Benjamin Linus
I usually like writing prose but I have been leaning into poetry more recently. Very big MTG and music nerd.
Benjamin Linus
I usually like writing prose but I have been leaning into poetry more recently. Very big MTG and music nerd.
I usually like writing prose but I have been leaning into poetry more recently. Very big MTG and music nerd.
I usually like writing prose but I have been leaning into poetry more recently. Very big MTG and music nerd.
The summer of ‘23 was when Troy Conners adamantly decided to brave his fears and become a better version of his troubled self. The world hasn’t spun like clockwork for years, it only bled like an open wound which slowly killed him. Following his younger brother’s death, time had stretched and stagnated. Soon, it had flowed quickly, meaningless years slipping away from his grasp like sand.
Troy was at Lake Evergreen, a brilliantly beautiful lake in the middle of pine trees for miles. In the summer days Lake Evergreen was teeming with people. Even with sparks of summer life all around him, the contrast of joyous emotions to his own made the experience uncomfortable. This aside, it felt liberating to crawl out of his depression and drive away from his house for a day. His house was where his parents either resided in silent misery or in bursts of unpredictable anger. His house was where an empty room had become a black hole, sucking all of the happiness out of his family.
Troy stood like a soldier on the lake’s large wooden dock, staring into the depths of the lake. Although the water was crystal clear and gleaming in the sunlight, it only represented the worst in Troy’s eyes. It represented cold, unrelenting tragedy. It represented depression, death, pain, and everything that tore at Troy’s consciousness. Lake Evergreen was where his brother drowned.
Troy stared deep into the depths of the waters. He saw a murky future, even in the clear fresh water. He didn’t know what braving his fears would bring, but at least it was a future at all. Troy slowly bent his legs. With one fluent motion he leaped into the water.
The icy water swarmed Troy’s senses almost instantly, bringing back the adrenaline he always remembered from years ago. He sputtered quickly, shivering rapidly until his body started warming him up. For a minute or so, he indulged himself, letting the brisk temperature wash away his thoughts. Soon, unpleasant memories overwhelmed him even more than the physical bliss.
“There’s nothing to be scared of!” Troy beckoned to his brother.
“I’ve never swam before,” he responded sheepishly.
“Hey man, I got you. If you don’t want to come to me, jump off close to the dock so you can hold on to the pillars,” Troy suggested.
What happened next he would never forgive himself. His brother jumped in too far from the dock, frantic almost the instant he got into the water.
“Hey, relax,” Troy remembered saying, overconfident in his brother's abilities. “Just kick your legs in the water and you’ll do fine. I can keep you afloat if you're having trouble.”
Seeing his brother was doing a decent job at treading, Troy looked away for a short while. Troy turned and opened his mouth yet paused mid speech. His brother wasn’t there. Once he dove under the water, he realized just how deep the lake was. Through his waterlogged eyes he could see his brother had his mouth open, struggling to get to the surface. Running out of breath, Troy swam to the surface with breakneck speed.
He remembered calling desperately for help, knowing he wasn’t strong enough to help his brother to the surface. He shrieked into the crowded beach area. He cried his heart out, a deep pain of guilt devouring his chest. He dove a second time but he couldn’t see his brother's wavy hair below him anymore. By the time people noticed, it was far too late.
He remembered this exact moment because he had re-lived it so many times. He was swimming in the same area that it happened. Even though he was 13 then and 16 now, he had condemned himself so many times for being that blind. He had condemned his parents for dropping them off at the lake unattended.
Now salty tears fell down his face as he re-lived these moments. People were staring at him all around, yet he didn’t care. It was his moment, he wasn’t afraid to spill all of his emotions into the lake. He thought of ripping himself limb for limb. He thought of sinking to the bottom too. Even though he felt even worse in some aspects, he also felt new or at least reformed. He hadn't gone swimming in 3 years because of his brother. Today, he was reborn as himself again. Not the regretful person who trudged through every painful step of life. He was free.
Blood churns, Roaring like waves in our flesh, Processing like the air in our lungs Blood spills, Escaping the chalice of life, Brimming in the gutters of the earth
A writhing mass or steadfast entity, One and the same It is the marionette that controls this silly world, Yet the tortured immortal that suffers each injury
Tonight, blood is suspended in the night sky, A centralized eye of sanguine elegance A contemplative god observing insignificance, Enraptured in its own crimson tide
Duality takes many forms, Tonight the moon serves as it’s messenger An assurance of blessing and curse, Of life and suffering, A cycle never ending but always moving, Projected silently for all to see
The dripping rain feels like it is tearing at me as I dash along the barren rooftops. My alarm kicks in constantly when I hear Tilton's pattering footsteps just paces behind me. I'm so frightened of captivity that my reflexes flare at even my own partner's footsteps. I still never look back, knowing any slip up could mean my incarceration, or much worse. The PermaFrost bots chasing us have no flaws, so we must make the most of our whisker of advantage. Tilton rushes right alongside me now, hands clenching his gun like a lifeline. What I respect about him is that he always has my back, and he never loses his calm. This trait I lack is replaced with a maniacal devotion that keeps me together in these times of turmoil. I'm scared out of my wits, but I could rely on Tilton's ease that hides just beneath his steely glare.
The thought of a maze comes to mind as we jump from rooftop to rooftop. It feels like there is no foreseeable end to the relentless pursuit and winding diversity of neon buildings. This strikes my heart with vicious realization. This is what happens to the rebels of Chrysalis City, I think impulsively. The ones that deal a blow to the heart of darkness only are met with more darkness. With more dead ends. Eternal fear and running. And finally, inevitable failure.
I almost miss the ledge of a building as these thoughts surface in my mind. My hands shuffle and search for It's embarrassing that my insecure thoughts almost led to my untimely demise. My death would have been by the hands of my clumsy actions and not by authorities. Refocusing my cluttered head, I regain my footing and shift my perspective back to escape. Tilton paces just a few steps ahead of me now and I exert all the energy I can to catch up from my misstep.
"Almost there," I hear Tilton grunt under heavy breaths.
I try to usher a quick response, but instead I nod my head, too exhausted to speak. Tilton never had a plan for escape, but I trusted him with my life. Even in moments that deviate from any plans, he still has the best instincts of anyone I know. As I dash beside Tilton, I rustle through my ragged pack, hands finding rough steel. I don't exactly know what I grab, but I know the only resources I brought on the mission were weapons. It was an explosive apparatus of some sort. For the first time since we started running, I look back to the faces of the PermaFrost bots following our trail. Into their cold and heartless eyes.
"You fuckers are going to get it," I say defiantly before tossing the device straight towards the cluster of robots.
There is a loud explosion that rings my ears, flames licking just in front of my face. Through my convulsing body combined in adrenaline and fear, I produce another bomb from my pack. I ready the second weapon at the remaining automatons, looking them dead in the eyes once again. Lobbing the explosive with all the force my aching arms can muster. In the instant I throw, there is a piercing gunshot just measures away. The second explosion rings, but its not how I expected it.
The noise rages in my ears once again, but the fires reach my body this time. I yelp, collapsing to the ground in blossoming pain. I roll to the side, desperately attempting to quench the scorching fire that started on my legs. Even after I barely curb the burn, the pain that lingers ruptures every boundary I formerly had. I reach a shaky hand into the sky, rasping with as much power as I can.
"Tilton..."
Red. Through my double vision, I see red. I feel an alarmingly liquid texture lift my torso upwards. I focus my waning eyes, looking at an ungodly sight. It was Tilton, or at least a fragment of him. Two "eyes" stick lifelessly to a horror of synthetic veins and flowing "blood" encased in an opaque substance. There is a nose that attaches to a divot in Tilton's face and his short hair looks like grass on a mat of plastic. These are the only characteristics that show skin, the rest is gone. I want it to be dreaming, but the pain grounds me to my body and reality. It is clearly all real.
"Vermin," I hear the monstrosity say with crystal clear conviction. Its voice is strained horrifyingly between electronic autotune and amorphous human. "Vermin like you don't belong on the face of this fine Earth."
It continues, droning unspeakable words I never thought my best friend would say. "You are the plague that threatens this beautiful city, this beautiful world," Its chilling voice spits. "Your very nature is to disrupt us, to kill us. We are eternal, you must realize. Humans are infertile of greatness. Your extermination is not necessary, yet we will abide by this if we must."
I could see the gun clenched in its twisted hand and I bristle in rage. The shot that rang out... the bomb going off. My partner's own hand. The monster tosses me to the side like a sack of rice, clearly unconvinced my charred legs could flee the scene. It rips the rest of its artificial appearance from its body, forsaking anything I once knew about Tilton. I see the same face I had been fleeing from. I couldn't help but remember that I was right about my thoughts on Chrysalis rebels.
"Y-you traitor," I bluster, at a lack of words for what I was experiencing.
The bot that was once Tilton walks towards me steadfast. A pack of multiple other bots approach, enclosing me on all sides of the roof. Like a pack of sick dogs hunting their prey, they inch closer and closer, waiting to strike. They look like they enjoy the tension even if they are certain of the ending. "Tilton" speaks for the last time, a delayed reaction to my retort, his voice succumbing to the autotune I despise with my entire soul.
"I'm not a traitor. I was never on your side."
My illicit ways surface in every burst of adrenaline Adrenaline that shades over morality with instinct, Instinct that charges my body in an arch of motion Motion for a fight, Fight for the survival
Survival is the marrow of my being, Being hostile is the trigger keeping me alive, Alive, sparks of resistance uproar, Uproar into an event where form and purpose converge Converge into an untamed creation, Creation of hatred and violence, Violence even I wonder the justification
Justification is what keeps me up at night Night is the fragile barrier between moving on and letting bloodlust take control Control is the trait I am missing, Missing it’s stability is what makes me impulsive and cruel
Cruel reaches of mindless killing, Killing my mind and body, Body numbed of any humanity left, Left with a machine of revenge and destruction Destruction of only rampant incarnations, Incarnations I have claimed my own
It’s the night that keeps your mind prone to change, The terror is amplified, Belief of the supernatural is on the horizon
Your breath dissolves in the wake of madness, Your chest constricts until it’s a mystery you still breath on, Warmth becomes the piercing cold, And thoughts become reality
Are you afraid of what you’ll find in the dark? Are you afraid of what you’ll believe when your mind wanders? Is it the monstrosities you create, Or your lack of control, That keeps you sleep deprived? Are you scared of conformity, Or are your twisted creations chanting of your isolation?
Each question brings doubt of the world, The world you think of as home It sheds like a disdained skin A complex existence surfaces in its absence, Of daydreams and living nightmares
The possibilities are endless, The paths branch in every corner of your mind So many ways to cross the bridge to another world, A world you created so ignorantly, Sculpted from your own demons and desires Defined in two simple words, Distorted reality
Touch, The grip of the world as I know it Without tactile context, There is only a bridge between life and pointless wandering
The absence of touch, Is a book without a spine, A painting without a frame, The blue sky without the ground below, My existence without meaning...
The departure of my senses started as unnoticed as a beating heart, As a clock that starts weaving into your mind, Always present, Little despised, Tampering with your sanity so closely, Hiding in plain sight
It happens like the wilting of flowers, Waning slightly, Then gone in an instant Dead and irreversible, Tokens of decay
There is a tingling before there is nothing, The feeling carves me up, Spitting me out with oblivion alone Detaching my own body, Then preying for even more
"The feeling" is all I can describe it as, Even if its very nature is numbness It parts the falls of my life, So crystal clear and flowing magnificently, It pursues me relentlessly, Ignoring all boundaries I once had
Escape, The only choice I have left Desperation I never knew existed until today The day my grip would leave me
Mind fumbling, Legs only half following my scrambled requests The noose is around my neck, Yet it never tightens I want it to end, Yet the pursuit never relents
My torso tingles with the feeling, My legs stiffen, Then buckle under invisible force Scrambling my hands when nothing else pulls me
The kitchen floor creaks under my inane body, It is solace in the storm of numbness and quiet My palm reaches cold wood of the cutting block, And finally, The metallic bliss I was searching for… Saving me before it’s too late
This stranger in the street, Was yesterday my friend A connection exhausted, Vanished without a trace
We used to encode the world on our own terms, Share our insecurities and secrets Now the only secret we share is hidden behind our jaded eyes, Mutual disgust of a friendship once had
It happened so quick, But I knew it was far more complex It felt like it had built up, Boiling until it grew to an ultimatum, Sending us apart in a single day
Maybe it wasn’t as complex as I made it, Maybe it was meant to be…
Our broken bond was a reminder that promises always break, No matter how tempered it’s material Even the comfort of a safety net can be torn off like a worn band aid, Losing its magic in an instant
When we lock eyes, I must look away, But wish the pain wasn’t so blinding The sudden distance tears apart our foundation, I can’t help as it tears me apart too
It’s an unnerving feeling, The earth beneath my feet dismantling The ground that was so long a given, Shifting and rebalancing like sand in my hands
Clouded by the thought of a better, Now facing the reality of my imagination It’s the bitter realization that haunts me, Yet it stills spits from my frightened tongue
My hair feels gray despite my youth, A paranoid symptom of my downfall A faded wretch of a revolving world, My legendary feat dwarfed by a single person
As I lie in the anguish of failure, I can’t help but look forward towards a genius Grovel and puzzle why I wasn’t enough, And see the role of a prodigy that had taken my place
In the midst of those fateful days of October, a humble hero retreated from his apartment in New York. He wasn’t a typical fabled hero, yet he was a millionaire scientist. Highly revered by those who knew of his endeavors. Ingraham Atoll was his name, or more professionally, Dr. Atoll. As a scientist, he had pledged his service to humanity, yet it never stopped him from protecting his own wellbeing. When a fatal disease captured humanity in its maws, there was nothing Ingraham could do but escape. He had become paranoid when it came to the topic of disease. He knew exactly what it would do to the overpopulating world if something ever surfaced. To him even, living in New York. Total annihilation.
Ingraham had to tear by waves of suffering civilians to get his charter jet he had kept for the exact occasion. Greenland had always been his planned destination in a devastating event. Isolation was what he would have to endure anyways. His chest tore him apart once he got to the plane, and he vomited upon boarding. Guilt had broken him as soon as he fully realized what he had done. Soon he would realize that guilt would become a part of him. Meld with his inner workings so it never resurfaced as weakness. The world was in dire need of a savior and he was the only candidate worthy of facing extinction head on. Guilt would only slow him down. Besides, his cowardice was well justified, and soon he would do worse daily. Far worse.
Ingraham used to be a humanitarian, putting his heart and soul into his work. Giving scientific projects as gifts to the public. In the years following the sickness, the only gift he brought was mercy, the foulest of its kind. It was the only way he could curb the pandemic. Slaughter and avail combined in a repulsive chemistry.
There was no atrocity that he wouldn’t do for humanity. “Heartless” was a term spoiled by the tides of the apocalypse. There was no city he wouldn’t flatten for the greater good. Theories and applications of green energy flowed freely into the theory of efficient killing, psychic weapons and warheads. Yet no matter how many lives his actions took, disease took more. He would end his own in an instant if he ever became a carrier. Ingraham never took interest in cures because the virus took many shapes. It also mutated just as fast as it rebounded from cities he had tried to purge.
It has been eight years since October. January 28th, 2031. A Saturday, yet dates mattered little. Only time in general, time spent alive. Today, contemplation took faster to Ingraham than it usually did. He stroked his tired fingers through his long hair, delving into his plans and weathering his troubled thoughts that reappeared more and more. Today was a big day, one he had been preparing for years. He had created something. Something spectacular. He had shaped it to his design, had elegantly crafted it to perfection, and was going to walk it into the sunset. He had created what nobody had before. Sentient life. A human is what it would be carelessly called.
A human was defined by loose characteristics. Two legs, two arms, a head; proportions of a primate. Cognition was the main building block that held the crude machines together. Humanity. Ingraham believed it was his limitation that had blighted his efforts for too long. It was what kept him awake late at night, that his human qualities were what made him inferior. It was what made his calculations faulty, and what made his ideas of salvation misguided. He had tried for years to defend human life by any means necessary, and now he was ready to step down. Surrender to his aging shell and give life to another shell. If all went as planned, a genius one.
Many would have called him a mad scientist. The truth of the matter was that those still alive were raving mad. Creating life from bond and blood was the most logical solution he had ever come up with. Trauma was getting to him, his mind was growing frail by the day. The weight of the world was becoming painful on his worn shoulders. Ingraham got up from his slumped position on his desk, walking down the stairs to the basement. It was finally time.
The basement only had a single room, created long ago by his associates. Now they occupied it, or what was left of them. They pledged their servitude to him, believing his research was far beyond their own lifeline. Now they were his research, and Ingraham was forever grateful for their service.
“Hello,” Ingraham spoke, monotonous as ever. “Your stasis will finally be relieved, my friend.”
His creation was a haunting figure, suspended a few feet off the ground through metal cords. Hulking beyond the old physique of Ingraham, the creature was highly muscular from enhancers, and it wore no face. There were no extremities that gendered the being, its existence at all was all that mattered. Its smooth skin was olive gray, a color that even Ingraham never intended. His stream of medications and hormones had given its smooth skin depth, and defined its unusual, yet perfect stature. The only part missing was its spine, a metallic behemoth of twisted metal, suspended above its body.
Even in its paralysis, it could sense everything around it. Its miracle of nerves worked in wondrous ways, operating through multiple connecting branches, instead of just one. It could feel tremors miles away, hear the rush of the wind, and he could sense every move Ingraham made. Even without ears, it had sensory perfection in every way. It also had perfect, steadfast immunity. The disease was strictly respiratory, so its makeup was impenetrable from the outside. It's why it had no exterior features.
Ingraham had been training it. Since it had no need for caloric intake or metabolism, he fed it information. Frantic news stories of the disease, lectures of science. He had worked tirelessly into the nights supplying all he knew into the creature. When his midnight oil depleted, it felt like his blood was simmering under the intellectual pressure of his lectures. He taught it the history of humanity, so one day it would make humanities decisions. It was the savior that had ventured into his desperate dreams, the savior that would replace him. The creature’s perspective was the important part, not the knowledge. It would create its own solutions that Ingraham was too daft to think of and enact.
“Your spine is magnetized, and you shall feel a click when it comes into place,” Ingraham explained to the creature. “You must not move, as I will lower you slowly so there is no damage.”
Ingraham unshackled the metallic spine, lowering it into the creature’s exposed chasm himself. There was a hissing as the engine put itself in place. It ran beside hundreds of veins and connected the creature's multiple spinal cords, unlike any human anatomy. For a minute, nothing seemed to happen. It was what he planned. Soon, there was twitching coming from all over the body. It was expected, as the creature had never used its body before. Yet, as the twitches became spasms, Ingraham had to suppress it.
“You are not to move,” he issued, raising his voice.
He knew the creature heard him, of course it did, yet there was no halt of motion.
“I beg of you, this process will not be painful if you do not MOVE!” Ingraham started to yell.
Still, there was no halt. There was also nothing significant in the movements that showed any pain. Ingraham’s whole world stopped as the creature managed to release the left cord to its hand.
“You-you must stop…” Ingraham’s voice trailed.
As he saw the freed arm swing in his direction, he realized it was all a grave mistake. The colossal arm hit him square in the torso, sending him catapulting towards the wall. Gasping for air from the impact, Ingraham tried to get up, but it was far too late. The creature had untethered most of its cords now, and was standing right in front of him. Although it had no face, he could tell that its posture was out to kill.
Ingraham had drained so much time into the project. He had channeled so much hope into the mere idea. Now his own vision was upon him, its muscular appendages clamping onto his neck. With one loud and nauseating snap, it broke Ingraham’s neck. Its efficiency was terrifying in a mesmerizing way, a master of its art. The creature did something that Ingraham never predicted. It chose to kill its master. A master that had brought it to life and gave it a purpose. It chose to turn down all of it.
The creature looked like a savage in Ingraham’s final seconds, yet it had its own purpose too. The news stories, the history of the world, and most of all science. Humans were meant to die at some point, the cycles of science and history proved it. Piecing together all the pieces like it did with its own existence, the creature pondered what it was asked to do. Save humanity. The pathetic two words that had been spoken so many times. Life was much bigger than that. Much bigger than the “desperate” need for survival. Apocalypse was the new chapter of Earth, and nobody could stop it, not even a manufactured flawless being. Certainly not a mad scientist with deluded views of hope and salvation.
So, as the creature gained motion, it chose not to exercise its new abilities. It would let nature run its course and kill off humanity. It would do what it always had for years as it learned the past and the future… wait.
It’s called The Mantra.
Only a few people had it. It was sometimes hard to separate from mental illness, especially since it sounded delusional. The feeling between worlds that suspended you halfway. A realm between euphoria and deceit, the mind's greatest desire or impenetrable prison. Either way, it was an escape from the real world. The Mantra was a world on its own, where dreams ran rampant.
Today, a young boy by the name of Harlan had just lost his older brother, Elias. It had been a car crash, his parents had told him. Instead of hugging him, they turned their backs like Harlan was a blight. His emotions had always been abnormal. To anyone else, it would mean their world had collapsed, yet Harlan only let out a few tears. It was silent grieving, drowned out in his parents sobbing. Even his parents believed he was dysfunctional, and now their favorite son was dead.
The days that followed, Harlan spoke little, yet he never cried. His eyes were glazed and he stared unblinking for hours. He was in a sleepless trance, one his parents didn't notice in their heartsick state. Harlan was in his own world, far beyond his parent's perception even if they took notice. Far in the grips of The Mantra, processing the tragedy in his own way.
It was the month following that Harlan's daydreaming became reality. He was heading to middle school, when he heard the roar of a car engine to the side of him. Turning his head, the shiny red paint was just as blinding as he remembered. And his brother...
"Harlan, want to hop in?" his brother asked. "I'm off today, I can totally take you."
Harlan paused, looking down at the car like a bull. His subconscious knew he was hallucinating, yet he still agreed. He was completely sure it was one of the last reactions he had with his brother. A moment he had played in his head hundreds of times in his repercussion days.
He couldn't stop thinking about it as he climbed into the passenger seat. It progressed further when he felt sudden deja vu when Elias offered him a soda, the same gesture that had happened just a week ago. It felt so fake, yet somehow he didn't care. Even if he was dreaming, it was a good one.
The lush seating soaked all of his uncertainty out of him once Elias started driving. Every sensory detail was perfect, down to Elias's stubble and winning hair to the unblemished interior of the car. It was too impeccable to be a hallucination, and besides, they were moving. He could feel the smooth roll of the car and the cool wind on his hair through the open window, unmistakably real.
Through the moment, Elias started to feel like a memento of his brother. Just a strand of Harlan’s mind behaving in supernatural ways. He wasn't dynamic, he was just the same person, the same moment, taunting him. Every lighthearted response felt like a dagger, tearing apart Harlan from the inside. An easy smile quickly became an expression of unease.
“Alright you punk,” Elias said, pulling up to the middle school. “Go get ‘em.”
Harlan would have hugged his brother. In fact, he wanted to say all that he didn’t get to say before. Confess that nobody in the world understood him more than Elias did. Tell him that he meant the world to Harlan, or that he did at least. Still, as he lugged his backpack out of the car, he stopped himself from saying any of it. Turning his back was the only thing he could do, because it all was fake. Somehow, he knew it. It was “real” whatever that meant, but it still was sickening. Elias had said the same things, made the exact same turns he always took to the school. He had replicated the same moment from a week ago.
Harlan saw his brother everywhere in the passing months, whenever his mind wandered. Nobody could see him except him, yet all his actions were real. They just never changed. The welcoming figure of Elias became a terror, preying on his vulnerable thoughts if helplessness and loss. It was a scar he couldn’t purge from his brain. He wished he had the real Elias with him, yet he knew the truth, even if it was starting to get blurrier and blurrier.