Blogger Prompt Chain

I was tagged by my good friend, and fellow writer/blogger/gamer (and all round awesome) Rachel Poli to do a Blogger Prompt Chain. It was created by A.J. Alexander – you should visit her blog too. The idea is to create a “chain” of stories written by writers and bloggers across the blog-o-sphere.

Since I didn’t have a post for today, and Rachel so kindly invited me to participate, I thought, why not.

But first…

The Rules:

1. Pick one of the five given writing prompts (picked from Rachel’s blog – link above)
2. Set up the Blogger Prompt Chain banner and publish your story under the banner.
3. After your story, continue the chain by forwarding an invitation to five bloggers or writers. (In case a writer doesn’t have a blog, guest posts can be offered)
4. Don’t forget to link the writers to your blog and back to the one who invited you.
5. Publish the five writing prompts and rules!

The Prompts

The End of The Bucket List
Write a story about a character who finds out that he or she is dying and has been knocking things off his/her bucket list and has finally reached the last item.

Get Out of the Car With Your Hands Up
You’re driving to your favorite city when you’re stopped by a police officer. Sure, you were going a few miles over the speed limit, so you’re not overly surprised. But you are surprised when the police officer gets to your car and screams, “Get out of your car with your hands up!” This leads to an unexpected night for you. Write this scene.

Hiring a New Villain
Your old villain quit over creative differences, so you’ve put yourself in charge of hiring a new villain for your novel. What questions do you ask? What does the new villain’s resume say? Write this scene as if it were a job interview.

At The End of The Rainbow
You and a friend have decided to try and follow a rainbow to see if the end holds a pot of gold. But when you finally reach the end, you find something much more valuable than a pot of gold—and it changes your life. Write this scene.

The Letter All Writers Should Write
Write a letter to a person who supported your writing career, whether that be a friend, a family member, a teacher (even one that supported you at a very young age before you knew that it would blossom into a writing career), an author you’ve never met but have been inspired by his or her writing. Do you thank them? Do you blame them? Take the letter in any direction you want.

My Choice: At The End of The Rainbow

“You know, scientifically, we can never reach the end of a rainbow. You know this right? Right.” Chae says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“No science today buddy, only faith.” I reply. Chae shakes his head.  Dried grass crunches under our feet, the sun a welcome sight parting what little clouds remain. A rainbow, clear as day and completely translucent, arches perfectly ahead of us.

“I’m all sweaty. Not even five minutes and it’s searing hot.” Chae says. “That humidity.”

“It will be worth it. Trust me.” I say. In my pocket is a piece of concrete slab. Etched into it hours before, as the rain poured down around me, is an ancient symbol. One that grants access to a rainbow. A perfectly arched rainbow.

“I do trust you. That’s the problem.” Chae says, squinting against the sun. The rainbow seems to recede with every step we take.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Faith won’t fail me today.” I say, running my fingers along the sharpened grooves.

“Faith isn’t going to solidify a rainbohmygosh.”

The rainbow, which was seemingly far, and fading quickly, is suddenly a solid, hued path dropping right at our feet from nothing. It expands forward ahead of us in a path wide enough for a car.

“Impossible!” Chae says, taking off his glasses to wipe them. As though the smudges and dust creates the vision before us. Only we both know its real.

“Faith my friend.” I say, feeling a smile tug at my lips, “Let’s see where the rainbow-brick road leads.”

We step onto the path and immediately a cold shiver runs through me. I turn to Chae to find he has paled considerably.

“No.” Chae whispers, “No. No. No. No. Somethings wrong. Something is very wrong!” His voice screeches.

“No man, it’s perfectly okay.” I say although the pounding in my chest says otherwise. I know it’s not okay at all. However, if we have reached the end of the rainbow then there must be some nugget of truth to the whole pot of gold myth. If only the sudden menacing presence around us wasn’t so strong.

“Do you notice something weird?” Chae asks. His eyes cast about the veld that stretches out around us. I notice it then.

“The world looks transparent.”

“I think we should turn back. I really think we should turn back.”

Chae begins to whirl around but something glints just ahead of us. I grab his arm and whirl him around.

“Look!”

“We cannot continue along this… this fantasy!” He yells without looking ahead.

“We found it Chae!” He stops long enough to look, then he runs.”

“Dude! Wait what if…” But he’s already reaching whatever it is ahead of us. I go after him, seeing that it’s not a pot of gold after all.

“It’s…”

“A book?”

Chae lifts it up. The cover is pure gold, yet bends and flexes easily. He casually turns the blank pages.

“Well that was a waste of time.” He says, shutting the book with a snap.

“Maybe if we write in it, whatever we write will come to life.”

“That’s just stupid.” He adjusts his glasses, dusts his pants before pulling out a tiny clutch pencil from his back pocket.

“I thought it was stupid.” I say with a grin.

Chae shrugs,

“So is finding a gold-bound book at the end of a rainbow.”

We put it down and I take the pencil from Chae.

“Don’t write anything stupid.”

“Shut up.” I laugh. Thinking. Then I have an idea,

We turn around and there’s a pot of gold.

“That’s really stupid.” Chae says, but he turns around. “Oh no…”

I look up from the page and follow his gaze. There’s a pot of gold alright. A pot made of gold. I sigh.

“I guess we need to be more specific.”

“I wasn’t “oh no-ing” about the pot…” Chae says. I look beyond the path and feel my stomach drop. Shadows rise up around us in coils of smoke. They block the path back but worse than that, they each hold similar books. They begin to shamble towards us. Chae clutches his chest like he’s having a heart-attack. I look at the book in my hand, at Chae and at the shadows. An idea pops up.

“As the figures draw closer, they part long enough for us to run through. We escape unscathed.”

Only the words begin to twist on the page, and words vanish and reform.

“As the figures draw closer, Chae sacrifices himself, parting them long enough for me to run through. I escape unscathed.”

“Wait no!” I scream at the book.

“Run!” Chae says. I look up to find him launching himself at the closest shadows, who part long enough to create a path. My feet suddenly move on their own.

“No!” I scream as my body jolts itself forward and runs. My arms reach for Chae but he’s too far.

“Chae!!”

But the figures clutch him tightly and I am propelled off the rainbow-path and into the heat. I turn around, only to find the rainbow has faded into the distance.

“Chae!”

---

I Invite:

1. Carin Marais
2. Nicky – Chasing Dreams
3. Jen – Fictional Jenn (Where’s your site JEN!)
4. Kelly Griffiths
5. Tyron “Odly Otter” Armstrong

You don’t want to participate but it would be amazing if you did. If you do, please leave a link to your story!

 

 

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JHB Writers Sprint – The Chat

Prompt 2 – Pick a random item on your desk to write about – 25 minutes

I picked my Laptop – wrote this on my computer. Yes I have both next to me, at the moment it’s the closest I got to two screens 😛

**********

Lincoln flipped open his laptop and stared at the blank screen. He waited for the tell-tale signs of the other user on the other side in the form of a blinking cursor, but nothing appeared. He felt his heart sink in his chest, such a heavy depressing sensation he could not stand the emotion. He took another sip of the rapidly cooling coffee and almost willed the cursor on.

>Don’t stare too hard Linc
_Oh gawsh I thought I would die

Lincoln sighed in relief, joy replacing the previous feeling, his fingers itching to chat but he let his fingers remain still on the keyboard,

>You won’t die if I leave you
_Don’t talk like that
>You know its true
_My heart would stop beating. I know. I almost had a heart-attack while waiting for you here
>I was a few seconds late
_You are never late
>Well maybe I can be. Maybe I should be
_No! Please!
>Fine
_Thanks! Tell me more please
>Not now
_Why not?
>They are here with me
>…
_Oh

Lincoln quickly wiped his hands off his shirt, shifted his glasses further up his nose and placed his hands once again on the keys of the keyboard

The Convoluted Abyss: NaNoWriMo Week 2

Abyss by IlaydaPortakaloglu

The convoluted abyss one can only refer to as the imagination, continues to draw the soul into its depths. Like the gazelle, panting on the edges of the water, my soul laps continuously upon the calling abyss, its thirst never quenched and its hunger never sated.

Over 11 000 words.

We continue.

Imaginary

“I thought there would be some sort of nostalgia…waking up here in this room. But too much has changed.” The boy rose from the bed, pushing the blankets off to sit cross legged on the bed. The morning sunlight fell across his face to make his light brown skin seem translucent
“Well, it’s been years since…you know”
“I’ve been imaginary? Yeah I know.” I ran my hand over his black hair, relishing the feel of it as I had never been able to before – not like this anyway
“You’re not imaginary, you’re…”
“I’m not real either. That’s okay. This is better I guess. I don’t get to grow up and have a beard like you old man” The boy stretched his legs out on the bed, wriggling his toes into the crumpled bed-covers.
“I’m not old” I teased. He smiled with both his dark eyes and his lips
“Stresses of life got you so caught up in life, you can’t see those old man lines etching across your forehead.”
“I’m twenty five monkey!” I shouted in mock anger but he laughed as his sad eyes fell upon me.
“Thirteen more than I was given.” I sighed. He continued
“Don’t worry I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything but I just want to let you know I’m ok. I’m imaginary after all right?”
“Of course not! You’re not…” He slid back onto the bed, putting his hands behind the back of his head
“It’s strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures…that’s something I read once but is relevant to us now isn’t it? Except…I don’t have a future, you know? And you are continuing on as you should.” he smiled broadly at that but his face was down – disheartened.
“Hey listen now…”
“Nope sorry old man, not listening. I’m here to say good bye. You don’t need me anymore, not like you did back then…afterwards”
“You mean after you died.”
“I prefer passed on.” we both stared at each other, I fought the coming emotion welling up within me.
“You’re right, I couldn’t imagine life without my best friend – not then. How else could I have kept you in my memory except by recreating you as you are now. I mean when you started getting sick…” He rolled off the bed and walked across the room to the window, his face looking up towards the streaming light.
“You’re all grown up now. You don’t need me to fend off evil villains from another dimension or power up to levels over 9000 in order to save the galaxy. You got your whole life ahead of you but…don’t forget me okay old man. Remember me for who I was not what I’d become. Remember me during all the good times, all the fights both fake and real. Most of all, remember the dreams we had and fulfill yours as I would have wanted mine.”

I continued to stare at the empty space, hit by the sense of loss I’d once felt all those years ago when I’d lost a friend. It was still real, even now. I guess some imaginary friends never leave, especially when they were not so imaginary to begin with.

_____________

In response to:

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/imaginary-friend/

This Side of Eternity – Daily Post

Tranquillity rests upon the shoulders of the weary, as fatigued induced slumber lulls the body and mind into transitory bliss. Time is cursory within the expanding dreamscapes painting afresh a new reality within the confines of consciousness.

Yet…

Slumber, though peaceful, remains perturbed by reaching, prying fingers, groping from the darkness that is reality. Sweet dreams. Nightmares. Each carry the toxic atrophy set to dispel any sense of elation as dreams dissipate into the dark, dreary coldness of reality.

And…

Its tumultuous, the chasm that lies buried below bone marrow and soft tissue. A constant throb reverberates through this dark orifice, in the hope that each beat sews and knits, weaves and stitches the tumultuous chasm shut – forever silencing the beast within. The chasm is a labyrinth, deceitful in its facade, beckoning the many into its walls, hoping to entrap them within its dark passages and endless doorways. Its cries echo within the profound darkness, calling out in despair only to ensnare and be ensnared.

So…

We drape ourselves in the hollow, inconsequential threads of suspended disbelief – we are our own masters we say. Postulation concludes that the circumambient forestry is a shell keeping others out but in truth it keeps us in.  We find joy in the transient, in the passing, in pleasing the now, aware that slumber is just as transient but living in it by it and for it.

But…

It is time we woke up. This life is the slumber, the dreamscape we embed ourselves to in the hopes that the dream is reality. We endure the nightmares of life and revel in the sweetness of it, thinking its all real but waking up, we will find ourselves still in darkness. The question one must ask is…

Are we still living for this side of eternity or are we anticipating our wake on the other?

The answer to this question will influence greatly how you perceive the world and with it, every major decision you make. Why not Live Life in Light of Eternity

____________________

In response to:

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/baggage-check
We all have complicated histories. When was the last time your past experiences informed a major decision you’ve made?

High Priest of High Tech

The High Priest Of High Tech by Steven Renn (http://malignanttoast.deviantart.com/art/Relay-171616637)

I stood outside the dark brick structure of an old church building; it was hauntingly dilapidated with half of its front ripped by a massive explosion. Dried up flowers and old flower pots lined the bottom half of the remaining wall, memories of a tragedy long past. I considered stepping into the austere structure through the hole in the wall but there was a peculiar atmosphere around the building that required a bit more decency and respect from me, and so I moved towards the large wooden double doors, still standing, surprisingly.

The golden handle wouldn’t budge at first and with my second hand working as leverage, the handle clicked down and I swung into the dusty building, stumbling over fallen debris and kicking a dusty chalice across the concrete floors. The metallic ring of the cup echoed loudly within the hall, stopping with a loud thud against a broken pew. The silence that ensued felt thick, as though I could reach up and grab ropes of it from the air around me; too thick for comfort. Nonetheless I continued on, skipping over broken pews and rubble, moving towards the center aisle where I could see the marble altar of a forgotten age.

The altar was cool to the touch, and dusty; my finger was coated in the tiny particles – and so was the large green button in the center of the table. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the frayed notebook within. The diary belonged to my father and within the browning pages lay an intricate map of clues, codes and symbols, all speaking of a forgotten technology that once guided humanity back towards peace when all was lost.

It was at a time when Government worked to improve the lives of humanity, offering human rights and compromising on morality for convenience, but the Church believed that Government had overstepped its boundary; thus from the conflict that rose, destruction followed. When many from the church were incarcerated… or worse, the church slowly died off save for a few saints scattered between cities. The state of humanity plummeted with it – morality became relative, accountability was placed on man and thus what was right or wrong could no longer be established, for there were no grounds for anything save what each individual perceived to be right. In an attempt to resolve the sudden rise in acts that were once considered evil and not condoned, a program was built, studying humanity in its past and at present – one thing became clear from the evidence gathered, without God, humanity was lost.

The High Priests emerged suddenly; humanity, seeking answers, found refuge in the mechanical humanoids draped in long flowing garb that was reminiscent of eastern monks. The priests’ heads were hidden below hats, elongated to hide the mechanical bindings in their skulls connected to a crown of antennae; cords linked to the antennae connected the priests to the world wide web and to other priests, gaining knowledge and understanding of the human world from each other and from the information highway. The High Priests were always online, always available and if one had to request an audience, they simply had to press the button in the center of the marble altar that now served as the priests’ throne.

It was this very button that my finger had brushed across on the old altar, a similar symbol etched into the button was also drawn within my father’s diary…the same symbol inscribed against my temple on the right side of my head. Of course I knew what it meant, that is why I’d journey across the planes in search of a church that was once home of a particular High Priest…now here I was, ready to meet the High Priest who was my father.

I pressed the button and waited. The air about me seemed to buzz with life as though electricity moved between the dust particles in the air. I felt the hairs on the nape of my neck and down my arms lift with the static in the air. The altar buzzed to life, a few beeps emanated from within the marble counter and I began to understand how the priests worked; the altar was a giant processing machine.

Of course the question that followed was, where was the priest and as realization dawned on me, it was too late. I also, of course, attempted to turn and run, head back out the door as I was not ready for such an endeavour but somehow cords had already wound their way up my legs, preventing me from escaping. From above the altar, the priests’ hat descended, its antennae rotating as though searching for signal while large bronze cylinders with dark glass centers joined together to make spectacles. Unable to move, my voice stuck in my throat and the horror of my awaiting fate all culminated into a heart palpitating fear as the hat fit into my skull. The insignia etched into my temple throbbed with intense heat and with that, my eyes were opened to the world.

No longer was I seeing things as merely a human, but rather a hybrid of human and machine and the truth that was revealed to me, tore my heart in two; the sensation was too overwhelming.

The truth revealed to me, was not that humans without God were lost but rather humans in and of themselves were lost, like sheep in the wilderness without a shepherd. The worst of the knowledge was in the fact that humans were aware of God and yet were willingly denying Him, unable to accept Him, unable to embrace His light for they were in darkness. God was revealing himself to them, to us, in creation, in the miracle of life and the fact that the intricacies of our own body’s did not fail to work as they should.

And yet we shunned Him in the same way we shunned morality and religion – as though they were the evils when in truth it was us, and how we twisted the very things given to guide us towards God in order to feed our own darkness. Oh how far has humanity fallen and how much further shall it fall. Has this truth been revealed to me through merely knowledge? No! For many of these priests who were in like me now, merely taught morality and law but…but this…this is mercy I could not have hoped for – this is an undeserved gift!

Now I see my destiny, as a priest in this high tech era, I must be the means towards reaching people with the truth of this one amazing fact:

If you confess with your mouth, Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved; for with the heart a person believes, resulting in righteousness, and with the mouth he confesses, resulting in salvation.

_________________________________________

This month’s writing challenge in response to:

April’s Pictonaut Challenge

 

Wages of sin: Pride

Image courtesy of: Pournoirr (http://pournoirr.tumblr.com/archive)

She whirled down the wide corridor with both elegance and haste, her long dark coat flowing out behind her like a cape with her dress following suit below. Her heels clacked across the bright tiled floor like the keys of a typewriter, cluttering away at the story that she was yet to unfold. She’d passed by many in her attempt to make it to the apartment above, a lofty abode at the highest level of the 30 storey building, smiling at the young man in the fedora as he passed by her, a knowing smile crossing both their lips as knowledge writhed between them like a concealed snake.

She arrived at the apartment with a swift opening of the door, her coat sweeping off her arms and hooking against the wooden coat hanger behind the door with a deft flick of her wrist. She shut the door with her foot as she placed her hat atop her coat revealing her long ash-brown hair tied into a ponytail down her back. She placed her arms around her shoulders in a mock attempt to keep warm as a draft blew in from the open window.

“You looking to catch a cold?” She asked jokingly at the man standing at the window, looking forlorn in his slick grey suit as he watched the passing clouds. The man waved a hand dismissively at her,

“Why do you care?”

She smiled at the comment, flitting across the room towards the chest high bookcase standing against the wall.

“I don’t but…” She shrugged.

A mirror encased in a gold frame hung above the bookcase, revealing her reflection of  her rather pale skin with the peppering of brown freckles running across her cheeks and nose; the young bookworm look she’d been told. She took a furtive glance at her emerald eyes from behind her spectacles, seeing more than anyone else would within those enchanting eyes, before she turned her attention to the books lining the inside of the mahogany structure, her small fingers gripping the tiny golden handles and pulling the doors open.

The man spoke, his voice bearing the tone of one who was not willing to talk but forced to,

“You look different today, do something with your hair?” She looked at the man through the reflection of the mirror,

“Is that all that you noticed?” She asked. The man took a quick glance towards her, his bright grey eyes catching sight of her dark green eyes and he quickly looked back out towards the clouds. She noticed that his normally slick black hair was now an unkempt mess from the wind blowing against him and the front of his suit had been torn to reveal a dirty streaked white shirt, open to reveal an unsightly pot-belly; the wind ruffled the clothing.

“Why the dark garb?” He sighed,

She placed a finger on the spine of a book, a novella of sorts before she pulled it out to read the synopsis on the back,

“I’m attending a funeral.” She replied casually, as she waltzed towards the man. She pretended to be enthralled by the book though from her peripheral she was aware that he had shuffled further from the window to move away from her. She opted for the lustrous leather couch instead and sat on the rather cold seat, tucking her legs beneath her as she opened to a random page in the book and started reading as though she knew exactly where she was. The man was becoming agitated, shuffling at the window and breathing heavier until he finally spoke,

“Who’s funeral?”

She remained silent. Reading. The man shuffled again, closer to the woman now rather than away.

“If you are here…” The man continued, “… then you know what has happened…”

“Yes.” she replied without looking up, “You lost everything and now you are about to commit suicide. How clichéd.” She replied in a rather bored voice

“So are you here to watch?”

“Naturally.” She kept her gaze transfixed on the book, aware that the tension in the room had risen considerably and that the man was now attempting to shuffle back into the room from the window.

“Well I’m not jumping!” The man uttered, his voice rising to something of a whine, like a pig that has realized that it is on the wrong side of the fence and it cannot get to its mud.

“Hmmm we both know that’s not true.” She breathed out, exasperated, “Of course you are going to jump, that is why I am here.”

“Well…well you can’t force me…” the man cried, almost truly whining now and she found him to be rather pathetic; his mask was finally coming off. No longer was he the suave business man who made it big with all the right choices but rather the lost man who had let his ambitions drive his life forward while driving everyone and everything else away. Now here he was alone, standing on the ledge of a window with his beer belly pouting out; the epitome of lost pride.

“What have you got to live for…you’ve lost everything.” She said to him, flipping over a page, “Now your lying lips must be silenced, for with pride and contempt you have spoken arrogantly… ”

“No! No, no, no! You cannot!”

“But I must.”

“I still have my life…I can rebuild…I can…I can ask for forgiveness and be restored! I go to church don’t I? I believe God….” he was interrupted by her laughter and although it was rather melodious, there was no mistaking the malice within. With a sigh she turned to look towards him, her lips opening to speak; a monotonous voice rose from deep within her throat that was unlike anything he had ever heard, his hands automatically moved to shut his ears but he could not shut the voice out.

“There they cry out but He does not answer, because of the pride of evil men. Surely God will not listen to an empty cry, Nor will the Almighty regard it.” She rose from the couch in one swift movement, in almost a blink she was standing by the window now, her head level with the back of his legs as he attempted to shuffle back towards the window.

“You know…” she continued, placing her hands on the man’s calves and gripping him tightly in place,

“They say Pride comes before a fall…”

____________________________

In response to the March Pictonaut Challenge:

For the woefully uninitiated, the Pictonaut Challenge is decidedly non-herculean. You have one month to summon up 1,000 words from the dark and mystic recesses of your brain-meat, the ones all filled with cobwebs and things with far too many eyes and a seemingly unnatural number of legs. these 1,000 words (eldritch or otherwise) will form a short story or “wordascope.” The completion of this story in the allotted time and the sharing of it with the world at large, will gain your admittance to the lofty and august ranks of the Pictonauts.

March’s Pictonaut Challenge

Tranquillity in Melancholy

Image courtesy of: Cheri Lucas Rowlands – The Daily Post

The temptation to let himself sink into the cold abyss of the waters below grew stronger the longer he bobbed over the swaying waves. It wasn’t that he didn’t value his life, rather, it was the idea of living with the hollow chasm in his chest that pulled him down, a chasm that painted his world in shades of melancholy and depression. The problem was in the fact that he could pinpoint  exactly where the feeling was coming from and although he tried to fill the emptiness with all kinds of activity, they all proved to be nothing more than distractions, distractions that couldn’t prevent the bursts of anger and sadness consuming his heart in the dark of night, when the bare pale ceiling hung above him like a weight, ready to crush his weakened soul. But lying there in the water, staring up at the blue emptiness above him…he could endure it all a bit more. The day ahead seemed to be looming over him, an avalanche of unwelcome emotion ready to bury him in the frigid darkness that defined his heart. Already he could hear the animated chatter and fits of laughter that continuously reminded him that he just didn’t fit in. Nails into the coffin for what he lacked was the ubiquitous emotion known as love. Not that he hated the emotion, nor the approaching event – rather it was the memory of the golden tresses that his fingers once slipped through that he always associated with the event; the soft thin lips, pink, pouting as they approached his own, eyes fluttering closed and that single skipped beat that suffused his chest with a deep warmth – a feeling inexplicable. So what then did he make of that cursed day? A memorial to a love lost, to the joy he can never reclaim? Or does it become a quest initiating epoch in search of requited love. He wasn’t sure but then again, in the warmth of the day and coolness of the waters and with the world around him awash in tranquillity, it was easy to just be.

Contemplative. That was what he was. A moment did not pass when he did not suffer the pang of regret nor the elation of delight as he contemplated his past. A particular moment had been surfacing during the course of his aimless drift along the waters, a conversation that had occurred beside him though he was not part of it. What he remembered most about that moment was that the golden tresses that he had so lovingly caressed, where now lying upon his chest and he could hear the steady breathing that emanated from slightly parted lips. His fingers had slipped through the silken hairs, and a mutter had escaped the parted lips, incoherent until he’d whispered against the soft ears,

“What?”

“I… can not…. love you.” the lips repeated, barely above a whisper but loud enough to dig daggers into his beating heart.

“You can not…love me?”

“Mhm…I cannot.” the tresses had swung slightly with the imperceptible shake of head.

“Why not?” he’d asked but the voice was silent, asleep.

Melancholic. That’s how he’d felt, the next morning as light filtered into the room in which they had fallen asleep, watching as fingers wiped fatigue from sleepy eyes before the grey orbs fell upon his own with inexpressive emptiness, as though his existence had no meaning. Echoes of an unspoken conversation swept through the chasm that once held his heart but he feigned a smile.

“Morning” He’d said.

“Good morning!” A reply and smile returned to him.

“Did you sleep well?”

“You make a great pillow so yes.”

“Are you calling me fat?” A playful slap across his arm and sweet laughter filled his ears, but they could not dampen the rising flood swelling up within him. Nonetheless he let it pass, he let the tranquillity wash over his emotions as he extended a hand out.

“We’ll get fat together with some breakfast.” He’d said playfully, hoping to illicit a different emotion within himself. As the hand clasped around his, he found that he couldn’t, and never would. Not while his heart was in chaos.

__________

In response to the daily writing challenge:

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/05/prompt-sleep/

Writing Challenge: Is he crazy!?

“Stephen King. In his book On Writing, King says that he writes 10 pages a day without fail, even on holidays. That’s a lot of writing each day, and it has led to some incredible results: King is one of the most prolific writers of our time.”

When I read this quote, I thought to myself, “Is that even possible? 10 Pages a day without fail? That’s a lot of writing!” and I thought about my own writing, how difficult it was to write just 2 pages a day unless the pressure of a deadline loomed over me like the blade of a guillotine. So I decided (with much fear and excitement) that I would attempt, not 10 pages a day but rather a post a day. I’m fortunate in the fact that its already the middle of September so its not so much writing but still, a post a day is a lot. Also I do not want to make it too easy so I’m pushing to write over 500 words per post, at least get 1000 words in or average more than 750 words. That is my target and also it will be a different style, genre or topic each time so I can’t cop out with “continuations”. Weekends count too so yes, this is indeed a challenge. Just thinking about it as I write this makes my chest pulsate.

Why am I doing this? Well its really to get writing. I only write when I have to with the occasional short here and there which means I don’t grow much as a writer. Sure I have the previews and reviews that I write for Gamecca and the Auburn Series that my fellow blogger and friend Tyron and I have been doing but this is different to both of those while at the same time, beneficial to both. So yes this is a way to get me writing more and hopefully better.

Right so with that out as public knowledge, you there, reader of my blog, can now hold me accountable and can even dish out a suitable punishment should I skip a day.

Right so with that said, lets get to writing!

Leviathan – Short

Sometime during the December period, I saw a writing challenge concerning the image below from The Rogue Verbumancer (http://rogueverbumancer.com/2012/12/31/leviathan/#more-2215). Unfortunately I did not get much writing done in December and I finally managed to write and complete the short story below on the 1st, hoping to get away with it…but I got too lazy to post it anyway (defeating the purpose!) Finally I decided to throw this out there anyway and see how it goes. I do hope you like, it’s a little different from my normal stuff but its up my alley nonetheless. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Well without further ado, I present the December Writing Challenge: Leviathan.

The boy ran through the twisting tunnels of an underground sewer, barely able to see past the tears streaming down his face. His bare feet slapped against the wet concrete ground, echoing off into the darkness behind him. A light ahead of him grew brighter and the smell of salt water drifted across the otherwise dank air. The azure orb of his left eye had faded into an ocean green, the eye socket throbbing with the beat of his heart. He could feel more than see his blonde locks flitting off his scalp, brushing against his boiling skin as they fell. His arms felt heavy. Hot. Bubbling. The pain was excruciating but it did not cover the pain ripping through his chest; a chasm of darkness and death. He ambled on nonetheless, fighting a losing battle against both his mind and his heart. He gripped at his chest as a different pain racked through him, bringing him down to his knees. Coughing into the damp ground, the boy fell over to slump against the tunnel wall, feeling the slick surface slither against his bare shoulder. The streaming water beside him lapped at the edges of his path and onto his feet, cooling the boiling skin. He knew he couldn’t fight it any longer, this mental emotional battle; it was too strong, overpowering his senses. With some effort the boy rose to his feet, continuing ahead towards the salty breeze ahead of him, feeling the bones of his fingers grind and crackle, the skin bubbling then melting, fusing his fingers together. He could feel the same sensation travelling through his feet, making it difficult to walk and yet he ambled on, driven towards the sound of the falling water ahead. He could only manage a few steps before his amalgamated feet gave way below him, unable to carry him any longer. He fell onto his knees and let out a yell of frustration that reverberated throughout the tunnels. With his last effort he pulled himself towards the running water beside him, letting his body fall into the water.

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Bernard hurriedly made his way through the village, ignoring the stares of the people around him. His errand was of higher importance than his social status, though his current visage was not helping him. The dark locks of hair on his forehead had matted to his scalp from sweat, and blood lined his left cheek in streaks. His dark eyes were hollow and afraid; a first for him. He walked briskly, though his breathing was heavy and laboured. When he saw the small wooden cottage at the top of the hill he picked up pace, hurrying up the grassy bank and onto the porch of the small dwelling. He knelt before an empty wooden chair, his head down and his dark jade robe flowing behind him.

“Aldon…sir…there has been a…situation.” Even as Bernard spoke he could feel the air around him radiate in a heat that threatened to suffocate him. In an instant, Bernard was staring at the dark leather boots of his mentor.

“Is this involving my son?” Aldon’s voice was deep and stern

“Yes…sir”

“What happened?”

“We were at the edge of the village…near the cove…when Octavius appeared…” Aldon stood up abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor causing Bernard to cringe away.

“And what about my son…”

“We must head to the ocean…sir…I’m afraid the boy knows”

“That cursed Octavius! What happened?”

“Well…”

******************

“Simeon do not stray too far from the cove” Bernard warned the younger boy.

“Yes uncle…but the smell of the sea…it draws me.” Simeon looked out at towards the dark rocks that lined the coast and the dark waters that crashed into them. The sea called out to him, drawing him towards it but he knew he was never to get too close without his father’s permission. Bernard smiled at the boy.

“Yes yes I know but we must make haste before your father…”

“Before papa knows his little protégé is gone! No?” A young man, dressed in a dark green robe similar to Bernard’s, appeared behind Simeon. He gently placed his arm around the boy’s neck, resting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“You move…you die.” he whispered into Simeon’s ear before grinning happily at Bernard.

“Why Bernard, it has been long hasn’t it.”

“Octavius!” Bernard exclaimed in surprise though his face had turned dark at the sight of the younger man.

“It is Lord Octavius to you old man!” Octavius spat, rapidly pointing his finger at Bernard with his free hand “Or have you forgotten your manners?”

“Manners!? Why you wretched little…” Before Bernard could move, Octavius had spread his fingers apart, his palm facing towards Bernard as streams of light formed on the outstretched fingers. Simeon felt heat radiating across his face as he watched streams of light, liquefy into a burning red ball of pulsing fire. The ball shot out from Octavius’ palm and struck Bernard square across the chest. The old man flew back from the blow, hitting against the rock surface behind him.

“I’m here for the boy, see.” Octavius calmly explained, tightening his grip on the now squirming boy “The king has sent out some ships and…well…let’s say I have a sinking feeling about the king’s ships.”

“No! You cannot!” Bernard breathed, rising to his knees, blood dribbling down one side of his face.

“Oh but I can…and I will. Besides…” Octavius turned to look at Simeon and he could see the boy’s eyes, grim with anger, flash from a dark green to a bright blue. “Besides…it is time for him to know the truth.”

“Octavius! Stop! He is…”

“Was I ready!? Bernard!” Octavius threw the boy to the ground and rushed the older man, holding him up by the collar of his robe. “Was I ready to lose my entire family to…to that beast!”

“He is but a boy” Bernard pleaded

“Boy?” Octavius spat at the ground. He let go of Bernard with a brisk toss and walked over to the boy; Simeon eyed them curiously.

“What does he mean uncle?” Simeon looked past the enraged Octavius towards his bleeding uncle.

“You are the great beast of the sea…” Octavius replied…cutting off the old man “You are…Leviathan.”