Hiroshima

The pilot carried the bomb to the target; those were his orders. Below him, empty waters stretched into grass, cities, lives. He listened. They wanted him to do this. He pressed buttons. He pressed all the buttons. Too many of them, always.

The pilot pulled up. He dropped the package.

The papers called it Hiroshima; he called it work. He went home that night. Kissed his wife, hugged his children. Went to bed, lying, dreamless. He'd forgotten how to dream.

So he slept, and wondered if the dead remember their killers.

He didn’t think they did.

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Before I say anything else, let me just mention that this piece is not meant to comment on anything that's been going on in the past week. I just have a bad sense of timing, is all. The story is about the horrors of war and violence. Please don't read it as a commentary on current events, because it really isn't. I obviously condemn all forms of hatred and discrimination in this world. Right now we need love more than anything else. 

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this post. I love writing flash fiction every now and then, to stretch my creative muscles and see how much I can fit into how little. Thanks for reading, and let me know your thoughts in the comments below!

My World - Chapter Two - Underground

So…

I think I owe you guys an apology.

A while ago I started working on a short story entitled My World and posted the first chapter. I then said the next chapter should be up in a couple weeks. Shortly afterward I started working on said chapter before getting wildly busy and never having time to finish the piece.

It has now been three months.

Whoopsies.

In my defense, I never actually forgot about this project. I simply couldn't find time to finish it. A weak excuse, I know, but a legitimate one. I'll try to be more timely with such uploads from now on. Chapter three, the final chapter, should be up before the month is out. Seriously.

Chapter one can be found right here: http://therustedinkblot.blogspot.com/2017/05/my-world.html. Please do give it a read. I'm really proud of it. Come back afterward to read to next chapter.

Now, without much ado, here is chapter two of My World.

  

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Deep in the recesses of the castle, there are the mines. They stretch for miles, winding up and down in a crawling web of networks, crawling like the spiders they shelter…lined with dust, tarnish and blood, they house the skeletons of all who once inhabited this place. I have seen those skeletons, and they are glorious. They tell the tale of humanity, the grand venture that was once my ancestry and is now the forgotten legacy I alone remember. And yet that is just the mouth of the mines. There's more there—such darkness. The bodies pile up and the bones outnumber the spiders. I've never dared venture that far into the mines, for I know I'll not return. I know it as sure as the hair rising on my skin. I'll never return.

So, of course, this was where Shard took me.

It was silent. Not the mines, but Shard. The mines—they spoke to me. They spoke in smell. They spoke in sight. They spoke in the sodden must that clung to the mud ceiling and the dripping stalactites that jutted from the roof. They spoke in whispers and screams, they spoke in curses and slurs. The problem was, I didn't understand a word they spoke. But Shard did. How else would he know where to go? How else would he navigate the mines so well? This was a labyrinth to stump Daedalus. Every twist and turn led to even more twists and turns. Every now and then blank walls would show up out of nowhere, ensuring that none may pass their obstruction. And through it all, Shard steered a course smooth as his own metal skin.

This was unnerving, of course, but it was nothing I wasn't used to. I considered fleeing several times, but where would I run? There was nowhere to go. If I left now, I would age and die in these very tunnels; alone, cold, and defeated, with nothing but the spiders for food and the dew for water. Shard was intelligent, walking me down a path I was doomed to follow. He beckoned me now. "Come, human," he said, and his face was unmoving. He was standing at the very edge of one of the tunnel walls, back pressed against the moist rocks. At first, I was confused as to what he wanted me to do, but then I saw it—there was a small trap-door at Shard's feet, covered in rust and dirt, untouched for what seemed like centuries. I approached it and keeping my eyes on Shard the whole time, wrenched it by the handle. It opened cleanly, without a sound.

Below the trap-door was nothing but a ladder, leading down towards the annals of hell. Shard beckoned me once more. Of course. He wanted me to go first. Vivid images flashed before my eyes—what was down there? Some frightening creature, ready to tear me apart limb by limb? Or more likely, there was absolutely nothing, and the ladder simply continued down forever. Maybe that was what Shard wanted to show me. Something beautiful, right? Death was beautiful.

A shallow smile playing on my lips, I paid Shard a cursory glance and descended into the hole. Darkness instantly swallowed my person; my finger met nothing but the cold, clammy rungs of the ladder. Metal that had been scarred throughout time. Throughout life. I moved my hands down a rung and my feet followed. I moved my feet down a rung and my hands followed. Back and forth, back and forth, down forever, like a pendulum swinging above the earth…Shard was above me, too, and he seemed to have no problem descending. The darkness was sickening. Why wasn't the light from the mines reaching down here? Maybe Shard's body was blocking it. My hands were getting sweaty now, and panic clutched my soul—what if I fell? Well, I guess one way or another I'd find out what was down there.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. Over my years in the castle, my mind had developed an innate clock that guided me through the passage of time and now I relied upon it desperately. Tick, tock. One, two. Three, four. One minute, then two. Three, then four. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. An hour. My god, how long was this ladder? I didn't dare ask.

"Stop."

I froze. Shard's voice echoed back and forth throughout this thin tunnel, this infernal vertical tunnel. "We are there, human. You must fall now."

The panic returned. "I—"

"Do it now."

A bead of sweat slunk down my neck. "I can't."

 "Do it now."

"But—"

"Do it now."

I squeezed my eyes shut. Then, quick as a raindrop hurtling from the sky, my aching fingers gave way, and I fell. There was no light, and no sound; there was just the aching of my body and the sense I was falling—some small intuition told me that Shard must be close behind me, but there was no real way to know. I wanted to count the seconds, but I couldn't. I didn't dare.

"Stop."

I stopped. Wait, what? The ground was there. I'd landed softly, and gently. I stood, my knees quivering.

"Light."

There was light. I cried out, and collapsed, clutching my eyes. After the darkness, the light burned so bad. How could this be happening?

By the time I rose to my feet my eyes were wrinkled with tears. Shard was gone. I was alone.

"Sh—Shard?"

Nothing.

Yes, I was alone.

Taking a deep breath, I looked around.

I was in a vast cavernous room, quite unlike the mines above. Even though the light had blinded me at first, I saw now that it was quite scanty. The circular walls surrounded me, enclosing themselves in a dingy setting. There was no way out except back up the ladder. I felt my knees shake a little, but I ignored them. I always ignored them. Instead, I straightened my back, steadied my mind, and focused on this place I found myself in. This…room? Could it be called a room? It was entirely empty aside from a small computer that lay on a table right before me.

What was this thing? It was strange. Not quite like any computer I had seen before, it was not big and bulky, or animated like the machines, but small, and sleek. Beautiful, even. I approached it with wonder. The screen was blue, with error messages popping in and out. So beautiful. A slab with dozens of buttons was attached to the monitor by a hinge, presumably the apparatus that fed input into the machine. The whole thing was compact enough to fit into my lap. I'd never seen anything quite like it. I had no idea what was going on, or where I was, but whatever fate had befallen me, this computer would know. Computers always knew. I was sure of it.

"Beautiful, no?"

I turned around. Shard was looking back at me, an unmoving smile plastered to his face. The smile that broke me. By now I was quite sure that whatever the machines planned to do with me, I was not going to make it out alive. I squeezed my eyes shut, flashing back to my time in the jungle, how I'd spent so long out in the wild, searching for answers…had I lost? My mind couldn't settle on a response, to either myself or Shard. All I had was questions, and I wanted to rid myself of them, those infernal things crawling on the inside of my skull, leading me astray from life. I wanted to be free. "Shard," I whispered, small tears glazing my eyes, "Where the hell are we?"

"We are in the bunker."

I frowned, brushing my tears away. "A bunker?"

"The bunker. Your bunker. Theirs. His. Hers. Mine. Ours."

Now he's just cycling through all the damn pronouns. I swallowed the lump that had spawned in my throat and took a deep breath. "Care to elaborate?"

Nothing. Shard stared back at me, unmoving as always.

I squeezed my eyes shut again and took a deep breath. This room had begun to suffocate me. I wasn't used to being in such confined places. I wanted nothing but to be washed away in the darkness that welcomed me behind my eyelids. "Why are we here?"

Nothing.

I turned to the computer. It was still displaying the same error messages. "What is this?"

Nothing.

I gritted my teeth. "Shard, I swear to God—"

Shard smiled. That goddam smile…"There is no God," he said, and his mechanical voice ripped gashes into my ears. "Well, then," I growled, "I swear to the closest damn thing to God.  I've had enough of this bullshit, you hear me? So either you tell me what's going on, or I—"

"Or what?" Shard smiled again, his metal mouth contorting into a grotesque parabola, his red eyes flickering asymmetrically…and this time, I lost it. My eyes swam red, and for the first and last time, I saw the world as Shard did. Hollow screams clanged throughout the bunker, screams of rage, and pain. I flew at the machine and rammed it into the ground, wrestling metal with flesh, screaming, punching and pounding with the closest thing I had at hand, ramming the stupid machine over, and over, and over, until the rage was gone, and the screaming had finally stopped. Oh, the screaming…whose was it? I didn't know, but that moment I realized I would never again sleep in silence. Those screams would forever be locked in my mind. My screams. Shard's screams…Shard…Shard?

I tried to say something, but my vocal cords seemed to have stopped functioning. Shard was dead.

I sank to the floor, my legs giving way. His body…his body was sprawled senseless across the metal floor. Bits of metal were strewn around the room, his wires tangling with my blood, the blood that dripped from my bloody fist. But my fists were not the only weapons I had used. The closest thing at hand—what was the closest thing? My eyes widened as I stared in horror at the dead machine. Not Shard, but the other machine. In my rage, I had taken the computer and beaten Shard to death with it…yes, it too was gone. Torn to bits, like the body that lay before me. Tears tore through my eyes, and for a moment I was unable to move. Why? There was no why. The one thing that had given me some hope, some small measure of hope, was gone.

I was alone again.

Slowly, as the clock in my head ticked and tocked, I found within myself the will to stand. But it was no good anymore. It—what was it? What had I done? I took a step back in horror, but there was no time for realization. A sharp grimace tore into my face, and I felt the pain, fresh like the blood that I hadn't shed. No, the only blood I had shed was mine. Then what did I feel? If this wasn't remorse, what was it? I didn't have time to find out. I—I had to get out here.

The ladder that led us into this place was still here, of course. Us? Before I knew it I was once again climbing into the darkness, racing from rung to rung without stopping, grabbing the same metal that had been so cold before, and so clammy. But now it was neither of those things. I wasn't afraid anymore. I didn't know what I was. All I knew was that I must run as fast as I could and never look back. When I finally emerged at the top, my chest was heaving and sweat soaked my clothes, down to my shoes. My muscles burned like hot coals. My eyes wrinkled once more from the goddamn light. It didn't matter. I wasn't quite sure how I'd made the climb so fast, but that also didn't matter. What mattered was simply escape.

I climbed out of the hole and clasped the trap-door shut. My fingers cut against the rusted metal, brushing against the scarred and stained metal, the blood flowing freely down my hand and onto the ground. Nobody should ever have to go down that hole again. I licked the blood off my hand, staring at the billowing stain on the dirt floor. It was spreading slowly, darkening the mud in the process. And what was right next to the blood? Footprints? Yes, footprints, blazing a clear trail through this labyrinth. This sodden ground had borne the imprints of our feet quite nicely, especially Shard's, who was much heavier than me. Used to be. I looked down at the trapdoor, panting heavily and feeling the sweat race down my face. Somehow I didn't think it was from the climbing…

Run. Keep running. Never look back.

And I ran.

***

Once I started, I couldn't stop. The path was laid out before me on the ground, and there was nothing to stop me now but the wind in my eyes and my tired body that dared not betray me, racing along the dust that billowed at my feet. In a few minutes, I was out of the tunnels and into the castle I hated so. I flew through the corridors, darting through the marble halls where the machines were wandering aimlessly. Always aimless. But why did they care? They didn't have any purpose in life. That's what separated them from me.

Grimacing at the cruelty, I slipped through one of the side entrances of the property and out, finally out, into the broken world that lay before me. The blue sky arched over me, the morning sun still rising into the sky. I'd gone into the mines at night, and it seemed like the world had finally spun around again now. I still didn't dare look back. I knew that it hid behind me, the marble monstrosity, but I ignored it. I kept running. I kept moving. I kept breathing. I focused on the smells of the forest, the blooming flowers, the pine, and the thousand other scents carried by the cool wind. I focused on the grass crunching under my feet. I focused on the grace of the trees, and their mighty indifference. Their canopies stretched up ad infinitum, touching the sky, touching the heavens, and I wondered whether they cared about the clouds they held. Did they? All they did was sit around all day, while the universe gave them everything they ever needed or could need. They didn't care, and they didn't want to. Was I the only one cursed with purpose?

I stopped now, clutching my knees and bending over double in pain. I hadn't comprehended the exertion I had placed on myself, but it was catching up to me now. I collapsed on the grass, clutching the blades and grimacing. My wounded hand still stung from the mines, and the flesh around my fingers was stained a grisly red. But the discomfort didn't bother me. I didn't really care. I—what was I doing?

I stood up, clutching my face. The blood from my hands dribbled down my cheeks. I flicked away the beads, staring back at my prison. I hadn't really come that far—the entirety of the castle was lurking uncomfortably close to me. Sheer marble walls, sheer stone towers…everything was sheer there. But there was nowhere to run. This forest was death, even more so than the machines. I thought back to my attempted escape just before Shard showed up, and I shuddered now at the confines boring upon me. 

I frowned. Was I being stupid? I wanted to leave, did I not? I had wanted answers. Earlier I hadn't even minded death, so long as I had my answers. But now…now I wanted nothing but to flee this hell forever. If that was a given, then the only things that could possibly show me the way out were none other than the very machines I was attempting to escape—they were the paragons of knowledge here, and they were the ones I had to appeal. I'd been too scared before, but now I was certain. The machines knew, they just didn't want me to know. And so?

I think I understood what I had to do, I just didn't have the guts to do it. I gritted my teeth and then started. There was a loud crash emanating from behind me, a deep thud rattling my bones. I turned around. One of the machines was standing a couple dozen feet away from me, hacking at a tree with an ax. Collecting firewood, presumably. Several of the castle halls were still lit by firelight. I took a step back involuntarily. The machine hadn't noticed me, and probably didn't even care to notice me. It looked almost like a smaller, resuscitated Shard. I felt a small sting within my heart, presumably of guilt, or possibly fear. I don't think I knew the difference anymore.

"Machine."

The machine froze and turned to stare at me. Those red eyes were painfully familiar, but I didn't have time to reminisce now. Slowly, methodically, the machine put down the ax., and spoke.

"Yes?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep breath. This was it. I had to commit.

"I—I need you to show me the way out."

The machine didn't move a muscle. "Way out of what?"

"This castle. This forest. This world."

The machine moved now, and I winced at its creaking joints. It took a step towards me, and I took a step back.

"It is your world."

My world. I took another step back, almost involuntarily. The machine smiled, the same infuriating smile that had driven me to murder. "No,"  I whispered, clenching my fist, feeling the sweet blood on my hands, "It isn't."

The machine stopped smiling and contorted its features into a scowl. Scowling was fine. I was used to scowling. It was the smiling that threw me off. "Then it is your prison," it said, and I marveled at the apathy in its voice. This was not cruelty, it was indifference. The same indifference the trees had. But there was nothing majestic here. This time it was I who smiled. I was done walking backward.

I took a deep breath, pausing to appreciate the trees and nature around me. There wasn't much here, but there was at least something. I shouldn't forget that.

I looked the dead machine in the eye. It stared back, not blinking, not moving, not breathing. Just staring. Always staring.

And then I punched it in the face.

The shock spiked into my bone, crushing my flesh and painting my fist red. The exhilaration intoxicated me, sending bolts of energy into my heart. Both my hands were dripping blood now. The machine collapsed on the ground, wincing with the paltry self-preservation it had. The machines cared about themselves, even if they didn't care a lot. When the thing stood, I punched it again. The blow was harder this time, and louder. Oh, so loud. So deliciously loud. When it stood back up, I struck it back down. And down. And down. And down.

The machine was wriggling now, and when it stood back up, I moved to punch it. It stumbled away from me, covering its face, grimacing. I grinned. The humanity in this was satisfying. It seemed like the only time you could get anybody to care was when you hit them. I withdrew my hand, sneering.

"Well?"

The machine had stopped scowling now, almost as if it didn't dare. Those cold red eyes had stopped flickering and cracked to the point where it seemed like they might turn off entirely. The machine straightened itself. When it spoke, its voice was shaky, permeated with static.

"Follow me, human. I have something beautiful to show you."

Much Ado About Something - Chapter One - An Awful Hullaballoo

“Did you know,” said the Tentacle, stroking his beard and staring intently at the delicate skin of the bright orange fruit, “That bananas used to be yellow before the fifty-second century?”

“Outrageous,” said the Ear.

“Outlandish,” cried the Newt.

“Unheard of,” quacked the Frog.

“Ribbet,” said the Duck.

And the Eye just stared at them all and rolled his eye in its socket. What he was thinking of was highly disturbing, but as Eyes are often puzzling beings, perhaps it is better to leave those things unsaid. It was then, as then was a particularly interesting moment, the Clock chimed ten and gave everyone a cry of delight.
.
“Time for second breakfast!” cried the Newt. “I must say the Clock is behaving rather queer.”

And he was right too, for the Clock was shaking on the mantelpiece, looking quite excited and tick-tocking a rather too hard. The Frog quacked thoughtfully. The Ear jumped up and down on the Duck’s new tablecloth.

“Well!” demanded the Italic. “Look at the time! We must get going. Everyone, would you please tell us what you think and oh dear, for goodness sake please wash those dishes in the back!”

“I say the Italic calm down,” suggested the Ear. “What do you say?”

Everyone’s hands went up in the air. Except for the Eye, who did not have a hand, and contented himself with rolling his eye for the twelfth time that day. Behind them, the Noodle poked her head through the door and squawked crossly.

“Oh, would anyone please put the tick back in the tock!”

The Frog quacked in agreement, and the Ear nodded vigorously. The Eye simply stared at them all. "Perhaps," said the Tentacle, still stroking his beard, "It would be pragmatic to remove Clock's tick, and replace it with a new one." The Noodle huffed irritably and slammed the door shut, which creaked apologetically on its rusted hinges. After all, the Tentacle posed a very sensible suggestion, so sensible in fact, that everyone was instantly disinclined toward it. "What bollocks!" cried the Newt. "Let us return to food. I'm hungry! It's been almost ten minutes since we last ate. The Clock will sort himself out. I heard he was having very distressing dreams last night, and I'd say that he's just been frightened, is all."

"That makes no sense," said the Tentacle. "Last time the Clock behaved strangely, there was nobody to wake us up in the morning and we lost two months of our lives. I say we act now. Duck, what do you think?"

But unfortunately, we will never know what she thought, because at that precise moment the Clock gave a strangled screech and died out entirely. This was so utterly unprecedented that the Duck croaked alarmedly and toppled over on her tablecloth. The Newt screamed. The Ear flinched. The Frog quacked. The Eye widened its eye. For the longest time, they all just stood there, rooted in their individual positions, until the Tentacle finally dared to whisper through the silence.

"Oh dear."

"Well, now what do we do?" cried the Newt, gesticulating wildly and clutching the watery Eye in terror. "There is nothing to do!" cried the Ear,  "We are dead! Oh, tarnation! Oh, sweet, sweet, tarnation! Oh, pray to the Lord! Pray to the kind Lord!" And so he collapsed on the floor in tears. The Eye tried to comfort him, but sadly he too had begun to cry in distress. This was unfortunate, because when the Eye cried it did make quite a mess. His tears were rather large, after all. "My God!" said the Tentacle, staring at the two with disgust. "Look at yourselves! Do you have no shame? This situation can be remedied yet." The Duck, who was perhaps the most optimistic of then all, straightened herself and croaked in agreement. "Ribbet, ribbet ribbet. Ribbet!"

"Yeah, the Duck is right," quacked the Frog, helping the Ear off the floor and patting him on the back. "We kinfolk must stick together in times like this." There was a cry of agreement. "We must call a meeting!" declared the Tentacle. "Today's turn of events has been quite frightening. We must assemble and decide the next course of action." "Hear, hear!" cried everyone. "Ear, ear!" cried the Ear.

And so they all gathered around and started discussing a plan. There were quite a lot of differing opinions on what to do, but after a quite some chattering, quite some yammering, and a little bit of tattering, everyone finally agreed on the solution to what was turning out to be quite a frightful dilemma. "We must procure a battery!" cried the Tentacle, and everyone nodded. Except for the Eye, who unfortunately didn't have a head. The Newt seemed to be confused. "What in the name of tarts is a battery?" he demanded, looking bewildered. "It's one them things that powers them electrical doodads," quacked the Frog. The Tentacle nodded, stroking his beard and appearing ever so wise. "Well, then," snapped the Newt, "I don't see any of you with a battery! Where do you plan to obtain one?"

"That," replied the Tentacle, "Is actually a fantastic question. I have no clue." The Newt snorted. "Well, it's not like somebody is just going to come barging into our house with one of them!"

But unfortunately, our dear friend the Newt was about to be proven wrong yet again, for at that very moment, the door smashed open with a sigh and the Noodle charged in, huffing and puffing and overall in a generally disagreeable state. In his arms was a giant metal cylinder, covered with constantly turning dials and knobs. "It's a battery!" cried the Tentacle in triumph. Everyone oohed and ahhed. This really was quite impressive.

And a bit convenient too, sadly. But hey, don't look at me. I didn't make this stuff up, right?

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Boy, I haven't had that much fun with a story in a long time. This particular piece was something I wrote a couple years back, and only recently found among the chaos that is my Google Drive. It was short, unfinished, and barely even fleshed out, but as soon as I read the first few paragraphs, I realized I simply had to turn it into something bigger—and that's exactly what I plan to do! As always, let me know what you think in the comments below (or tweet me @starlightjason2). I've never written anything like this before, so I'd really appreciate your feedback. Does it work? Does it not work? Should I continue it? And if so, where do you want to see these characters go? I look forward to seeing your thoughts!

My World - Chapter One - Ground

This is my prison; I was born here. For what, I don't know. Raised by machines in a stone castle vast and unforeseen, an empty binding to the cosmos indifferent, they have fed me, clothed me, washed me, and nursed me. Not people, not sentient in any morbid sense of the word, for they are not alive, and yet intelligent enough to know they are not alive, but that they are hollow men not quite so different from me; they see the world not through consciousness but through hard, floating numbers that govern their actions that they don't know they make. Emotionless faces, hollow eyes—that is who they are. They are not sentient in any morbid sense of the word, but I yearn to join them, for they are all that I know, and I envy their satisfaction. Yes, these are the machines that raised me in a world void of others like me, a world made of stone, marble, and mud.

"Where am I?" I would ask them, and they would reply, "Nowhere."

"Where is nowhere?" I would ask them, and they would reply, "Everywhere."

So, by and by, my questions turned to mediocrity and I raised life into my own flock, for otherwise, it leads me where I know not. And yet through ignorance, my curiosity returned, and I asked, "Why did you give me speech if you don't want me to use it?"

And so they’d answer, "We didn't give you speech, for it was within you, given by your parents and their parents before them, and we have merely brought out in you what you cannot bring out in yourself."

"Who are my parents, then, and from whence did they bring me?"

"They are dead, and they brought you from the dead, so that you will live, to someday return to death."

I didn't understand this, and so as I grew older, I began to explore. This was good, for before long I discovered that my home was large beyond comprehension, with overgrown thickets, vast carpeted rooms connected by empty corridors and hallways, and abandoned mine shafts lit by cracked bulbs in the stone ceiling. An abandoned bastion, made of dusty marble and rusting metal, supported by broken rock that threatened to crumble at any moment. I found room after room, chamber after chamber, opening after opening, all connecting in a vast labyrinth that was this castle. I found bugs crawling on the torn carpets, nesting and breeding in a constant state of rebellion against the arid loneliness pervading their home. I found machines, not like the ones that fostered me, but even stranger, like mechanical boxes the size of entire rooms, purring all day long in a strange language I couldn't understand, imploring each other to do strange things I didn't want to understand. Whenever I'd approach them,  their workings would go silent, waiting patiently for me to leave so that they could start back up again. Once one of them even grabbed me with its wires, and strangled me in a grid tight like iron, clutching me so tight my neck would be red for weeks—when I finally wrestled myself free, I vowed never to approach the things again. Later I'd convince myself that I'd imagined the whole experience, but I knew in the dark recesses of my minds that it must be true. Nevertheless, from then on, I stayed away from that part of the castle. I moved on, only to find even more unanswered questions—elaborate astrolabes, broken timepieces, stark needles covered with what I could only hope was rust. I tried to ignore what I didn’t want to remember.

But it was not all darkness. One of my favorite rooms was the library, with thousands of dusty books resting on colossal shelves that stretched upward into the sky, surrounding me with sweet, sweet knowledge. It was here I learned it was the sun, not the earth, that was the center of the solar system, as the machines had previously taught me. I learned of the arts and the sciences, and read of tales from times long gone, times when there were no machines, and the world was populated with real people. And yet not a single text I came across told me anything about this place, and what it was. Once I came so close—a text from a millennia-old manuscript talked of a dead castle made of marble, one that bore an eerie resemblance to my home. This was a holy manuscript, and one that had born much meaning to the people that once lived in this land. It spoke of God, and Jesus, and sin—but what good was this to me? It was the stuff of fantasy and fiction, not the stark, harsh reality I confronted. A curdled mystery, and all I had for answers were the machines.

But the machines were no better. I didn't trust them anymore. Whenever I confronted them, they'd do nothing but posit nonsensical answers. Nothing they said made sense. Was I simply stupid? Possible. Only when I asked them about the mechanical boxes did they show any emotion at all, warning me that if I inquired further into their purpose I might just find out. I knew now that the machines had a dark side, so I relented. I didn't mind death, but I couldn't bear leaving this world before I had my answers. No, I must find my answers.

Days passed, then weeks, then years. Centuries might have gone by, and I would have been indifferent. Each hour of exploration brought me absolutely nothing other than questions. Where did I come from? Where did the machines come from? Why was there a forest at the edge of the castle? And why was it so silent? Forests are supposed to be teeming with life, and yet aside from the occasional insect, there was nothing to be found there except trees. And why was it that whenever I tried to venture beyond the forest, I somehow always ended up going in a circle? I knew the world was round, but surely it couldn't have been so small. Could it? I doubted the machines now. They never had my trust, but now they had my suspicion. Why must they lie to me? Was it normal? Once I stayed out there for a whole week, determined to find something interesting if it meant the end of me. I let the mud collect in my boots and the sweat drain from my face. I let hunger starve my body for days if only it'd rouse some answers.

Nothing.

So I made my way back to the castle and washed the dirt off my face. My footsteps echoed off the marble floor, echoed my emptiness. Was this it? Was this the fate I'd been condemned to? Maybe. But I mustn't accept it, must I? Maybe.

I returned to the library to marvel once more at its size. I could barely see the end of it when standing at the door. But there was nothing left here for me now. I'd read every book, every scroll, every letter that graced even the highest shelf. I'd climbed the ladders and scaled the walls, all to obtain that sweet, sweet knowledge. For what? So unsatisfying. I strode inside and collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. My legs ached with pain, and yet there were no chairs here, only books. I'd done all my reading on the icy marble floor, never even thinking to bring a seat from elsewhere. Maybe it was a symbolic thing. I didn't even care anymore.

I closed my eyes. The darkness was welcome; loved, even. I had nothing but love for oblivion, but the void did not contain myself, it contained the machines, and I wanted nothing but to be free. And yet was there even any point? If I did find the truth, the reason, the answers, will I then finally be happy? Perhaps the human experience was built not on satisfaction, but on the mindless pursuit of one obsession after another, curling down a spiraling fractal that never found itself. But how would I know? I was nothing but a single human alone in the world. Perhaps my insanity had finally caught up to me. Perhaps this was all but a nasty dream.

"Human."

I jumped to my feet, startled. At the door stood one of the machines; steel muscle, silicon mind. His name was Shard, and he was the greatest of them all. Powerful in strength, but that was not his skill—it was his intelligence the others feared. Why? I don’t know. But fear is in the same in all minds both man and machine. "Yes?"

"Walk," he told me, his red eyes flickering. I noticed now that they were cracked. His entire body seemed broken, actually, and covered in what appeared to be rust, or perhaps blood. They very same substance that had covered the needles. Strange. Frowning, I slowly walked towards him, careful not to make any sudden moves. Shard was known for intermittent violence. "Yes?"

Shard stared at me, his metal face unmoving. Clasped in his hand was a loaded pistol. My eyes widened, and yet I still stepped forward, drawn as if by some ephemeral compulsion.

"Shard, no—please—"

Shard smiled, and his smile broke me. I had never seen the machines smile. "Follow me, human. I have something beautiful to show you."

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Boy, this is probably the most experimental any one of my work has ever been. If you're curious, this was inspired by one of HP Lovecraft's short stories, which you can find here: http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/o.aspx. Of course, this piece is incomplete—the beginning to a longer story I'll be working on over a larger time scale. The reason I don't put out fiction as much as I like to is usually because I like to take my time with it, to stew over every word, puzzle over every phrase, and piece together a narrative like a child pieces together his playtime, with a loving care to every detail. That said, this particular tale doesn't have much left in it, which might surprise you. So many questions still to answer! And some to not. A truly great mystery leaves something to the reader, for them to puzzle over and figure out on their own, even if that something is small and insignificant. I suppose we'll see. Until then, let me know how you liked this. I'd love your feedback. Thanks for reading!

Dungeons and Daggers

I stare at the dagger, the sun's cold light creeping up on me in the fearful cracks of the stone walls, my silver breath frosting the blade, like the silver spirits trapped inside the women and children, men and mages of this forsaken dungeon. At least there is a window, even if it remained pathetically small. The enticement and hope on the children's faces are like knives to my heart. The ghosts just grumble, but even they know, as well as the dagger, that there was Something about this year, and it wasn't good.

Something. It echoed in my heart, the glimmering, glistening word that whispered of change, which perhaps was the prison of my own self. Since the defeat of the king, of my country, the people, since the survivors had been dumped in the castle dungeon to die, Something slept. The humans aged and went old, leaving behind naught but young men and children, young ones who did not understand what was happening to their tender lives. And then they too grew old, and their children now stared at me, the one they considered immortal, the one with the dagger. They hoped for Something. Hope. Hope sapped their souls like death. Something.

"If the Dagger does not answer, trouble not you," the old man whispered. The oldest man, who had survived for more than two centuries. Old when it started and old when it shall end. No one knew how he did it, not even me, and no one remembered a time he was young. He rested his frail hand on my shoulder now, and I felt the toils it had been through. "We shall try again, next year. Nothing more can be done."

"I don't know." My voice is a mere whisper of myself. "I can feel it from the blade, but it does not answer. I feel—"

I can't say the word. It catches in my throat, like phlegm on a cold day. Something.

The children continue to stare at me eagerly, but the adults have given up hope. They don't want it to sap their souls anymore—they want to be free of this gate and continue onto the road, even if death is the toll. I don't blame them. 

"You said that last year, you and your forsaken dagger," one of them growls. A ghost breathes down my neck, but that doesn't help me. The Eve is not past yet, and the dagger has still to pass judgment. I take a deep breath, commanding my soul to obey me, and not to become another wandering specter.

"It's not over yet. There is yet judgment to be given. We must still hope. For—"

Something.

__________________

Thank you for reading! This was just a little something I wrote several years back, and since it's fairly decent and I haven't posted in a while, I figured I might as well put it online. I do have several pieces of new writing I'm working on, however, so I hope that I can be more regular with my posts in the future. I'll see you again soon!

Alone

The day was empty. Ice stretched out seemingly forever, merging with the blue sky at the horizon. I blinked slowly, my chest rising and falling as my breath collected on the frosted glass. Outside, the wind blew the settled snow into the sky, and it flew in swirls, coalescing into flakes that hailed from the heavens. The frost danced on my skin, kissing my face deliriously. There was nothing to be found here, nothing but chill, and occasionally, death. It didn't come often enough.

A sigh escaped my lips, and I leaned back in my chair, my fingers curling around the armrests, tracing patterns in the coarse wood. I found myself wondering how I'd ended up here, sitting in this lone prison in the frozen tundra, inhabited by none but seal and fox, and the bear that reigned over them all. Isolation was strange, and it did fiendish things—it toyed with the mind, showed it great orchards of fruit, and even as I let the taste fill my mouth, I could almost feel the poison fill my veins. How long had it been now? A week? A month? A year? Did it really matter? Death was coming for me, making a great pilgrimage across the snow, and my flight from it would not last long. And yet life was precious, even if it was cursed. A starving man must eat the poisoned fruit, even if he knows it will be the last he will ever swallow.

I was young when my father had first taken me to the pole, making the long voyage to see the endless sheets of ice, the ruthless polar bear, and the glorious Aurora that graced the skies. We'd come by ship, my father seeking to do research on the strange behavior of electromagnetism, and I seeking glory in being his accomplice. He'd educated me well, and I'd understood his endeavors with ease—they fascinated me to no end. I dreamed of immortality within the sciences, of solving what the greatest minds could not. I'd told him once, "Father, I shall seek to do the impossible, and my name shall echo within history!" Such is the folly of greatness.

Weeks passed, then months. We started out in a small cabin at the base of an Inuit village, constantly trading supplies and equipment in an attempt to survive in this hostile hell.  Every day my father conducted experiments, setting out on great expeditions, and I went with him, constantly moving closer to the pole, and yet with every passing day, we saw the futility of our venture. The crew we had sailed with were uncomfortable in the wake of such undertakings, and while my father attempted to muster morale, one by one they left us, and the remaining hopefuls succumbed to frostbite. Even our captain, a strong-willed and resourceful individual, began to waver. He was a rich man, and one of noble birth—he was the one who proposed the mission in the first place, providing the finances and such. But every man has his limits, and as his crew began to desert him one by one, his patience slowly worsened to the point of cracking. His temperament quickened, and he'd often scream in rage at the slightest mistake by his men. Even towards my father, he grew hostile, threatening him with a withdrawal of funds if he didn't finish his research soon. If anyone attempted to calm him, he'd swat them away irritably like a ranger swats a fly in the rainforest. And it didn't stop there. The captain's grim demeanor wasn't at all self-contained, and soon even the jolliest of our crew members was moaning and groaning whenever we'd compel them to get off their behinds and get some work done. It was slowly becoming evident that no good was going to come out this enterprise we'd embarked on.

As our days slowly withered away in the harsh tundra, I couldn't help but wonder at how quickly the human mind turns to despair. The captain had been one of my dear friends, and now he'd turned into nothing but an irate, sulky slug unable to do anything good with his life. There used to be a time when he was happy and jovial, glowing with pride for what his expedition would accomplish. He had a lot in common with me, really, and we'd often stay up talking long after hours, laughing and regaling each other with amusing stories and ambitious plans for the future. He'd tell me about the great scientific discoveries he'd made under Queen Victoria, and I'd tell him about the course of my studies and all that they'd taught me. He was quite astonished when I'd told him my age, saying that for a boy under eighteen I was stunningly accomplished. I used to glow with pride at his compliments, throwing aside all modesty and taking credit for the amazing work I had done, using it as emotional fuel for the work I did alongside my father. But soon he was gone, and all of this became but a memory of the past. The last of his men left with him, and we were left alone in the cold. "They will return," my father had said confidently, but we knew it wasn't true. And still, I pursued glory. "We do not need them, father! We shall further our enterprise alone, and years from now they will regard us with deference." He'd done nothing but silently nod. Two days later, I'd found his body lying a hundred meters from our camp, half eaten and ripped apart from head to foot. The craftsmanship of a bear.

I'd wept bitterly, but my tears did no good. I was alone now, and my glory lay only in sorrow. I'd always thought myself a resourceful individual, and now I put that to the test. The very next hour I packed up everything in our camp and took a dog sled south, racing through the snow, feeling the ice bite my eyes. My tears had dried now, and I wished nothing but survival. Two long days later, I was forced to resupply at a local Inuit village. But there I met someone that spelled the end of my legacy: the good captain.

Of course, at first, I'd received him with nothing but relief. "Kind sir!" I exclaimed. "I did not think I would meet you here, but seeing your face I know that I shall not languish in the snow any longer. My good man, my father has met his untimely end, and now I am trapped here. I would reward you greatly if you could grant me charter on your ship. I know you do not need money, so I shall provide my services instead: I shall devote my genius intellect to your profit! Surely it shall benefit you greatly."

Evidently, the captain disagreed. He said that I and my father had brought him nothing but ruin and that he had lost his entire crew, as well as a shocking amount of money. I had ruined his reputation, he'd exclaimed, and by extension, his whole life. And then he drew from his person a pistol, and I ran for dear life, leaping into my sled and spurring my dogs into action. I screamed at them to run as fast as possible, and they yelped with excitement, turning the sled around and racing into the tundra with their tongues held out. Even given the terrible circumstances, I couldn't help feeling a pang of regret. These creatures had been through just as much as I had in the last few months. I urged them on, making a mental note to take better care of them in the future.

By acting fast I had given myself a head start which would prove to be invaluable. Soon the captain was pursuing me, racing across the snow on a sled of his own, gun drawn. Panic swelled in my throat, and I pushed my dogs faster, the snow flying into my face and up my nose. "Yield, boy!" the captain screamed as he caught up to me, firing his pistol in the air, and then at me. The bullet whizzed past my ear, melting the frost that had collected on my face. And then, in a stroke of fate, the captain decided to aim at my poor dogs.

The crack of gunshots filled my ears, and blood sprayed through the air. One by one the animals fell. My sled tripped over the ice, tumbling head over heels and smashing into the ground. I was thrown from my vehicle and into the unforgiving snow, and I screamed as blinding pain seared through my body. My breath came in rapid gasps. I could feel hot blood flowing down my legs, the pain keeping me conscious. Splinters dug into my skin, causing me far more pain than my much larger wounds. This undoubtedly meant the end of me. Beside me, the captain had circled his vehicle around to a halt. Rage was etched into his face, his eyes blazing with what could only mean murderous intent as he slowly and purposefully cocked his pistol. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged my heaving body to his sled. But there was still fight left in me, and I struggled in his grip, punching, kicking, biting. The captain cursed, stumbling, and I took advantage of this, slipping out of his grip and snatching the pistol from his hands. Before he even knew what had happened, I'd taken aim at his head and fired. There was a deafening crack, a flash of red, and the captain collapsed senseless on the ground.

His blood turned the snow a dull shade red, and my face what could only have been a pungent shade of green. I scrambled to feel his pulse, but it was no good—he was dead. The pain that had plagued me a second ago seemed to vanish as I slowly sank to my knees, my actions washing over me. The world swam before my eyes. I had never taken another human's life before, and I could hear my own heart pounding as I stared at the lifeless body before me. A rush ran through my head. Is how murder felt? Strange. Terrible, maybe? No, that wasn't it. Disgusting? Perhaps.

I rose to my feet. Oddly enough, the dogs hadn't been disturbed by this at all. Evidently, they had seen more death than I had. I swallowed the bile that had collected in my throat and dragged the captain's body away from the sled, digging a small hole in the snow and burying the body with haste. The snow around the site of our skirmish had been stained a gut-wrenching red, but this quickly being remedied by the fresh snow that was ceaselessly hailing from the sky, washing out my grim actions in a blanket of white. Like a blank canvas, almost. Hopefully, a canvas with which I would be able to paint myself a new life. After all, soon there would be no visible evidence of the scuffle except for my crashed vehicle and the dogs that the captain had killed. The bile I had swallowed began to crawl up my throat once more. Those animals had served me well, and I couldn't exactly say the same. At least they were at peace now. I massaged my temples, trying to clear my thoughts of the fog that had clouded them. I needed to get away from all this. The sun had almost ended its journey in the sky, and unless I sought shelter I might just go the way of my father. My mind still dazed, I mounted the captain's sled and sped away from the scene.

But I was speeding away from nothing but my own fate, for only two weeks later my crime was discovered and I was doomed. I was in the Canadian provinces at the time, trying my damnedest to get a charter back to London. I was arrested in the harbor, and taken to the local judge, to be given a trial the next day. I did not resist. I knew that I must suffer the punishment for my murder, for such was God's justice. The jury declared me guilty, and the judge decreed a life imprisonment: luckily for me, he was a kind and forgiving man, and so instead of being killed, I was to be tossed in a small prison up north and forgotten for the rest of my days. Such irony.

And so now here I sat, holed up in jail, rotting in isolation. This was always a small jail, but at least it had been populated when I first arrived: a dozen criminals used to reside here, languishing alongside me in the horrid cold. But Death's cold fingers eventually wrapped around their necks, and so they slipped into the nether, one by one, until I was all alone in the frozen tundra. And then, yesterday, the two jailers who dwelled here also died, succumbing to pneumonia. Locked in my cell, with no food and water, it seemed I would soon follow suit.

I sighed. Perhaps it was fate. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, the cold flooding my senses until I could feel nothing but the gentle frost dancing on my skin. A poignant sense of sorrow embraced me as I reminisced my days in the tundra. Is this the only glory I was destined for? As a child, I used to believe in something larger that myself, something that could seduce me endlessly and lead me to greatness. My fellow children had invited me to play with them, to live in ignorant bliss as youths often do, and I'd laughed at them, told them that they would loiter away their entire life as I studied my way to immortality. I'd buried my head in books and lived my days in isolation, my only company being the great men of yore, men who pushed me even further into my solitary endeavor.

A chuckle escaped my lips, and then a shiver. The cold around me seemed to have worsened, and the only sound I could hear was the clatter of my own teeth. My blood seemed to freeze in my veins. I gulped for breath, but every gasp sent jabs of chill down my spine. I wanted to open my eyes, but they were achingly numb and ostensibly paralyzed. A sense of terror struck me, and then a feeling of peace. I thought back to the good captain I had slain. Perhaps I would be able to apologize to him now. My shivering slowly stopped, and the cold seemed to be replaced by sheer exhaustion. Somewhere not far I could hear my father's voice, beckoning me to join him. I felt joy swell within me at the thought of seeing him again.

A smile spread over my face. Lethargy seeped through my body, and slowly I felt a powerful sleep washing over me. Yes. Yes, I would see him any moment now. Perhaps I would apologize to him as well, tell him of my great folly. Any moment now…

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I hope you enjoyed that! I wrote this piece on a bit of a whim a few weeks back, but I do think it shaped out rather nicely in the end. "Alone" had been one of the more interesting projects I've worked on. It's been a fascinating if somewhat short-lived undertaking, but nonetheless, it's taken me to unexpected places I didn't think it ever would. Writing is like that sometimes! Every story is an adventure to discover, constantly leading us to novel places and experiences. It's one of the reasons we as a species tell stories in the first place. In particular, I found it very surprising when I looked back upon the words I'd written and realized I'd never even mentioned the protagonist's name! And yet it worked so well.

I wrote this story as bit of a foray into what I think modern literature is somewhat afraid to explore: the idea that sometimes, even though we try our hardest to make life work, our fate eventually catches up with us and we're left to die alone and unremembered. It's not quite tragedy—it's something very different. It's something that leaves us empty and hollow. It's something that strikes us in a place we often try to forget. It's something that's just a depressing truth about life, which is why I think we as writers often steer clear of it. But I figured that for once, it was worth acknowledging the bitter side of life and seeing the impact it had on readers. And as I mentioned in my previous post, I firmly believe that the real beauty in art lies in the experiences it gives us, and how that experience impacts our lives in both big and small ways.

But philosophical ruminations aside, I genuinely enjoyed writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below! What impact did this story have on you? Do you agree with me? Or do you think that writers should steer clear of the hollow side of life, and focus on things that make us feel whole inside? I look forward to furthering this discussion in the future. Thank you once again for reading, and I'll see you in the next post!