The Chronicles of Jack: The beginning

The other side on the shadows.

There is no question to what we are. We are timeless, we are forever, we are damned. I don't know how we became this way and I don't know if there is a cure. Is there a cure for a soul so black? No, we are here; surviving and thriving on your scraps. What you toss casually away becomes our treasure, our life line. A discarded news paper tells us when we need to lay low. A dejected wino becomes an easy meal. And when the night folds in on you, when you feel like there is nothing left to life for. We are there to pick up the pieces and continue on for you. Long before your flesh ever grows cold. Is there an escape, maybe. Maybe hell will take us, maybe this existence is hell. We are uncertain. But given the choice between hell on earth and the pits of endless torment we chose to remain here. Besides, if we left, who would be there to hear you scream?

Jack panted and sputtered as blood gurgled from his mouth. He ran grasping his side where a metal pike had been driven into it moments before. Escape was the only thought that crossed his mind. Escape from that thing. He stopped to catch his breath and felt his life ebb from with in him. One more street, one more door. He could hide, could he hide? Questions spun through his head like a shaking cup on a saucer. The lights ahead began to dim and the alley way beneath him began to warp. No, he had to keep his head clear, he had to run. No time for questions, just run, "RUN!" He shouted and dashed, looking for a door, but the whole world began to wobble and spin. Poor jack didn't have time to go through all five fazes of death. He only had time for acceptance before the alley around him began to warp and the world itself faded away.

Another body lay sprawled across the ground and the beast moved on. Sniffing the air as it did so. It was searching for fresh meat, fresh blood and it found what it was looking for. The ground is littered with bodies now, and the city begins to shrink. It looks diminutive, like an ant hill and the screams become distant, like voices on the wind. Lights flicker, and guns discharge but that is below the clouds now. Not even when the beast found the orphanage could Jack's attention be drawn back. He could only look up at the light that was calling him home.

A New and Exciting Adventure

Well I figure it's about time, about time again for me to write. I have been lax for too long and need to rediscover my muse. I am hoping to have a new installment every Tuesday and Thursday by about 6:00 am. Whether it be flash fiction or an on-going story I hope to have something up. Maybe, just maybe it might spurn someone to read it and critique it. I don't really have anything ready Today however, so I shall present a short paragraph for a story I am working on. Enjoy.

A soft rain was falling on the Burnt remnits of another nameless village. It had an elder who lead in political matters, a lord who represented it in matters of the crown and a priest who reassured the masses that Morrow was watching over them. It was a bustling village full of life, commerce and the laughter of children. It would have been a fine place to raise a family, until I burnt it to the ground. No, that's not fair to say. I wasn't the only who had a hand in the destruction, but I did play my part and was sickened by it. MY stomach tightened in knots and my vision blurred. It could have been the hunger in my belly or the rain in my eyes, but I know that wasn't. My hands were shaking, clasping and releasing, almost nervously. It was the blood on them. There's an old expression that my father used to say, "No man can live in peace as long as there is another man willing to take orders." He's probably shaking in his cell, that is, if he is still alive. But that's another story entirely.

Unhappy Noise

Have you ever wondered why real life has to encroch upon escapism? I have, and I have come to the conclusion that it sucks. Not life, or escapism but just the combination of the two. "Forever spererate, replacing each other as the mood deams." I just want to read, to write, to build a world for people to enter and experience. However, other thoughts occupy my mind. They pull at me, waking and sleep. Finances, grades, relationship concerns. They burden me, and I know I am not alone in this. I know that everyone faces the worries. Like right now, I just want to run up to Charles De Lint and give him a big hug. It might just be the lack of sleep talking, or typing rather, but I just finished "Our Lady of the Harbour," and I feel that its one of the best I have read. A little disapointing, but not at all cliche. I do not fault him because the story did not go the way I wanted it to. Rather I comend him, because I have a way I think the story should go, but I understand why he did it the way he did. I get why it works, the underlining mood, maybe not meaning, but certainly metephore. And I am sitting here all Jazzed, thinking about my transition issues and what I could do better for my own stories. And what does reality do? It glarbs at me, and weighs me down again. I hate it, you know, I hate having to be so serious, knowing that I am not serious enough and that even if I exert more effort it still wont be enough. I just want to follow the Muse, but benality has me so tightly that it invades my dreams! worry, regret, concern. I even sit around thinking about what I would change if I could, how I could make it better. But I don't really know if I could do it, probably just falter. And that's the really anoying thing, that I feel just so darn depressed about it all. I know I shouldn't. I know I have a lot to be thankful for. Probably even enough to think about haveing some sort of faith. I also know these problems will never go away. They will always come in some form or another and if I am not ready for them; if I give up latter like I have given up before, I know they will destroy me. Destroy what I have now, what I will have later. When it all will mater. When I have somthing worth fighting for. Granted, having someone to share the night with brings the future into prespective. The only real problem there is, I see the man I want to be latter, but know I am not him now. And the real scary part is, I don't know if I can become that man. I don't know if I will ever care enough, to really feel and fight for it all. I'm not saying I'm messed up, there are a lot of folks who feel like that from time to time. It happens. But its just irksome when such worries and self examinations envelope the mystical places we hang our hats when we want to get away from it all. When words in a book form commitment, and when classes on theology are held in one's mind. Then, my fellows, it is time to be concerned. Any who, I better get to bed. May the Muse Guide You.
-this post has been spell checked for your convenience-