I think I loved you In my way
I shuddered at your beauty When you bared your soul
Drunk Happy Sad Lovely
I did not flinch But clamored to you
Your company as sweet As the cigar smoke on our tongues
Strange that even if I could Even as I know how we would fit
I would never kiss you
My home and heart is full
But the love isn’t fleeting It will remain
Repurposed But whole
I hate working nights.
There’s so much that’s inconvenient about it. The sleep schedule shift, the fact that nothing is open should you like to buy something, and there is this odd sort of unreality in the atmosphere. It’s a feeling of isolation. I work for a telecom company that handles emergency repairs and things break at all hours of the day so it’s not uncommon that I may have to work nights.
Today is especially unfortunate, as my car stopped working. My best guess is the starter system as I can’t even hear a click when turning the key but I’m woefully inexperienced as to the workings of cars. Point is, I had to walk in at sunset. It’s only about a 30 minute walk thankfully, or else I’d have called for a ride.
Given that it was sunset when I walked in, I started dreading the walk home early on in my shift. I knew it would take place in darkness and though I’m not afraid of the dark per say, I don’t much like walking in it for extended periods of time. Well, nothing to be done I guess.
My shift passes without major incident. No emergency calls came in so my coworkers and I cleaned up the shop, and caught up on some paperwork. Before I knew it, it was time to head on home. I wished the guys a good weekend perfunctorily as I walked out the doors.
The streetlights were old and fairly dim, casting a jaundiced glow over their charges. Much brighter, I could see stoplights at every other intersection down the my intended path. For a while, it wasn’t too terrible. The glow of the stoplights helped and there were also many shopfronts that had at least some lighting. I am also making good time and havebeen walking for about 15 minutes. Unfortunately, there is a stretch of nothing between me and my block. Totally unlit as though a diminutive black hole lived at ground level in this stretch of road. After a brief pause I nod to myself and charge forrward.
Halfway into the darkness, I start hearing things. A light scrape behind me, is that breath over to my right? I stop and look around, seeing only the blank darkness.
Long shapes materialize all around me like so many reaching snakes made entirely of shadow. Before I can even gasp in fright they take my arms and legs and pull till I am an x in midair. One of them nears my throat and pain erupts there as I hear the wet slop of my blood and meat being devoured. I try to scream but no sound comes until the noises, shapes, and my pain fade to nothing.
It ran from just below her hand up to the tip of her littlest finger. The jagged line pigmentless, throwing into sharp relief the warm coloring of her skin.
The defensive wound never failed to fill her stomach with the ghost of her primal fear but she supposed she should count herself lucky. To this day she couldn’t imagine why the man had attacked. The police had said the drug induced mania had made the man so desperate that he was prepared to kill and loot in order to attain his fix. The only certainty was that if she hadn’t blocked his sweeping blade with her flesh she wouldn’t have a scar. Dead women do not heal, nor does the life in their womb.
She looked at her son then, full of pride and love so large she thought it might burst forth from her and sweep the land of all its dangers. She wished it would. Looking at the little boy of 2, she felt thankful for the scar and knew that she would take much worse and far more often.
During the attack, the man saw the woman block his knife with her bare hands. He scurried away in fear of the woman, for to block the blade, his drug addled mind told him, she herself must be made of iron.
He was right.
Through the cancerous medicine of isolation The deep waves, they roll and roll A supposed boon to our nation Men’s hearts pay a mighty toll
Sleep unattainable so it seems The red eyes, the tired mind Somewhere between these waking dreams Endlessly running, always behind
When a person is surrounded by steel It is in sharp relief how fragile they are Crushed and chewed by the machines wheel We know death may not be far
And we don’t care
The kingdoms of Carfington and Aliena had been at war as long as anyone in either place could remember. However, when the King of Carfington’s conclave of mages discovered a magical weapon known as The Occidis, the scope of the fighting had changed forever.
The Occidis, to most, had been mere myth. It was rumored to have the power to detonate a sweeping blast of pure magical energy that would rip the souls from all who were unfortunate enough to be within range. The range was unknown but in the stories it ranged from a few leagues to weeks in any direction.
When the Carfington mages found the terrible weapon, they could scarcely believe it. The king notified the Aliena leadership and demanded surrender. In response, the Aliena only fought harder. They correctly guessed that the mages of Carfington would not risk using the weapon as they did not know the extent to which devestation would be wrought.
Called on his bluff and frustrated, the King of Carfington sent all reserve troops to the front.
“If we lose the front we need only use the weapon.” Reasoned the King.
Something quite interesting about the Occidis was that it was found in an ornate chest along with instructions. The instructions were in an ancient language and had to be translated to common. This was an arduous process as the ancient script was largely forgotten but the mages were clever. Eventually they discovered that the Occidis, which physically was a bright blue, glowing globe the size of a rock melon, could only be used when its power was transferred to a persons body. Upon hearing this news, the king ordered the energy be transferred from the globe to the conclave’s lead mage to ensure the weapon could not simply be stolen and to promote the ability to use the weapon quickly.
Obedient as a hound, the lead mage took the power within himself. He held the power for a half a day before his body started to feel weak. The lead mage, with his king’s permission, began a rotation amongst the conclave. Each mage in the conclave would keep the power for only a couple of hours before transferring it to the next in line.
The first rotation had not finished before a most grevious error was made. The mage who had the power was attempting to transfer it to the next in line whose name was Dario Twenlock. However, he had transferred the magic to Tario Dwenlock, an Aliena boy of 7. The mage and poor Dario were executed as soon as the mistake was discovered and the King’s rage was fully formed.
Tario lived on a small farm on the outskirts of Aliena’s capitol city. When the power entered his body he felt it like a freezing blast of water. Tario felt this, and knew the truth of what it meant. Bearing the power came with an acute understanding. The 7 year old boy knew that he had the power to destroy his countries rivals.
He knew also that if he refused, Carfington may well overrun Aliena’s army and come pillaging. Certainly, Aliena’s leaders wouldn’t hesitate to use the weapon if they had Tario’s knowledge at their disposal. But Tario was as yet unblemished by the spite and mistrust that age brings and as such could not bear the thought of harming so many. So, as he directed his gaze at the moon-bright sky and with a flicker of thought, he saw a small blue flash amongst the stars.
As I pace the room and rack my brain, I feel the gears turning and outputting nothing but the dark smoke of frustration. I’ve been at this for hours and I am no closer to a conclusion.
I’ve tried all my old tricks. I’ve gone for a walk: nothing. I’ve listened to music: nada. I’ve even, in my desperation, resorted to the classic Google search, “How to overcome writers block” tried several of the resulting “solutions” and guess what: goose egg.
In frustration, I slam my hand against my desk only to knock over the last quarter of the whiskey I had been sipping on. The liquor spreads across the desk, throwing the tell-tale alcohol smell that burns in my nostrils.
A fluorescent sticky note with some action items from work lays in the path of the coming tide. Too late to save it I watch as the dark ink runs, dissolving in a web pattern. Few things can dissolve like alcohol.
Then, as I stared at the sticky note, a flutter of color lights the idea center of my brain. It’s faint and undefined but there is definitely something there. I concentrate hard on the sticky note, burning the image into my head until I am seeing behind it.
Closer to the ethereal world beyond physical vision where writers live, the fledging idea bursts alight, filling me with the strange anxiety and euphoria of a new story waiting to be brought to life.
