Arel's arm wrapped about Sheila's waist, the two walked off the premises of the publishing company, leaving behind their work which held so much of them in it. Little did they know, they had just set in place a metaphysical question that would consequently affect one man's life forever.
"Did you just get that weird feeling" Arel said, stopping suddenly.
"Yeah," said Sheila, unsure how to put words to the feeling she knew he was referring to.
Arel continued, "Like we just walked through a "little did they realize" moment?" He wouldn't have had the bravery to make note of the feeling to anyone else. He looked over at Sheila who he was still holding close. She was looking off while she returned his thought, "Yeah, that was weird."
The pair walked on, shaking off the feeling. Questions of metaphysics often catch people off guard.
-------------------------------
Sword blade exploded out of the troll's back, not just stabbing through him, but ripping him apart with grotesque force. That was the strange quality of this sword, it added explosive power behind every swing and thrust. Enemies, when hit with this sword, were decimated. With a rather careless treatment of the power at his finger tips, Leo whipped about the blade, obliterating foes with every swing. The scales that made up his armor had once been black as night, but now they were blood-stained red.
"Arel, that doesn't make sense!" howled a little Sheila, from her place in the game. The stick fortress she stood under was poor as fortresses go, but was a rather impressive lean-to, particularly to be the handy work of a 6 year old.
"What do you mean?" Asked little Arel, a bit annoyed to be taken out of the heat of the battle. "And stop calling me Arel! Its LEO!" as he said the name, his ten-year-old sized chest puffed out a bit.
"Blood turns black when it stains!" Said Sheila.
"How would you know?"
"Trust me," her blue eyes narrowed, as if to insinuate something. "I know."
Arel's eyes widened while the silence made her point increasingly more chilling. There were few six-year-olds that could give Arel the chills like Sheila could.
"It doesn't matter," Arel figured it fruitless to stress the point, "I have blood all over me and that's the point. Now go back into the fortress and I'll save you."
Sheila walked back inside, her head up like a princess. The sticks of the fortress were not very tightly woven together, so Arel was able to see her then crouch down in a very un-princess like fashion. He thought for second to ask what she was doing, but then thought better of it. Shaking his head a bit, Arel put it out of his head while letting their fictitious world come back in. The woods behind Sheila's house melted away, the bare autumn trees became the black towers of a castle. All around him, foes began taking shape. Gripping his sword, which left body parts rather than whole bodies, Arel, or rather, Leo, threw himself into their ranks. The adrenaline took over in the spinning and slashing. It could also be said that Arel's imagination took over, the spins that had appeared so visually authentic in his mind, were thoroughly giggled over by Sheila, peering through the stick fortress. Leo, though, heard none of this. He hacked down the last of the vicious ghouls, to see an armies worth more, but with bows behind him. Their arrows were cocked and soon the sky went black, the steal turning toward him to tear him apart. Without hesitation, Leo was running the other way, ferociously toward the tower he knew he'd find shelter and his princess. His feet pounded the ground knowing any moment the sting of steal cutting through him was only moments away, but hope was just 10 feet. He threw himself in the door way of the tower, but the door didn't give way. It was locked. Leo spun around, raising his shield in the last second, his eyes open to see the glimmer of the arrows closing the last few feet. Then all he saw was the back of his shield and felt the ricochet; the barrage was like a hail storm from hell. When it ended, Leo peeked out of the door frame. Just above him he saw the tower had been darted with arrows and, with a knew plan of action, he leaped for the nearest one, grabbing it and pulling himself up to the next. There was a window and a light flickering from it. Like he was running on just all fours, he was to the window in no time.
"So where's my princess?!" Leo said it like an invitation to be hugged. Instead, he was greeted by two red eyes. Suddenly the source of the flicker was clear: it was the flame of the dragon crouched in front of him. With wide eyes, Leo was suddenly being thrown out of the castle by the force of the dragon's pounce. Rolling on the ground, Arel tried desperately not to crush in the much smaller dragon-Sheila, but she was thoroughly
a dragon. The two rolled across the leaves, rolling to a stop with one right next to the other.
"I thought you were supposed to be a princess!" Arel said, shooting an annoyed glance to the blond dragon, who only gave a little growl in response.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The If Before I Left (part 1)
Arel rocked a bit in his seat, nervous about the meeting they were about to walk into. Sheila, who was next to him, holding his hand and sitting with perfect posture, seemed completely calm, but he knew she had her own way of handling stress. They had put a lot of time and energy into their book, so both knew that the other was feeling the pressuring weight of the meeting they would walk into in a moment. One moment and all their efforts would be brought under the knife and be thoroughly dissected. Arel swallowed at the thought. His eyes were locked on the door, when he felt a squeeze in his hand. He looked over at Sheila who was looking back at him with her captivating blues, which seemed eloquent at times. At the moment they were saying every comforting word he knew and even some he didn't know. Arel squeezed her hand back before kissing her forehead.
He let a smile spread across his face and the lines took over his features.
"Listen Beautiful," he said in a tone which always foreshadowed a comical comment or sarcasm of some kind, "you really need to calm down. Because all this anxiety you're giving off is just completely unnecessary." he was slouched over, looking up at her and still holding her hand, which he kissed when he finished. She gave a coy smile, which carried its own affection.
"Riiiight, what will you ever do with me?"
"Kiss you," and he kissed her hand again. Sheila rolled her eyes at his romantic gestures, but Arel knew she loved it.
"Are you two Arel and Sheila?"
They both looked up at the man who was inquisitively standing over them. His suit suggested he was a big deal, but his smile didn't boast anything but his genuine kindness.
"Yeah," Arel said, shooting up out of his seat, maybe a bit too quick."Are you...?"
"Atticus Knight," the man offered a hand as he introduced himself. He was not the vicious publisher Arel expected to be pitching to. Nor was he as old as Arel expected. Atticus couldn't have been older than 30. He shook Sheila's hand then walked them into his office around the corner. As they all took their seats an array of thoughts pounded Arel all at one time; he was a poor multi-tasker, thus he founded the barrage rather stressful. His blue button down was probably too wrinkled; he shouldn't have let Sheila gel his hair up; he shouldn't have worn jeans; his tie looked funny with the vest he chose; all of these thoughts prodded him and evoked a nervous energy to cause his leg to fidget. Sheila put her hand on it and his mind quieted. Luckily, Atticus had been facing the other direction sorting something out in his filing cabinet.
"So you two have something to show me? A book I hope." He said turning from his filing cabinet to them, his face inviting their work.
Arel needed no invitation."Ah, yes we do!" He was quickly in and out of his bag with the manuscript. He could feel Sheila's eyes follow the pages they had put so much into, as they were leaving their hands and passing on into another's, onward toward destiny.
"Great! I'm looking forward to this," he said, passing what Arel considered an almost mothering look over the pages. "I've heard a lot of good stuff about you two. Quite the artistic pair I've gathered. You do everything from Youtube to street corner spray painting to writing."
Was this real? Some clouds must have made room for the sunlight to pour in, because the room had become significantly brighter to Arel. He looked over at Sheila, who grabbed his hand as she returned the look.
"Well," Arel began, trying not to let the following words show his improved ego. "We try." Short and simple seemed the best approach.
"We push each other." Sheila added, probably recalling the late nights spent in front of a canvas, with Arel acting as moral support while he sketched the scene in their jointly used sketch book; the countless film projects Arel would throw together for their Youtube page; and all the coffee shops they spent the day in just writing till every word of their vocabulary was used up and the rest of the day could only be spent in silence in front of a T.V. screen, watching a sitcom. The memories of writing were the most recent. They had taken up countless hours from the past several months, but were well worth the trade. They had created a finished piece. All the complaining Arel had heard about how much he was complaining about how much Sheila was complaining about how hard he pushed them on those days when the roles weren't completely reversed. They were a pair alright and now they were a pair of authors.
"So," Atticus began, preparing to word the big question. "What am I about to read?"
There was no small answer to this question and the two had to turn to one another and share a quick glance, as if to decide through eye contact, who would respond. Sheila did a sort of nod mixed with a motion of her brow, giving Arel the go ahead. There was an honor to this. He turned to Atticus and with a strange sense of confidence, said, "You're gonna read about us, actually."
Those were the only words Atticus heard. He was sold, already, without any further explanation. He hadn't been hyperbolizing about what he thought of the young couple. There was something about them that caught his curiosity. How did such an artistically gifted couple get together? now knowing the book would be based off of their lives, his thoughts were wired on reading that book. So, no sooner had he said his goodbyes and sent them on their way, than was the manuscript in his right and a soft drink in his left, while he was kicked back with the rest of the afternoon reserved. As a publicist, Atticus was inherently an avid reader. Books were other worlds to walk into and at the moment, he was in the world of little Arel and little Sheila, neither of whom could recall a time before they met.
He let a smile spread across his face and the lines took over his features.
"Listen Beautiful," he said in a tone which always foreshadowed a comical comment or sarcasm of some kind, "you really need to calm down. Because all this anxiety you're giving off is just completely unnecessary." he was slouched over, looking up at her and still holding her hand, which he kissed when he finished. She gave a coy smile, which carried its own affection.
"Riiiight, what will you ever do with me?"
"Kiss you," and he kissed her hand again. Sheila rolled her eyes at his romantic gestures, but Arel knew she loved it.
"Are you two Arel and Sheila?"
They both looked up at the man who was inquisitively standing over them. His suit suggested he was a big deal, but his smile didn't boast anything but his genuine kindness.
"Yeah," Arel said, shooting up out of his seat, maybe a bit too quick."Are you...?"
"Atticus Knight," the man offered a hand as he introduced himself. He was not the vicious publisher Arel expected to be pitching to. Nor was he as old as Arel expected. Atticus couldn't have been older than 30. He shook Sheila's hand then walked them into his office around the corner. As they all took their seats an array of thoughts pounded Arel all at one time; he was a poor multi-tasker, thus he founded the barrage rather stressful. His blue button down was probably too wrinkled; he shouldn't have let Sheila gel his hair up; he shouldn't have worn jeans; his tie looked funny with the vest he chose; all of these thoughts prodded him and evoked a nervous energy to cause his leg to fidget. Sheila put her hand on it and his mind quieted. Luckily, Atticus had been facing the other direction sorting something out in his filing cabinet.
"So you two have something to show me? A book I hope." He said turning from his filing cabinet to them, his face inviting their work.
Arel needed no invitation."Ah, yes we do!" He was quickly in and out of his bag with the manuscript. He could feel Sheila's eyes follow the pages they had put so much into, as they were leaving their hands and passing on into another's, onward toward destiny.
"Great! I'm looking forward to this," he said, passing what Arel considered an almost mothering look over the pages. "I've heard a lot of good stuff about you two. Quite the artistic pair I've gathered. You do everything from Youtube to street corner spray painting to writing."
Was this real? Some clouds must have made room for the sunlight to pour in, because the room had become significantly brighter to Arel. He looked over at Sheila, who grabbed his hand as she returned the look.
"Well," Arel began, trying not to let the following words show his improved ego. "We try." Short and simple seemed the best approach.
"We push each other." Sheila added, probably recalling the late nights spent in front of a canvas, with Arel acting as moral support while he sketched the scene in their jointly used sketch book; the countless film projects Arel would throw together for their Youtube page; and all the coffee shops they spent the day in just writing till every word of their vocabulary was used up and the rest of the day could only be spent in silence in front of a T.V. screen, watching a sitcom. The memories of writing were the most recent. They had taken up countless hours from the past several months, but were well worth the trade. They had created a finished piece. All the complaining Arel had heard about how much he was complaining about how much Sheila was complaining about how hard he pushed them on those days when the roles weren't completely reversed. They were a pair alright and now they were a pair of authors.
"So," Atticus began, preparing to word the big question. "What am I about to read?"
There was no small answer to this question and the two had to turn to one another and share a quick glance, as if to decide through eye contact, who would respond. Sheila did a sort of nod mixed with a motion of her brow, giving Arel the go ahead. There was an honor to this. He turned to Atticus and with a strange sense of confidence, said, "You're gonna read about us, actually."
Those were the only words Atticus heard. He was sold, already, without any further explanation. He hadn't been hyperbolizing about what he thought of the young couple. There was something about them that caught his curiosity. How did such an artistically gifted couple get together? now knowing the book would be based off of their lives, his thoughts were wired on reading that book. So, no sooner had he said his goodbyes and sent them on their way, than was the manuscript in his right and a soft drink in his left, while he was kicked back with the rest of the afternoon reserved. As a publicist, Atticus was inherently an avid reader. Books were other worlds to walk into and at the moment, he was in the world of little Arel and little Sheila, neither of whom could recall a time before they met.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
A Legend Yet Written Of...(part 3)
Clair had never been one to need anybody, but Clark was not the type who took well to not being needed. Especially back then, he thrived on being useful. It never seemed to be a bad quality till he met Clair.
"Long distance doesn't usually work in my experience." said the school teacher who Clark had already a small amount of appreciation for; this comment hadn't helped his position in Clark's book.
"Well, we're making it work." The attempt at confidence was audibly shaky.
The school professor simply nodded a bit, his thick gray beard hiding the slight smirk that briefly came across his face. He walked back to his podium and began addressing the class once again about the history of their world, its great importance to them, and that his opinions were perfect in every way shape and form...blah...blah...blah. Clark's thoughts gradually disintegrated along with the attention he was paying to the lecture. Was their really an imminent doom on all long distance relationships? Were the percentages really going to work against him? The thought of losing her seemed ridiculous. How could he be with anyone else?
When the bell rang, Clark didn't lose a moment leaving the classroom. He dodged students crowding the halls which were built taller than they needed to be and lacking the width that the daily student trampling suggested was necessary. When finally he made it to his locker, he opened the door and automatically his eyes locked in on the picture hanging from the inside of the door. Clair, a blond, blue-eyed gem whose image Clark let reflect in the pools of his dark eyes almost as if to let the image burn into them. Are we doomed, he thought. The idea brought on by the history teacher was ricocheting across the thoughts of Clark's mind and seemed to be leaving a path of destruction wherever it went. Then it suddenly occurred to him that that history teacher didn't know him. He didn't know Clair either. Her image hanging on his locker hung perfectly across the lenses of his eyes, in his own mind. In their she had been idolized as a never failing and never changing goddess, hadn't she?
The memory is a funny thought now, so many years later and so far from the experience and of course the emotions surrounding it. Thinking of the irony of it all makes Clark laugh a little as he drags the still unconscious body of the bandit across the forest floor. Autumn leaves crunch with every step he makes and are pushed aside by the body being pulled behind. Before their interrogation had ended, the bandit, who it was discovered was a fairly young lad after a removal of his mask, simply passed out. Apparently he was a bit more jumpy than Clark had realized. One threat demand later, he was on the ground. So, now with the hope that the kid had truly been the only one out in the woods, Clark is forced to drag the vandal through the woods to the nearest ranger checkpoint, the hope being, when they get there, they have a radio to contact a jailing truck as well as a cell to hold him the night or till the jailing truck arrived. A side benefit would be a trail bike to get back to the city.
Clark drops the grip he has on the boys collar, shaking the tight soreness from his hand. Only a moment later, he is off again, his other hand dragging the boy. Why had he been thinking about Clair? Thoughts of her seem trivial at the moment, like teenager gossip, but still thoughts of her are arising. Why? At the end of the story, he was lonely. She left him and he realized he had nothing else to fall back onto. Loneliness ebbed on the periphery of the days immediately following and with it, Loneliness's close friend, Depression, hung nearby as well. A sad tale indeed, but, comfortingly enough, an old one too. So, again, Clark wonders with a half-hearted curiosity, Why do I keep thinking about ancient history? As often happens, Clark's mental conversation starts becoming verbalized, "Well, I'm feeling a bit lonely right now." says Clark, his only audience the passing trees and his unconscious companion. "That could be it. I'm lonely and thus I am recalling a memory of another time when I felt loneliness. Makes sense...Not really. Then, I had no one waiting for me at home like I do..." The next word should have been "now," but it falters on his lips as an epiphany hits him: I really like Rain. The thought is so pleasant to think about that Clark tries saying it, "I really like Rain." A smile grows with every word. The snort of a stifled chuckle behind Clark spins him around. His formerly limp companion, quickly snaps into fetal-position with Clark's sudden movement. Clark's gun aimed at his head, the young bandit is frozen to the spot.
"Oh-god-don't-shoot!" The phrase slurring together in his panic.
"Hands where I can see them!" The bandit thrusts the hand of the good arm into the air, a nervous shake taking over his arm and continuing down the rest of his body. "Good. Now..." Clark pauses, feeling himself in a somewhat awkward position.
"Oh man I didn't mean to laugh." Fear mixed with the pain of the broken arm hanging limply at his side causes the bandit's voice to waver. "I like rain too man. Very peaceful..."
"Shut up!" Clark can't help but be a bit annoyed the bandit caught some of his thinking-out-loud. The idiot has no idea Rain is the name of his girl.
"Oh-god, just cuff me man! I'll go quiet! I swear!" The kid's shaking evolves into a grovel, his face to the ground, hands up, pleading.
Handcuffs would be fantastic about now, but the only thing is..."I didn't bring any."
The statement must have taken a moment to process because the bandit freezes for a moment, his hands even stop jittering,"Why the hell not?!"
"I - I didn't think I'd need them."
The head of the bandit slowly raises till it is looking directly up into the 9mm barrel. "You were gonna..." And then his body goes limp. Once again, he becomes the quiet and quite useless companion. Clark lowers his weapon, then he raises it for a half second, thinking how nice it would be to not have the dead weight as well as avoid another awkward confrontation with his simple minded prisoner. He lowers the gun again. He's just a kid.
As he grabs the kid by the collar and once again plods onward, he thinks about Rain. Gosh golly she'd make much better company.
"Long distance doesn't usually work in my experience." said the school teacher who Clark had already a small amount of appreciation for; this comment hadn't helped his position in Clark's book.
"Well, we're making it work." The attempt at confidence was audibly shaky.
The school professor simply nodded a bit, his thick gray beard hiding the slight smirk that briefly came across his face. He walked back to his podium and began addressing the class once again about the history of their world, its great importance to them, and that his opinions were perfect in every way shape and form...blah...blah...blah. Clark's thoughts gradually disintegrated along with the attention he was paying to the lecture. Was their really an imminent doom on all long distance relationships? Were the percentages really going to work against him? The thought of losing her seemed ridiculous. How could he be with anyone else?
When the bell rang, Clark didn't lose a moment leaving the classroom. He dodged students crowding the halls which were built taller than they needed to be and lacking the width that the daily student trampling suggested was necessary. When finally he made it to his locker, he opened the door and automatically his eyes locked in on the picture hanging from the inside of the door. Clair, a blond, blue-eyed gem whose image Clark let reflect in the pools of his dark eyes almost as if to let the image burn into them. Are we doomed, he thought. The idea brought on by the history teacher was ricocheting across the thoughts of Clark's mind and seemed to be leaving a path of destruction wherever it went. Then it suddenly occurred to him that that history teacher didn't know him. He didn't know Clair either. Her image hanging on his locker hung perfectly across the lenses of his eyes, in his own mind. In their she had been idolized as a never failing and never changing goddess, hadn't she?
The memory is a funny thought now, so many years later and so far from the experience and of course the emotions surrounding it. Thinking of the irony of it all makes Clark laugh a little as he drags the still unconscious body of the bandit across the forest floor. Autumn leaves crunch with every step he makes and are pushed aside by the body being pulled behind. Before their interrogation had ended, the bandit, who it was discovered was a fairly young lad after a removal of his mask, simply passed out. Apparently he was a bit more jumpy than Clark had realized. One threat demand later, he was on the ground. So, now with the hope that the kid had truly been the only one out in the woods, Clark is forced to drag the vandal through the woods to the nearest ranger checkpoint, the hope being, when they get there, they have a radio to contact a jailing truck as well as a cell to hold him the night or till the jailing truck arrived. A side benefit would be a trail bike to get back to the city.
Clark drops the grip he has on the boys collar, shaking the tight soreness from his hand. Only a moment later, he is off again, his other hand dragging the boy. Why had he been thinking about Clair? Thoughts of her seem trivial at the moment, like teenager gossip, but still thoughts of her are arising. Why? At the end of the story, he was lonely. She left him and he realized he had nothing else to fall back onto. Loneliness ebbed on the periphery of the days immediately following and with it, Loneliness's close friend, Depression, hung nearby as well. A sad tale indeed, but, comfortingly enough, an old one too. So, again, Clark wonders with a half-hearted curiosity, Why do I keep thinking about ancient history? As often happens, Clark's mental conversation starts becoming verbalized, "Well, I'm feeling a bit lonely right now." says Clark, his only audience the passing trees and his unconscious companion. "That could be it. I'm lonely and thus I am recalling a memory of another time when I felt loneliness. Makes sense...Not really. Then, I had no one waiting for me at home like I do..." The next word should have been "now," but it falters on his lips as an epiphany hits him: I really like Rain. The thought is so pleasant to think about that Clark tries saying it, "I really like Rain." A smile grows with every word. The snort of a stifled chuckle behind Clark spins him around. His formerly limp companion, quickly snaps into fetal-position with Clark's sudden movement. Clark's gun aimed at his head, the young bandit is frozen to the spot.
"Oh-god-don't-shoot!" The phrase slurring together in his panic.
"Hands where I can see them!" The bandit thrusts the hand of the good arm into the air, a nervous shake taking over his arm and continuing down the rest of his body. "Good. Now..." Clark pauses, feeling himself in a somewhat awkward position.
"Oh man I didn't mean to laugh." Fear mixed with the pain of the broken arm hanging limply at his side causes the bandit's voice to waver. "I like rain too man. Very peaceful..."
"Shut up!" Clark can't help but be a bit annoyed the bandit caught some of his thinking-out-loud. The idiot has no idea Rain is the name of his girl.
"Oh-god, just cuff me man! I'll go quiet! I swear!" The kid's shaking evolves into a grovel, his face to the ground, hands up, pleading.
Handcuffs would be fantastic about now, but the only thing is..."I didn't bring any."
The statement must have taken a moment to process because the bandit freezes for a moment, his hands even stop jittering,"Why the hell not?!"
"I - I didn't think I'd need them."
The head of the bandit slowly raises till it is looking directly up into the 9mm barrel. "You were gonna..." And then his body goes limp. Once again, he becomes the quiet and quite useless companion. Clark lowers his weapon, then he raises it for a half second, thinking how nice it would be to not have the dead weight as well as avoid another awkward confrontation with his simple minded prisoner. He lowers the gun again. He's just a kid.
As he grabs the kid by the collar and once again plods onward, he thinks about Rain. Gosh golly she'd make much better company.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
A Legend Yet Written Of...(part 2)
As the bandit presses all his weight on top of the knife, likely thinking this will be his only chance to finish off the ranger, Clark redirects the knife off to his left, into the ground while with his right hand, thrusting a chop into the bandit's throat. That movement was one of many that years of training had drilled into Clark. In many of his fights, the movements just happen. The bandit's hand instinctively tries to nurse his throat, while the opposite arm is fully extended in front of Clark who quickly collects it, then breaks it. The shock of pain causes him to lurch his head back and give out a cry, but before he can take another breath, a knife is at his throat and Clark is behind him. The man's cry withers to a sob, as he begins realizing the predicament he is in. The victory holds little satisfaction to Clark. He is all to aware of the greater danger at hand. After a quick look around the wooded landscape, Clark brings his attention back to the whimpering bandit.
"Where are the others?!" Clark growls, but the man only continues to whimper. "Are you listening?!" Clark presses the knife tighter to the man's throat, "Answer me!"
"I'm listening! I don't know what you want!" The bandit's voice is horse from the blow to the throat. "What do you want?!" He also seems earnestly confused by the inquiry of the others Clark had simply assumed must be near by. Bandits don't travel alone.
"The others! Where are they?!"
"I didn't see others. I only saw you when you attacked me."
"I meant your friends! You idiot!"
"Friends?" The man's voice is still panicky, but there is now tone of confusion as well.
He isn't even on the same page. So there must really not be others around if the bandit is assuming by others Clark meant others on Clark's side. Unfortunately there isn't any others on Clark's side. If there were, this mess could be resolved much quicker. Clark thinks about Lexi, who had a wicked sense for lies. He would have had no problem getting the truth from this worthless bandit. But Clark is alone. A sudden awareness that he and the bandit have been sitting too long hits him. Clark gets off his knees, hoists the bandit up by his hair, and surveys the quiet woods. Are they really alone? With the whimpering bandits hair still clenched in his fist, Clark slowly revolves in his spot, scanning the woods. A lonely echo resonates off of every tree and in every dark corner of the wood. It resonates in his mind for a moment as he thinks: Why, Clark, are you always alone?
"Where are the others?!" Clark growls, but the man only continues to whimper. "Are you listening?!" Clark presses the knife tighter to the man's throat, "Answer me!"
"I'm listening! I don't know what you want!" The bandit's voice is horse from the blow to the throat. "What do you want?!" He also seems earnestly confused by the inquiry of the others Clark had simply assumed must be near by. Bandits don't travel alone.
"The others! Where are they?!"
"I didn't see others. I only saw you when you attacked me."
"I meant your friends! You idiot!"
"Friends?" The man's voice is still panicky, but there is now tone of confusion as well.
He isn't even on the same page. So there must really not be others around if the bandit is assuming by others Clark meant others on Clark's side. Unfortunately there isn't any others on Clark's side. If there were, this mess could be resolved much quicker. Clark thinks about Lexi, who had a wicked sense for lies. He would have had no problem getting the truth from this worthless bandit. But Clark is alone. A sudden awareness that he and the bandit have been sitting too long hits him. Clark gets off his knees, hoists the bandit up by his hair, and surveys the quiet woods. Are they really alone? With the whimpering bandits hair still clenched in his fist, Clark slowly revolves in his spot, scanning the woods. A lonely echo resonates off of every tree and in every dark corner of the wood. It resonates in his mind for a moment as he thinks: Why, Clark, are you always alone?
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
A Legend Yet Written Of...(part 1)
Her heart couldn't have been held by a hand that trembled more. So it slipped through his finger tips and faster than he could recollect it, the shattered pieces were strewn across the floor. How did this happen? The metaphor of Clark's reality seemed to play vividly in his mind over and over again ending on the wreckage before beginning again. Why was he so stuck on the cause of that slip up rather than moving forward and picking up of the pieces? Clark could visualize her face, like a delicate vase careening to the stone floor, as she said the words that would ultimately shatter the future he had once hoped to have with her into just a dream. Why did his mind continue to question the cause when the mess still left a path un-tread-able? Why should the answer to any of these questions matter now? Clark never bothered answering them back then? Now, 4 years later, in the light of a new relationship, Clark simply hopes to never see the mess of that dingy hallway memory again.
Clark hardly ever thinks of that past anymore, but sometimes he wonders if that will ever come back to bite him. Like there might be something he is forgetting that he really should remember. After a thought like this it is his usual practice to mull over the missing memory, but since nothing ever comes to mind, Clark goes on with his day, keeping his mind on his duties, like for instance, the bandit he is wrestling to keep from plunging a dagger into his chest...
Clark hardly ever thinks of that past anymore, but sometimes he wonders if that will ever come back to bite him. Like there might be something he is forgetting that he really should remember. After a thought like this it is his usual practice to mull over the missing memory, but since nothing ever comes to mind, Clark goes on with his day, keeping his mind on his duties, like for instance, the bandit he is wrestling to keep from plunging a dagger into his chest...
Friday, August 12, 2011
Another Late Night Spew for You
Hey...You,
You devoted reader you. It seems my writing has been scattered, each entry far from one another and inconsistently so. They also seem to be happening at night. Night's are really when my creative juices do the most churning.
Tonight I talked to very inspiring people who are a good amount further into their lives and who gave me their perspective, which I perceived dimly and enjoyed thoroughly. Their encouragements were in the form of blunt observation followed by solid solutions. I really needed that and didn't even realize I needed it.
They talked about working an independent business and addressed my concerns with it. Somehow, they gave me a picture of how it could fit into my current passions and even push them forward. They also made me realize how few mentors I have. I need to get some of those...
Tonight was also a brilliant night with my girl, who made every guy wonder, "How the heck did he manage to get her?" as we paraded with my sister and our friend Steph, through the streets of National Harbor. All in all a brilliant night, both fun and self-reflecting.
God, help me focus on what I know would please you, to help me find my focus for the rest of my endeavors. I need you for all of this, I can only be truly happy if ALL I do is glorifying you.
You devoted reader you. It seems my writing has been scattered, each entry far from one another and inconsistently so. They also seem to be happening at night. Night's are really when my creative juices do the most churning.
Tonight I talked to very inspiring people who are a good amount further into their lives and who gave me their perspective, which I perceived dimly and enjoyed thoroughly. Their encouragements were in the form of blunt observation followed by solid solutions. I really needed that and didn't even realize I needed it.
They talked about working an independent business and addressed my concerns with it. Somehow, they gave me a picture of how it could fit into my current passions and even push them forward. They also made me realize how few mentors I have. I need to get some of those...
Tonight was also a brilliant night with my girl, who made every guy wonder, "How the heck did he manage to get her?" as we paraded with my sister and our friend Steph, through the streets of National Harbor. All in all a brilliant night, both fun and self-reflecting.
God, help me focus on what I know would please you, to help me find my focus for the rest of my endeavors. I need you for all of this, I can only be truly happy if ALL I do is glorifying you.
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