind knew of its importance, and it would do everything within its power to please the master. The Wind may not be as powerful as Ice had been, but it had its own strengths. The Wind was the stealthiest of the elements, with exception of its cousin, Air. It was invisible for one thing, and for another, it was incredibly fast. Fast as the wind. The Wind knew of its importance, and it also knew of the benefits it would reap if it were the element to complete the master’s task.

Beginning its assault, the Wind scaled the walls of the castle. Finding itself amongst the archers, it crept down the stairs, avoiding the touch of the all the passing soldiers. The Wind slowly made its way around the soldiers and buildings within the castle, gradually edging towards its destination. Passing the barracks, where a legion of swordsmen stood attentively listening to an officer, the Wind finally saw where to go. The master had described it as a small shack, likened to look like it had seen countless winters. The home of the wizard. According to the master, the wizard slept during the day, resting so that he could unleash his powers with the aid of the moon and stars. The Wind, satisfied with his success so far, pondered about his next move. How do you kill a wizard? The master had never really explained how to go about it.

He just had to do it. He would go into the little shack and rip the wizard apart. Pausing for a moment to consider what he was about to do, the Wind thought about what he had to lose. All of his fellow elements had been defeated by this Wizard. Why would the Wind, obviously the least powerful of the elements, be able to overcome what his betters hadn’t been able to do? The master had sent him last. Perhaps, the Wind was his secret plan.

The Wind shook off any doubt that he had, and then without any more hesitation, the Wind rounded up its entire supply of gust and sprung open the door. Filling the entire one-room building with its high-speed winds, the Wind wreaked havoc in the wizard’s shack, destroying everything within the walls. Internally smirking at his work, the Wind slowly swept through the wreckage, searching for the wizard’s corpse.

After a few seconds of inspection, it became evident that the wizard wasn’t amongst the refuse. Startled, the Wind quickly blew outside the house. Scanning the castle streets around the ruined shack, the Wind couldn’t see the wizard anywhere. Panicking now, it swept through the streets glancing in every direction in search of the wizard. He couldn’t leave without killing the wizard. What would the master say? The Wind, having run out of ideas, decided he would have to do something to get the wizard’s attention.

The Wind started gathering its entire supply of wind gust in preparation of blowing the castle town apart. If the Wizard wouldn’t confront it when in ripped apart his house, the Wind would just have to arouse it through other means. By killing his people. Having swelled to its furthest extent, the Wind released its rage—nothing happened. Instead of decimating the entire area, the Wind was frozen in place. Confused, the Wind began to panic, only it couldn’t move.

Chuckling in a bemused manner, the wizard stepped out from behind the wreckage of his house. With a snap of his fingers, his shack resumed its former shape. With his head raised to skies, the wizard kept laughing. “Did your master really think that I wouldn’t be able to overcome the Wind? The Wind? Ice is a more worthy opponent, and I dispatched it with ease. Well, I guess we’ll see how well your master can do without his elements.” With the culmination of his speech, the wizard pulled open his robes. From within its depths, he collected a flask. Opening the flask, he initiated an ancient magic, sucking the element into its depths. With a shrill cry that pierced the air, scattering the ravens that had gathered in on the scene, the Wind was collected in the wizard’s flask. The wizard, smiling satisfactorily, collected himself and walked into his home.

Chapter One:

“Is that really how it happened, grandpa?” asked a young man. A tall lad for his age—just into his teens—he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace that was gradually getting to its last embers. A short beard upon his face and chin and light moustache above his grinning lips, he was a handsome man. A forest green cap covered his unruly dark brown hair. His composure embodied a confidence bordering on arrogance, yet his smile showed that it was merely swagger. Below his appealing face were shoulders as broad as any woodsman, and his muscular arms were exposed under the tight white shirt he wore. He wore a vest that matched his cap over his shirt, and he wore tan pants above his boots. Boots with character. Boots that had seen many hours in the forest.

Chuckling, the elder man responded. “That’s what the stories all say, lad. But who’s to know if the legends are true or not? That’s for every man to find out for himself.” Then noticing the pint-sized girl at his knee, he added, “or herself.” The small girl smiled up at her grandfather, and he winked back at her, his eyes twinkling beneath his brow.

Bran, always curious, sat befuddled across from his grandfather. “What’s wrong, Bran?”

Shaking his head slowly, Bran said, “Nothing. It’s just that, well, what did the master do after the wizard defeated the Wind?”

“There’s no shame in that question, my boy. It’s one that’s been asked for ages, or well, since the wizard defeated the Wind. As far as my knowledge goes, I have come to some conclusions myself. I personally believe that the master is still out there, biding his time. I believe he is either trying to resurrect his defeated elements, or worse, he is attempting to harness the ability to control the other elements. If the master were able to control Air, Earth, or the gods help us, Ǣther, he would be able to attack a very vulnerable land. No one has seen hide or hair of the wizard, and most think him dead, which leaves our land undefended. Man alone, as strong as he is, cannot overcome the power of the elements.”

Taking in what his grandfather had just told him, Bran paused for a few moments, his eyes revealing his thought process. “Grandpa, what do you think happened to the wizard?”

A bemused look spread across the old man’s face, and his eyes shone with a sense of knowing. “Now, that my boy, is a tale for another time.” With that, he gathered himself. Ethan rose, accompanied by the sounds of his cracking bones. Yawning as he rose, he addressed his grandchildren. “Well, it’s well past my bedtime, so I know that means it’s past yours, too.”

“But grandpa, I want to hear another story. What happened to the wizard?” pleaded the young girl, gazing into his eyes with her hazel eyes.

“Now, now, Juliet. If I tell you all of my stories tonight, then I shall have none to tell you tomorrow night. Besides, as tired as I am right now, I won’t be able to give any story the justice it deserves. Be patient, dear one. Tomorrow is not so far off as it seems.”

“Grandpa is right, Juliet. And anyway, I know you must be as tired as I am, so you’d fall asleep midway through his story even if he did tell it.” Then scooping up his little sister into his burly arms, her brother began carrying her to the staircase.

“You listen to your brother, Juliet. He’s a bright one, Bran is. Now, you two get some sleep. Bran, we’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest. Give that book a rest for a night. It’s exhausted, it told me so itself.”

Turning back to his grandfather, Bran gave him a smile, and wished him a goodnight. Juliet had already begun her journey towards to sleep in his arms. Her little eyes were closed, and her long eyelashes rested upon the top of her cheek. Smiling at his little sister and then giving his grandfather a final nod goodnight, he turned and began to ascend the staircase, avoiding those stairs that would creak and awaken her. After Bran had climbed the stairs and softly shut the door to his room, Ethan reclined in his wooden, rocking chair. Creaking softly as he rocked, the chair’s frame held the old man in its reliable arms. Thinking soundlessly to himself, Ethan contemplated the next day’s activities. He would send Ethan into the woods with his bow, for their meat supply was getting dangerously low. He would have to go to the town for supplies, and he would have to take Juliet because she was still too young to stay at home by herself.

Sighing at his burden, he wondered when his son and his wife would return to their rural home. It had been over two months since they left for the capital, carrying with them a letter. A letter intended for the prince himself. A letter illustrating the impending danger of their land that all the folk seemed oblivious to. Ethan feared the worse. Knowing the prince’s character, he worried that their news would not be accepted warmly. The prince had always been a hero to his people, and he would not want to cause them any panic. Ethan feared that his son would be imprisoned for his letter—imprisoned for the truth. Yet the prince was naive enough where he would turn his cheek to the truth if it were not a truth he wanted to hear.

Ethan wondered how much longer he could wait before he took action. Sooner or later, he was going to have to investigate the circumstances of his son’s whereabouts and conditions. Sooner. He would need to leave soon—as soon as possible. He would take Bran with him; he could use a strong, young man like him, even if he did lack experience. But what would he do with Juliet. He couldn’t take her with him, but where could he leave her that was safe. Sighing, he knew the answer: nowhere. Nowhere would be safe in only a few weeks’ time. Rumors of it had been murmured across the countryside for months, even years in some areas, yet he had always dismissed them as idle gossip. Yet now even he could ignore the signs. Even if the prince failed to acknowledge it, the master had resurfaced, and no one could predict his next move. It was time for the Wizard to come out of hiding.

Chapter Two:

Bran woke just as the sun was breaking the dawn. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, yawning at the exertion. He unraveled the blankets that were tangled around his body and rose to his feet. Pulling a clean shirt from the dresser over his head, Bran fumbled around for his boots. Locating them, he pulled them on and walked out of his bedroom. He descended the staircase in relative darkness, groping the railing as he went. He worked his way gently down, so as not to disturb Juliet, who would be asleep for many more hours.

Creeping across the wooden floors of his living room, Bran made his way towards the kitchen, curious as to the whereabouts of his grandfather. Ethan always seemed to be awake before Bran, no matter how early he rose. Scanning the kitchen for signs of the old man, Bran released an icy cold breath. The fire had gone out some hours before the dawn. It was cold. Bran hoped that his little sister was warm enough in her blankets, for it would surely be just as cold in her room upstairs. It was cold enough that Bran could see his breath linger in the air each time he exhaled. He hoped that his grandfather would not need him to work outside for too long.

Bran examined the kitchen, searching for any sign of the old man. He knew he had to be around here somewhere—he had not been in his chair in front of the fire, and if he were still sleeping, he certainly would not have let the fire extinguish itself. More likely, he had awoken and put out the fire himself. Bran always wondered what his grandfather did in the mornings; there had to be some reason that he awoke so early, hours before the dawn. What work could he be doing in such darkness? Bran was sure that he read a little bit; his grandfather always had a nose in one of his books. Bran had gained his appreciation of reading from his grandfather, who always stressed that reading gained its reader knowledge, and nobody ever had too much knowledge. But what else could he be doing at such an early hour He usually prepared a breakfast for Bran and Juliet, but he had to make Juliet’s much later, or it would get cold. Surely, it didn’t take Ethan hours to cook his breakfast. What else was he doing? Maybe he was doing some chores that Bran didn’t know about, or maybe he was in his study adjourning the living room. Maybe he did just read the whole time.

It was frigidly cold in the kitchen. Where was his breakfast? His grandfather would always lay his breakfast down on the kitchen table, yet the only contents on the wooden table’s surface were a few books, a quill, and a collection of leaves that Juliet had gathered the other afternoon. Juliet was always fascinated with nature, no matter what the season. In the spring, she would enthusiastically run around the house, gazing at all of the plants that were just starting to bloom. She would pick the prettiest flowers she could find, and she would decorate the house with her findings, much to the delight of their parents. In the summer, Juliet would relish the opportunity to lie in the blaze of the sun, delighted by the warmth. Then when she got too hot to continue lying there, she would get up and run to the little pond in the forest. The pond was small, and in most areas it was shallow enough where Juliet could stand without having to swim. The water was cool, as little sun could warm its depth through the trees above it. Juliet would splash in the water to her little heart’s content, and most of the time, her grandfather would join her, or he would watch her from the trails aligned with the pond, smiling at her joy. In the winter, when the snow covered the ground with a soft layer of its gift, Juliet would bundle up in her sweater, mittens, and hat—all knitted by their mother—and she would make forms with the snow. She’d build little houses with the snow, making her own little village, decked out with church, granary, and houses. When she was feeling especially ambitious, which was most of the time—Juliet was always an energetic child—she would build palaces with the snow. She always imagined that she was a princess, so she built herself castles worthy of her majesty.

Now that it was fall, Juliet loved to collect all of the colorful leaves that fell from the trees around their home. She was saddened by the hibernation of all of the plants, yet she was old enough now where she knew that they would be back in the spring. Smiling at his little sister’s collection, Bran sat himself down at the table, taking up one of the wooden chairs that his father had made a few summers back. He drew a deep breath, inhaling the crisp cold of the fall air, and hoped against hope that his day would consist of light chores that were in close proximity to the house. He envisioned a day with a few hours of chopping wood then building an efficient fire that would warm the whole house, leaving his family comfortable. Then he would play with his little sister, engaging in her simple activities that brought her such enjoyment. Bran sighed. He hadn’t been able to have a day like that since his parents had left on their mission. He brooded over the very real potential of a long, cold, miserable day.

“Not afraid of a little cold, are you lad?” Bran jumped clear out of his seat at the words of his grandfather. The old man stepped out from the shadows of the ancient hutch, a mere five paces from the table, chuckling aloud.

Easing out of his startled state, Bran’s breathing began to resume its normal rate. He sometimes wondered if his grandfather could read his mind. Then he shook his head at the absurdity of the thought. “Of course not, grandpa. Why would you think that?” Bran asked as he sat back down in the chair.

Flashing that knowing smile of his, the old man, his gray-silver hair tinged with a few streaks of black, relaxed into the high backed chair opposite Bran. “Oh, no reason,” he said, his face expressionless. “It just looked like you were examining your visible breath with an air of apprehension. But of course, I should have known better. A strong, young lad like yourself—you’re practically built like an ox. You’re obviously not afraid of a little cold, which is excellent considering what you must do today.” He spoke with but a small smile on his face, yet his eyes seemed to be hiding a significant amount of glee. Then he added, “You might want to bring that coat of yours though, it’s pretty cold out even for someone like yourself.

Sighing at what he knew would be the long, cold day he had predicted, Bran asked, “What do I have to do today, grandpa?”

“Don’t look so down, my boy. It’s not like I’m sending you to muck out stables or anything like that. No, you’re going to hunt for some game today. Some venison would be nice, and a boar would be even better though I’m not sure that you’d be able to take one down.” A twinkling in his gray eyes revealed that he was challenging Bran. Bran knew better than to get into an argument with his grandfather. The only way to beat him was to do what the old man though he could not. So Bran’s face reddened a little bit, but he didn’t respond.

Ethan paused his speech for a moment, measuring his grandson’s poise. “Not to put any pressure on you, lad, but I’m not sure where our next meal is going to come from if you don’t catch anything. Our meat supplies are dangerously low, and I don’t dare risk allowing Juliet eating any of it. We haven’t had fresh meat in some time. If you are unsuccessful, we’re going to have to sell some things in town to buy food. My books or something, if we can find a buyer.” His expression had dimmed significantly since he’d started the conversation. Ethan had set a fairly grim mood with his ultimatum.

Feeling his grandfather’s sorrow, Bran attempted to cheer him up. “You really think I’m going to have any trouble getting us food? With my aim? I know you’ve seen me shoot a bow before, grandpa. No one in town can shoot anywhere near as good as me, not even father.” His confident smile lingered well after he finished his claim.

Chuckling, Ethan grinned, revealing a cheerful smile. A welcoming smile despite his chipped tooth, his grandfather’s smile always brightened the mood, and it made Bran’s heart smile when it was because of him. “Your confidence will be the end of you, boy. But I admire your spirit. I truly do. We could do with more people like you in the world right now.”

His last few words confused Bran. What was wrong with the world right now? Shrugging away his confusion, Bran thanked his grandfather, a satisfied smile upon his face. Pausing for a second, Bran uttered with a bit of uncertainty, “Uh, grandpa?”

“Yes, my boy, what is it?” asked the old man with sincerity.

“Well, uh.” Thinking silently to himself as he formed the words he would say next, Bran’s face revealed his worry.

“What’s wrong, my boy? Are you nervous about the hunt? You seemed pretty sure of yourself only a short time ago.” Ethan spoke with a hint of a smile on his lips, yet when Bran shook his head, Ethan paused for a moment. “It isn’t the cold, is it?”

Bran shook his head again. He took a deep breath, and then he spoke his mind. “I was just wondering. Well, when do you think mother and father are going to come back? They’ve been gone for a long time, haven’t they?” Bran finished his question by closing his eyes for a moment.

Ethan cast his head down for a moment, having noted the redness in his grandson’s eyes. He felt Bran’s pain, for he missed his son and daughter in law very much. He slowly brought his head back up, having thought of an appropriate response, and took in the view before him—his grandson distraught. “I don’t know, Bran. I truly don’t know. But worry not, we’ll help them soon enough. For now though, clear your mind and concentrate on the hunt. Just think about feeding Juliet. I am sure that that will motivate you to keep going if you are struggling.” Ethan paused for a moment, then smiling at his grandson, he added, “We need to eat and refuel ourselves if we are to help your parents, my boy.”

Bran, smiling through his welled up eyes, nodded to his grandfather. He rose from his seat, and moved towards his grandfather, the old man moving at the same time. They met in front of the table, and they embraced. It was a lengthy hug, and before they broke apart, Ethan looked up into his tall grandson’s eyes and said, “Bran, we will help your parents, don’t worry. I have a plan, but I need some time to work on it.”

They separated, and Ethan continued. “By the time you are back from the hunt with your deer, I will fill you in, and we can get started.”

Chortling softly, Bran said, “A deer? Who said anything about a deer? I’ll be back with a boar, and a fully grown one to boot.”

Ethan smiled at his grandson, his eyes a little red, as well. “Yes, you will, lad. You certainly will.” Then glancing around the room, he noted the leaves on the table. Feigning anger, the old man shouted, “Now, what has Juliet been up to? What did I tell her about respecting where we eat?”

A clamor came from the staircase, and a few moments later, a small girl came into view. Wiping sleep out of her eyes, she said, “But grandpa, aren’t they pretty? I thought they’d make our breakfast prettier.”

Ethan smiled adoringly at his granddaughter. “Of course they did, little one.” Juliet responded by leaping into his frail arms. Frail arms that held a lot more strength in them than Bran had thought. Bran had always thought that his grandfather’s strength had waned significantly with age, but sometimes it seemed as if he were as strong as Bran. The old man could still swing an ax through a tree as well as anyone else around, and he could do it quicker than anyone else, too. Where the strength came from, Bran was unsure. It certainly didn’t come from his skinny arms. Ethan never ceased to amaze his grandson.

After swinging the little girl in a circle for a minute or so, he placed her on the kitchen floor. Then smiling at both of his grandchildren, he said, “Now, let’s see about some breakfast. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I could eat an entire boar right now.” Then he glanced down at Juliet, “or maybe a little girl.”

Squealing, Juliet shouted, “Grandpa, you can’t eat me!” Then she jumped back into his arms.

Chuckling aloud, Ethan said, “Of course not, my dear. I must have forgotten.”

Bran could only laugh at the eccentrics of his grandfather.

Armageddon

2010-11-29T08:01:00.000-08:00

The apocalypse began pretty much you’d expect it would. Earthquakes shook the earth, ripping apart cities and causing tsunamis that rampaged the shore. Flaming asteroids pelted the ground, starting forest fires that raged across the countryside. Buildings crumbled over the turbulent earth and crashed onto homes causing a domino effect that seemed mildly ironic.

God watched the destruction from above, a small a part of him tinged with regret. He felt responsible for their demise. He didn’t regret the apocalypse; that had always been planned. He was more frustrated that his creations were so futile. When he’d created man all that time ago, he’d thought they’d be more evolved by this point. He hadn’t expected such compassion from these beings. His other creations had been much more motivated. God had created natural selection to remove the weak from existence, allowing only those who were strongest to survive. In each and every one of his other creations, the beings had not just ignored the weak, they had often killed them, and because of this evolution and adaptation had occurred rapidly.

Here on Earth, his humans had cared for their elderly, their sick, their crippled, and their mentally weak. This care had hindered their evolution; humans were less than half as developed as God’s other creations.

God sighed, wondering what this meant. Of course, he knew what it meant, but that doesn’t mean that you get to find out.