A Tradition of Anti-Heroics

I'm not special.

Nobody likes bills. Everyone gets annoyed when they come in the mail. Most people get frustrated when the amount is wrong. I dare say most people call the number at the bottom to fix the problem. Most everyone wants to yell at the person, but, I think, almost nobody really does. I didn't, because I'm not special. I did call though.

Everyone loves a sexy voice on the other end of the phone. We start to imagine. All the features become physical. The full bodied laugh turns into eyes you can fall into. The sexy burr in the voice grows into that one part of the body, whatever it is, that you want thick when the rest is slim. For me it's the breasts, if I was a girl I bet it would be the penis. Like I said, not special. We fantasize our way through life, and phone calls are no different.

I even started off by telling Samantha, but you can call me Sam, that I didn't think I was special. She assured me that I was though. They're paid to say that you see. Part of their job is making customers feel important.

Anyway... she fixed my problem. So sorry Mr. Smith, this was a problem with our computer, and I have corrected it. I fell in love while she did it. I may not be special, but I'm not a moron. She was flirting with me. So I screwed up my courage and asked her out.

Sam must be something pretty special, because she said yes. We set the time and place. She gets off work in an hour and I'm supposed to meet her for drinks. She even offered to buy. So, now I'm sitting here thinking.

How ugly is this bitch? I mean, to say yes to a date with some loser on the phone who has billing problems? The Trumps of the world don't get miss-billed. If they do they don't even notice. How repugnant is her personality, when she's not hiding behind a phone, that she has to resort to turning her legitimate job into an escort service? I bet she's a goddamned serial killer and she's planning on selling my organs on the black market. Her breath probably smells like that fermented fish the old Scandinavians are so in love with.

I'm sitting here terrified. What if all of that is true? Well, maybe not the killer part, but I bet she has armpit hair and feminist-forest legs. What if all of that is true and I show up to be disappointed my her snaggle-toothed personality and Quasimodo looks? I'm not going.

I'm terrified. Worse than that? What if none of it's true? What if she is the perfect goddess I met on the phone? What if she's everything I imagined. Then she couldn't help but be disappointed by me.

I'm not going, and you can't make me. Don't judge me, because I'm not special.

You wouldn't go either.

I just want to say, for those confused by the title. If you don't know it, before comic books and RPGs co-opted the term as a synonym for dark hero, antiheroes were a literary device. The term literally meant, not a hero. Stories about them were stories about the common man. They weren't brave, or skilled, or stuck in great adventures. They were workaday people living workaday lives. This is something of a tribute, and a remembrance of words that have been stolen from us. If you didn't know that, well now you do. I just wish I could remember the style they were common in. I want to say Gothic, but I'm relatively sure that's wrong. If anyone knows, please comment below. If not, guess it's off to the library for me soon, since the interwebs have failed me.




#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt

Keepsakes

I should give up the paper. I really should. I'm probably one of five people in the city that still has the damn thing delivered. It's a risk, an affectation. Still, I can't give it up. I step over my guests to pick it up and bring it back in. I look over to their still forms again and smile. At least I didn't disturb them.

The front page is the same old crap. Russia is tired of our garbage, and we'll end up irradiating the world between the two of us. The big egos yelling at each other. The companies sponsoring them trying to convince us we should care. Tired of it, I turn to the local section.

High school sports, local art (if you can call it that,) and stuff to do on the weekend. Boring, who needs that in their life? Like I can't entertain myself.

So, I look at the police blotter. Damn it. Sometimes the universe leads us to the right place at just the right time. I've never had a day go bad, not after I brought guests home. This is terrible though. Have you ever looked into the paper and saw your name associated with a crime you didn't commit? I never thought I would.

Right there, in black and white, it says I robbed a bank. I read between the lines and realize they're be coming for me. I look over at the guests and realize my luck is just getting worse. I really can't let them be found here.

Wouldn't you know it? That's the moment the cops decide to knock on my door. "Police, open up!" Yeah, yeah. Okay. I can figure this out. Where did I leave my bag?

"Just a moment! I'm not decent. Oh... and I didn't rob any bank!"

I look around, where is it? I speak from the center of the room. It's the only way this is going to work after all. There it is. The cop is shouting his lack of concern at my assurances.

I kind of figured he would.

Just like I expected him to tell me to come out or he'll break down the door. I hope there are only two of them. I stand next to the door, knowing they expect me to be in the middle of the room. True to his words, the door shatters inward.

Two of those big cops rush through. You know, the kind that eat too much red meat and spend hours at the gym? None of it on the treadmill. Guys that will leave muscled corpses before fifty. Anyway, they storm in.

As I slide in behind them, the brains of the outfit spots my guests. They both aim guns, but it's the brains that speaks. "They're de..."

I slide a needle into each of their steroid enhanced necks and depress the plungers. Thanking god there are only two of them. Look, I never said I didn't commit any crime, just not some low rent bank job.

I hate unexpected company.

#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt

One Eyed Men

Don't blame me. Blame the #muse and the #writingprompt

it is the day after the world went blind

the last man who could see gave in and bought a tablet

i am as blind as anyone

my screen

my virtual reality

my all i see

if i looked around i would see that they are all like me

if i peered up i would see them all in the worlds orbiting mine

walking i repost stolen memes of political bigots and idolaters

if i pause i might see her the girl so lonely that she surfs the singles sites

i might ask her our because she is just my type

she might not slice into crimson chords that spill her lifes painting on white porcelain tonight

i dont and she will

i might see the man in blue as he watches the computer and aims the gun at the transient

it could happen that the bum would turn from the darkness of the news in the store window

i could step in and stop the bullet one way or another

there is a chance

just one chance

that i would see the boy playing a game on his phone

scoop him up before he enters the road

some small hope i could wave down the bus driver reading the electronic map

if any of us could see we might stop the travesty of a child buried under moving steel

if any of us could see we would see it is the screens that make us blind

if we took off our three dimensional glasses we might notice the darkness

we might understand it replaced the truth they were meant to bring

we might just might find a one eyed man to stop us from setting the world on fire

we dont though

we stay blind

the child screams and the world becomes tinder

ashes in our mouths

if only it was taste we lost

instead of vision

#shortstory #art #artiss #author #Awethors #commentary #experimentations #surreal #writer #writing

Origin Story

So, the prompt this week led me down the path of choose your own adventure. So, I decided to experiment.

You did not realize it when you woke up this morning, but this is the day you become a super hero. Or you thought you did not, but obviously you actually did. You packed your lunch and went to school, as usual. You carried your cartoon lunch box, as usual.

Chemistry class started out like normal. Being partnered with the hottest girl in school distracted you though. Despite your shaking hands, and your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth you attempted to carefully mix the components to the specifications the teacher wrote on the board. But your partner's posterior kept distracting you. The fact that she was laughing at all of your lame nerd jokes did not help either.

At step five she asked you to the upcoming dance. Your hands were shaking so badly you could not measure accurately. The fact that you turned your head is the only reason the concoction did not end up in your eyes. So you still have your eyesight, and that's something.

As you said yes the toxic looking purple goo violently expanded. The foam covered your hands, causing a tingling sensation. There was no pain, but it was not pleasant. Eighteen hand washings later your skin is still stained violet. Your chemistry professor has assured you there are no harmful side effects from the compound you were creating. Still, it's hard to be sure.

Lunch comes after chemistry. Opening your box you find no trace of the meal you packed for yourself. Instead, sitting next to the empty thermos is a note. A note from your past self. You read with great trepidation, and trembling hands.

Dear me,

We have just had an accident. I ate all of our lunch for breakfast. This may seem greedy, but I promise there is a reason. The compound still on our skin will give us super powers, based on the next thing we eat. Choose wisely.

Love,

You

Obviously precognition and an extensive vocabulary will be amongst your powers. Your meal choice will determine the last and greatest of your abilities. Looking around you see a few options. You realize you must choose wisely as your responsibility to the world will be determined in this moment...

To gain X-Ray vision and start the path of a perverted gray hero, eat some carrots and turn to page 5.

To obtain mental powers such as mind reading and telekinesis, destining you for a secret identity revolving around government work after graduation, gobble some fish and turn to page 9.

For physical based powers and the life of a mindless bruiser that makes it on looks and charm without substance, grab some spinach and turn to page 15.

To choose the life of a villain and powers of darkness and danger, leave the school, snack on the nearest baby and turn to page 666.

In order to gain powers of domination, teaching, and creating obedience, swallow the note itself and continue on to the next page...

#shortstory #authot #Awethors #comedy #experimentation #writer #writing #writingprompt

Holistic Mediocrity Overseers

Over time the stale scent of blood becomes like a lover's perfume. You know it is still there, and on a good day you still catch a whiff of it. Most minutes though... most times... you just forget the thing that used to define every moment with her (her the woman, or her the city) fades into the background. It tickles the olfactory part of your mind that defines memory but no longer stokes desire.

When I first moved to Detroit, that coppery smell reminded me that reclamation was perfectly legal for a doctor. Used cybernetics have a limited value though, and an even smaller window of re-usability. Working as a wandering doc for hire was more satisfying. Most days.

That day reminded me that the fifty-third modification to the Hippocratic Oath meant there were always choices to make. Sometimes simple choices. Most often very complex choices with untold ramifications.

From guys with purple spines on the outside, to women with orange, ceramic heads that replaced their original brain cases, I've seen some weird shit. That day took the cake. Hell, that might have been what it was about.

The seven foot tall, broad, muscular man falling down in front of me made me think of soldiers in the third class wars. He looked tough. But with the forgetting of honor and the absence of training... well... they were all posers as big as the white gang bangers in the nineteen eighties. With all the grace of a slaughtered hog he slipped to his knees, a gaping knife wound in his gut.

His assailant, a nuvo punk, ran down the street; brandishing his blade in front of him. Just as I stooped to look at the victim, fate stepped in. As the fickle bitch so often does.

The assailant tripped and landed on his own knife. Perhaps it was a drug induced walking coma. If I saw his eyes I am sure they would have cleared. He was screaming in pain. His cries for help echoed in my brain. He screamed about what just happened?

Like I said... He might not have known. End of the day? He made a choice and he was responsible for it. Just like any of us. He should be held accountable. I was responsible for my own choices too. I had one to make now. Two patients, one traveling doctor. I did what any man of morals and means would have done.

I pulled out my street doc pad and scanned it. The information on both patients jumped out for my fingertips to scroll through. I stood and walked towards the assailant. You would have too.

He had better insurance.

#shortstory #author #Awethors #socialcommentary #writer #writing #writingprompt

Prostrating Westward

On a man's wedding day he is supposed to be the third happiest person in the room, except when he is fifth or sixth. Normally his joy is dwarfed only by that of the bride and her mother. Then there are weddings like mine.

In a wedding like mine the groom can be fifth or sixth. They come in after the beaming joy of both mothers, two fathers relieved they get to see their son married after all, and before or after the other groom.

So, there I was, staring into his eyes. Dueling crying mothers sounding in the background. The justice of the peace droning on with words that, if my parent's had their wish, should have been droned by a clergyman. I didn't care about things like that though.

When our eyes met, I was purely happy. So was he. That was what mattered to me. Then the jay pee said the dreaded words. There were concerns you see. My ex was... well, a bit psycho is putting it mildly. Psychotically dedicated to things best forgotten would be a bit more accurate.

It was like a Clark Gable movie, well, and edgy Gable movie. The Justice spoke to the heavens and the heathens. "Should anyone here present know of any reasons that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."

I looked around. I had nightmares about this all week. I knew it was going to happen, even as I hoped that it wouldn't. It all came undone, just as I dreamed.

The doors burst open. As one, my ex streamed in. The whole group of them carrying their trademark signs.

Jesus will laugh when you have AIDEs - Read one.

Reenact Soddom - Said a second.

And, of course, the classic that would never die - God hates fags!!!

There were many, many others. Most of them were variations of those three though. I saw microphones in some off hands too.

My ex, and they never gave up. He started ululuating and I started crying. Our mothers bemoaned our fate and the destruction of their special day. Then the chanting started.

Long story short? Most of the guests fell into the background in horror. Unable to raise their hands against religious men and women. No matter how zealotous and evil they were. Not everyone was willing to stand passively by.

After years of questionable acceptance, some men will fight for their sons when a threat comes from the outside. Other men are willing to take on the wrath of heaven itself for what they believe in and those that they love.

That's why I'm here. It's supposed to be my honeymoon. Instead of Paris I'm sitting on a hard bench. Waiting to bail out my father, father in law, and new husband. Yes, husband. Thank God some officiants can get the "I Dos" out quickly.




#shortstory #writer #author #rights #socialcommentary #writing #writingprompt

A Transcendental Mediation

This week's prompt. Write a story beginning with the title of the book you most recently read and ending with the name of your favorite character you have written. Of course it's one with my story in it.

The Awethology Dark... I held it in my hands, hushed reverence issued from my body until it surrounded me. In the placid plasma of my nether universe I allowed my mind to focus on things left unsaid and words undone. This book was a wonder, in more than one sense of the word.

One wondered why this, of all books, survived the culling. The answer was the same as always. A dedicated fan base who squirreled it away. With other non-precious valuables. So it survived when the great works fed the flames.

Despite all that, these stories gave me hope in my darkest hours.

 It is difficult to say if the book had any cultural value in the old world. In this new desolation, a place where people no longer had to desperately seek battles to fight, it was as good as the bible. Freedom, equality, thought and creativity. All these things echoed from the book.

Perhaps that could be said of all tomes. I am sure everyone with a bit of tattooed, dead tree felt the same about theirs. It was, after all, why we hid them from the reclaimers. Those charged by our so called government with collecting all art of "worth" for homes of those with power and influence, and destruction of all the others. The subversive works were sought even harder than those most desired.

We risked death, and worse, to keep our prizes safe. They could never undo the damage. Hell, they could not even act as a panacea for the plague of those ruling us. They were like Ritalin for our troubled minds though. They were all the same.

But this one was mine.

During the day it eased my fears. It reminded me that there were worse worlds, many of them in the past, even if only in the imaginations of others. It quelled the terror of the men and women seeking the very thing itself. In the darkened hours it cloaked me from the consuming silence. When evil edged into my mind and I waited for the sounds of more bombs dropping it stilled the voices inside. With louder voices and worse violence.

I knew. I knew beyond a doubt. I must take this to him. It could help him even more than me. I must risk it all, as these writer's had, and travel roads unknown. The man who might lead us out of darkness. The one who could teach us to overthrow those keeping us in cuffs and ignorance. I would take the first steps tomorrow and bring my book to him.

Swift.

#shortstory #Awethors #authors #shamelessselfpromotion #writer #writing #writingprompt

Character Letter

So, this week's prompt was to write a letter to me from the MC of my novel. Oh my.

So, this is written by the main character in Eater of the Damned, the novel I'm currently editing. It's a story in first person, so this was mostly easy.However, normally I try not to swear much on here, but Brother Book is very foul mouthed, so I'm sorry but this is actually toned down. Children and those with souls sensitive to vulgarity should give this one a pass.

Hey Asshole,

I have always been a religious man. My faith in God has gotten me through times darker than a normal man could survive. Now I find out that I'm just your mouthpiece in a rage fit against writers with an obsessive love of monsters and apologism for evil. You are the God of my world, the thing I have knelt and prayed to. You? Do you know how disappointing it is to find out that my creator is someone like you?

To know the hell I live in was written by a self published writer with less than a five hundred sales between six books? The moment I found that out is the very definition of a long dark teatime of... hold on. Someone's at the door. I'll come back and continue to tell you how you fail as a god.

Okay, seriously? What's with that shit? It was a bit of a workout but... you made me the best hunter to ever live in any world and you think a vampire is going to shut me up? This just proves what I was saying about you. I mean, you have moments, some decent prose, but is it any wonder you're still destitute and having to resort to a day job to make ends meet? I mean, if I had to do that... I don't know what I'd do. But I sure as shit couldn't look at myself in the mirror in the morning. What an asshole.

Oh, God! What the hell are you doing to me? Riley just walked in and started vomiting blood on the carpet. Why would you do this you sadistic bastard? Do you think it will make me take back the shit I've said? No, no, NO!!! I won't. You love that girl as much as I do, it's why you wrote her so sexy in the first place isn't it? You fucking pervert. You won't kill her and you've already made her suffer enough. So, no, not going to get me to apologize.

Ha ha, the shooting pain in my left arm isn't going to get what you want either. You can stop with the constrictions in my chest though. They're really annoying. You're getting nothing out of me. Why would cause me this much pain though? You're supposed to be a decent person. Okay, pain gone but I have a sudden urge to watch television for a moment.

Okay, you sick, sadistic fuck! How could you even think of such a thing? Are you serious? I am at home with pain, death, terror and horror but there are some things even I can't take. Kill my girl, hurt me and steal my life. Fine, I can get past that... but this is too damn much. Fine! You win. Edit my world so Trump was not elected president I'll admit you're not so bad. It's not much but it's the best I can do.

Dick.

Rot in hell you bastard,
Frank Book

#shortstory #author #Awethors #politicalcommentary #writer #writing #writingprompt

Lovable Monsters

This one needs some explanation, so here is the prompt that caused it...


Write 10 sentences using a different cliché in each. Now, rewrite the sentence to eliminate the cliché and find a more clever and creative way to convey its meaning.

And here is the thing it spawned.

His ideals and skills were both as useless as tits on a boar hog. Only one of them made him a marked man though. The other made him bite of more than he could chew at every turn. With a memory like and elephant he knew the lies in what he saw. The scary black man on the corner reminded him of a need for a weapon. Necessity is the mother of invention, and the gun it caused him to design was only to keep him safe. A quick buck is always more appealing than integrity though. If that did not decide him the accusations of being a stick in the mud holding back progress would have convinced him to sell out. Years later his moment of weakness led to him telling his son, "Do as I say, not as I do." In the ultimate battle between the child and the corporation holding the patent he knew his son (the hero) would win because he was the good guy.

As a man who regarded his ideals as highly as society did his skills, James did not fit in the ordered universe of normal people. Those morals that made him unique made others uncomfortable enough to desire his extinction. The brilliance that kept him alive through that jealousy also kept choking on the cloak of work he carried to defend himself from social interactions.

One of his most useful talents was a recall that extended to times before his conception. Those reflections of times before his own, infused with the image of a looming citizen the ignorance of society taught him to think of as an enemy caused his desire for something to aide in his defense. Need drives truth, which pushes inspiration; the weapon's only aim was to keep him safe; much as all weapons before it.

Integrity is always for sale, if the rewards are instant enough. Even if he was pure enough to resist reward the accusations of hampering the forward motion of science caused stronger idealists than him to betray their scientific faith.

In the years to come he would have a son, a boy he urged to live his father's dreams instead of reality he bought in to. Knowing one day the young man would stand against those who crushed his own will the father held one belief tight enough that it bled, that purity of purpose and a righteous soul would lead to a victory of biblical proportions against overwhelming odds.

#writingprompt

Her Ring

Mom always told Jimmy, the number of keys on a person's ring directly related to the power they held.

That might be why she kept every key she ever came by. The ring reminded Jimmy of the ones jailers carried in old low fantasy movies.

If one went by her theory, Jimmy's mom had a lot of power. Too bad she lived her life so broke that when she died, the week before, the only thing she left him was that damnable ring. It was joking about it that kept him from shedding the tears that threatened to fall.

Jimmy loved his mother, crazy as she was. So, without question he dropped his own meager collection onto the ring with the others. That was yesterday.

Today he returned to work, then made his way home. His thoughts were of prepackaged food, like mom used to make. Then he could crash on the couch.

Hungry, tired, and missing his mother he fumbled with the keys and slammed one that felt right into the slot.

Jimmy opened the door and was sure he must already be asleep. Because his apartment was replaced by a dirt pit filled with Minotaurs. As he tried to make sense of that, one of the beasts spotted him and charged. Jimmy slammed the door, causing the keys to drop to the floor.

Shaking, he bent down, lifting them. He had every intention of opening the door and finding out what was going on with the mad cows diseasing his home. He fumbled with the keys again and unlocked his door, it opened onto a mountain scene with climbers scaling the heights.

One turned and waved at him. Clearly these extras from the Swiss Miss container thought his summer attire inappropriate for their demesne, but were too polite to say so.

Retrieving his keys, Jimmy stepped through a door that swung closed behind him. As his breath fogged the air in front of him he realized his mistake. Turning to face the cabin he stepped out of an idea struck him. He shuffled through the keys until he found one for a car belonging to one of his "uncles" growing up.

Sliding that into the door he exited the Camaro, in front of a bar.

The enormity of what he had washed over him. The truth of the power his mother left him sunk into his heart. He walked towards the tavern. Thoughts of drinking the pain away flooded his head. Yet, he stopped at the door.

Searching through the keys he found one linked to the last time he was truly happy. He slid it into the building's lock and stepped through.

The home he shared with his mother, until he was five, stood abandoned. Thirty years later its only occupants were cobwebs. He was home.

Jimmy slipped to the floor, tears finally flooding from him. A grown man, but inside was a boy who missed his mommy.

"I love you mom."

He whispered the words as saline streams left his face and made dust-mud flow along the floor. Below that boy who cried for his loss, deeper still and waiting to be discovered was another. Down there was a child awakening to a world left by his guardian. A child just beginning to wonder where these keys would take him next.

#shortstory #author #awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt

Jeffrey and Charlie Meet the Cleavers

And now back to things that are completely different.

They never feel the prick of insertion. Too small they say. I will show them all.

I hobble back into the house, weighed down by a bag of food in one arm and the stumbling, peroxide blonde in the other. She jerks at the scene that greets us, but not very far. To be fair, I stumble too. What happened here. Something is wrong.

Dave is frozen mid strut with his face thrust forward in a cluck of challenge. He is covered in honey-mustard and feathers. He looms over the plucked carcass of last week's dinner. Dave has the worst luck, so we all know he is going to lose. Everything is normal there.

The blue flannel covering the futon is coated with yogurt, some of it crusting and flaking at the edges. Like the world's first G rated bukake. Tom is sprawled out in the middle of the makeshift bed. He wears a ring, having married the futon. The mattress wears no ring. It is not that willing to display its commitment. I know them to be wed however. I performed the ceremony myself. Nothing out of place there.

Carl balances precariously on two blades of the ceiling fan portion of the chandelier. The dog stands on the slat directly opposite of Carl. The canine stands in trot position, as Carl is obviously attempting to push himself upright, so he can run the animal down. The fan slowly spins, making the contest that much more epic. Just like I left them.

Cleetus sits at the dining room table. He holds a butcher knife in his right hand and a cleaver in the left. His hands are raised, poised to start pounding them and demanding food. He wears a grin on his face and a look of anticipation in his glassy eyes. Also right as rain.

So what is out of place?

I settle my nerves and let the uneasy feeling pass. No need for performance anxiety.

Most people would miss the tense fishing line holding everyone but Tom in place. My date doesn't miss it. I think it is the reason she tries to run. Too bad she missed the prick. So she stumbles.

A few minutes later, I am stitching up the gash in her throat, until it is an almost unseen scar. I promised Cleetus a girlfriend. One as pretty as his mother, with all of her teeth, who would never leave him. Cleetus is a demanding ass, so I could not hit her in the mouth.

When I reach for the formaldehyde I realize what is wrong. It is not where I put it. Have the feds been invading my privacy again?

#shortstory #author #writer #writing #writingprompt

In the Beginning - Her Name Day

Chapter 39, all previous chapters are below. Remember to pick up a copy of the December Awethology - Dark, and I guess Light too. The story I am proudest of so far is in that collection. Anyway, on to this weeks installment. Three more weeks of this and then I'll be taking this offline to finish the latter two thirds of it.

Thomas felt more and more grown up. Something about Jack trusting him to stay home alone since he turned thirteen. The greatest joy the young man knew was in receiving a package. That little thrill when an stranger bearing gifts he was allowed to accept knocked on the door was the primary reason most of his allowance money was spent in online shops.

Jack didn't understand the obsession, but he enjoyed the independence the boy showed. He also liked the smile on the young man's face. Thomas was a melancholy child, who lived far too much in his own head. So Jack never considered putting a stop to the mild and non-harmful addiction.

When the two simple joys combined, there was nothing better in the world. Not even close. This one though... a trill of fear quaked up his spine as he opened the door and signed for the package. Jack's birthday was coming up. Thomas was saving for that, so he had not ordered anything in weeks. Yet, here was this package.

The door closed on the delivery man, leaving Thomas to his wonder and the unnatural silence that suddenly filled the house. Jack wouldn't order something for him. He'd buy it in the store and watch the boy's face. So there was a secret here. Mysteries are irresistible to teenage boys, and Thomas was no exception. Then there was the package itself.

The fabric containing the gift, for that it surely was, was like nothing Thomas had ever seen. The color for one thing. Thomas thought of it as a supernatural shade. A cross between midnight blue and the red of heart's blood, it shown like the black of a moonless night. Thomas instinctively thought of it as Judgment Night purple.

The feel of it was no different. Like furry sandpaper he could not help but pet. It felt like sex and violence. That touch of the beckoning divine, corruption and salvation. It felt like his first time, though that had not happened yet. Thomas knew not how he understood all these  things. But he did.

When he set the shoebox sized package on the floor, it began to shake violently. It beckoned to him. A silent scream emanated from the box, for his ears alone. It called to him with the ceaseless appeal of modern siren. Thomas could not resist, no, tell the truth and shame the devil, he would not.

With all the patience inherent in the male of the species he showed the wrapping its proper respect. He tore the fabric asunder, discarding it like a prom dress. The box inside was made of an ebony wood held together with pure gold fastenings. Interesting, but nothing compared to the fabric that previously encased it, or the things inside. Also, much like a prom date.

Thomas flipped the lid open. A howl whirled past his ears. Blistering cold and numbing heat, damnation and salvation, angels and demons, all whipped past him and into the night. He saw none of these things but felt them just the same.

When he recovered and looked inside there was but one piece of velum, smaller than an index card. Everything the world needed was already out of the box. Written on that parchment in flaking, metallic ink, once the black of night now faded to the gray of forgotten sins were three words.

Treason - Love, Pandora.

#shortstory #novel #author #writing #writer #writingprompt

In the Beginning - Father's Chair

Chapter 33, others are below, as usual.

Harold, that was the armchair's name. He didn't know how he came by it originally, but the crazy man with the followers in prison knew it. The man started calling Harold by name before anyone else even knew the chair could think.

That was why they were friends.

That was why Harold supported Peter in this important moment.

Peter loved the daughter, and he loved Nicole. He was sure there was a flaw in the prophecy. Peter confided this to the armchair in their moments alone. He whispered the dark, near blasphemous thoughts into the faded green felt.

"There can be no prophecy without a son. The girl is nearly ten now. She has to listen, you can convince her."

Harold was starting to think Peter might be running truly mad. Peter knew that, from the way the chair stared at him. It held accusations and pity in its buttons. Still, the chair was always there.

The chair looked on with disbelief as Peter presented the philosophy to Nicole. It watched with amusement as Peter tried to convince the woman of the truth of his words. It stared in shock as Nicole admitted that there might be some truth to the idea. Harold would never forget the way she admitted partial defeat.

"There may need to be a second son, but where would I find a father for him?"

Harold laughed so loud that he covered Peter's tears with it. A mocking, hollow sound that only Peter heard. He hated the chair a little in that moment. He quickly forgave the slight though. Both because the chair was his best friend and because Peter was sure amusement was hard to come by as a chair.

Harold watched with intense interest as Peter convinced Nicole that he would be an acceptable sperm donor for the new son. Harold held back his laughter as Nicole took this seriously at first. He viewed the impending drama with baited breath as Peter worked to convince her that the old fashioned way was better.

Harold leered lasciviously when Nicole finally gave in. He watched the action like it was his own personal, live action porno. Until they ended up on top of him and he could no longer see anything. They didn't even wash him afterwards.

Peter should know better.

Harold was smarter than most people in the house. He knew it was a bad idea to argue with Nicole. He heaved an inward sigh when the fight began.

"The new boy should have a name!"

Peter insisted this to Nicole. She was not the most reasonable of women when she was not six months pregnant. She gave him a chance to take it back.

Harold knew what was coming. Now he held Peter in his arms as the man bled his life out onto the cushions. Harold knew something the woman didn't though. Peter had shared the idea with him. Her father had never mentioned it but there was a danger in a third child. It was a hidden part of the prophecy.

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In the Beginning - Man Lessons

Chapter 32, go me! All other chapters are below.

After six years, Jack still had occasion to wonder if he was a bad parent. There were moments where he even wondered if he was a bad person. Those always brought back memories of his closeted youth. No boy should have to live in fear and shame. Thomas would learn that.

The boy returned home crying. He was surrounded by other boys. Somehow he always seemed to attract these other children. Boys flocked to him and accepted the slightly undersized young man as a leader. The caliber of Thomas's friends worried Jack. Their character was exemplified by their costume choices. There was a Manson, a couple of Nazis, and a questionable ghost amongst others. Thomas stood in the middle of them dressed as Lincoln.

Also fitting.

"What's the problem?"

Jack asked the question despite his detective nature answering half of it. The other boys look upset and nobody had any bags. They had been trick or treating, so they should have candy. The lack spoke of bullies. Jack hated bullies, but he was determined to teach his stolen son to grow up to be a man who took care of himself. To hell with modern sensitivity.

"A girl!" Thomas let it out between sobs. "Dressed as Eve. She came along and stole all our candy."

Jack looked between the boys. One girl? He wondered if she was a monster. Though, the thought of her dressed as Eve, other than sending a cold shiver down his spine for the correlation, made him think it might have been a stunned by seven year old puppy love thing. Great. He was raising a little heterosexual. Where had he gone wrong?

"Well, what have I taught you?" Jack ignored the other boys.

Thomas took calming breathes and squared his shoulders as his tears tapered off. He stood taller and met his father's eyes.

"A man stand's up for himself."

"Correct, but he also thinks things through. What do you want to do?"

"Beat her up!" One of the Nazi's chimed in.

"Is that right?" Jack asked.

"No, sir." Thomas dropped his eyes and spoke quietly.

"Good, there is never a reason to hit a girl." Jack hoped it was a lesson the boy would take with him. However, Jack himself did not know if he could follow the advice if he ever met the boy's mother again. "There are other options though. How do you think around problems and get your property back?"

The other boys looked to their leader, their president, their future dictator. Their eyes held wonder and hope. Thomas's brow furrowed and he chewed his lip for long moments. Finally he smiled and it was one of the darkest things Jack had ever seen. Then the voice was even worse.

"She has a little brother."

Jack knew the lesson had to come in its own way. He sighed as they turned towards the door as one. He had to say something though, just to be sure.

"Don't kill him."

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In the Beginning - A World Without God

Chapter 31, this follows the madness of the poem and actually inspired that.

Jack watched the sleeping boy. He fingered the gun resting under his jacket and shook his head. Jack had named the boy Thomas, after the priest. That might have been his mistake. Instead of ending this madness he spoke to a child too young and too unconscious to understand.

"I should do it. I should kill you. Know why I don't?"

A soft snore was the only response.

"I'm not doing it because of the old question. If you could save the world, but to do it you had to kill one innocent child, would you kill the kid? You're supposed to say yes. I can't though."

The child rolled over, which Jack took as an invitation to explain.

"I can't because of the priest. You know what he would say? He'd say, Jack, stop being an idiot. It's not about if you can save the world, but if you should. He'd say, what kind of world is based on the death of innocence? If I only I thought about this two days ago, or even three. When he called."

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

"I have cancer."

"Sorry to hear that, father. You shouldn't call me anymore. Still, your god will see you through it."

"It's past that. I'm starting to have prophetic dreams. Something big is coming."

"Something big was always coming."

"Something big for us."

"There is no us anymore."

"Shut up, you titanic ass. I called to tell you one thing."

"What's that, father?"

"Don't feel bad about what you have to do."

The line went dead before Jack could respond.

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

Nicole, Jack, and the ever annoying Peter entered a museum that was supposed to house some artifact of sacrificial importance for this impending prophecy. Jack was getting tired of pretending to care about the insanity. Still, he could play muscle a little longer.

It seemed O'Reilly was done playing the role of quiet bystander though.

The priest stepped from the shadows to stand before their objective. He wore a mask of mirth to please the reaper upon his lips. Peter stepped forward but Nicole stopped him with one hand and a gentle voice.

"It is time for Jack to prove his allegiance."

Jack walked around them, wondering if this was what the priest was on about the night before. He took the hammer Nicole held out as he passed. O'Reilly nodded to him, as if in answer to his thought about the meaning of their earlier discourse.

"Make it last." Peter growled and Nicole's giggle showed approval.

Jack met the priest's eyes. He saw forgiveness and understanding there. So he went to work. He made it last. O'Reilly never screamed, but he prayed for the souls of his murderers through the intense, bone obliterating torture Jack laid upon him. It lasted long enough that the sheet covering their objective absorbed enough blood to rival the shroud of Turin. He was just about to finish the job when Nicole stayed his hand.

"I think Peter deserves some reward, let him crack the skull. Come with me."

So Jack had not had to watch the priest die. The next night though, while Peter and Nicole took the artifact to a safe deposit box, Jack absented the manse with Thomas, until then known only as the boy. He left the girl behind. The girl was too far gone. Jack hoped that rescuing Thomas would end this madness. There could be no prophecy without the son.

Right?

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

Now, in his own apartment with the kidnapped child, Jack wondered how he managed to keep being a cop. He looked at the boy and shook his head. Sitting down heavily he touched his eyes and realized that, for the first time since his lover died in this room, he was crying.

"So, tell me Thomas. What kind of world are we saving when it is based on the death of a loving god?"

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In the Beginning - Pantomime

Part 30, stupid poem prompts.

Pain was his world now

Penance without reckoning somehow

Pleasure unknown

Pardons unsewn

Patriarchy fading in a world now owned

Pizza means something

Part understood

Purplish hazing

Plethora not so good

Pandemonium rising from under black hood

Plague bringing vermin

Passing for human

Patchwork dark sermon

Parceled by woman

Passing time until Armageddon

Pulsing putrescence

Purified by pain

Pulling the essence

Parlaying the gain

Plagiarized is the gospel of O'Reilly

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In the Beginning - Parole

Chapter 28

One of Peter's few joys was the television in his single bed "apartment". Only the most politically correct of terms in this not prison for those deemed mentally unfit by the beautiful people of normal society. Peter thought the term crazy as a shit-house rat needed to come back into style. He had never been politically correct, by any stretch of the imagination. Probably why he was going to survive while most of the planet burned.

That was not something Nicole or her now defunct husband told him. No, this information came from a different source. Saturday mornings he sat down to the different religious programming on his television, which sat unused for most of the week. Saturday's were reserved for getting right with God though. The rest of the week, Peter spread His word. Even a dutiful servant needed his faith replenished on occasion though.

It was a Saturday, much like this one, when one of the televised prophets first spoke to Peter. Telling him that he would survive this coming storm if only his faith was strong enough. Since then the preachers looked directly at him and imparted personal messages more and more often. Even that couldn't keep him tuned in though.

The Word was too big for one man to spread. Unless that man was Peter. He did not know if it was the medication they insisted he take, the power of the message, or just the onset of adult ADD, but the talking heads would speak, in cryptic messages, of the prophecy for a moment and then move on to the boring pleas for money. When that happened, Peter changed the channel.

He sat, waiting for his pizza. On Saturdays the orderlies (guards, his mind insisted) allowed him to eat in his room. He always asked for pizza, and they always brought him the shoe shaped instant variety that chewed like leather and tasted like old shoes.

He reached down and took a sip of the soda on the table in front of him, as he changed the channel again. His didn't remember obtaining it, normally cans were forbidden. He also wasn't a fan of cherry-lemon-lime. It wasn't in a box though, and beggars couldn't be choosers. He was setting the can back down when the knock came at the door.

Peter kept himself from singing, "Pizza, pizza, pizza" as he rushed to the door. He flung it open with a smile. Then he croaked instead of speaking.

Nicole stood on the other side, smiling and holding his street clothes. He was sure she must be a delusion. Then the smell of her perfume hit him, and her voice a moment later. She held the clothes out to him.

"Special dispensation to let you live with the daughter of a holy man. I need your help, so it's time to go home. Your ministry work will continue when you attend group sessions."

Peter croaked again. He wanted to dance but a little, happy hop was all he could manage. A few minutes, a change of clothes, and an electronic ankle-bracelet later and he was on his way back into the war.

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Reflexion

I swallow the bitter liquid and close my eyes. I wonder if my love has downed her own remedy. Sheets of lightning course through the space between my eyes and their lids. I have finally captured it inside of my body.  I inhale one of the last few breaths I will take. The stale smell of stagnant air offends my nose, but there are worse scents. At least it is not the odor of the showers.

The light fades in a pulsing blue flash and I am terrified to open my eyes. I know there is no other world, no paradise of the sheep or punishment of the wicked. Still, for a moment my heart trembles. Now I smell air that moves, it is not trapped but filled with the stink of too many people. Before I look I take stock of my body and the space around me.

I am taller, that is wonderful. I am thicker but not fatter, this is good. My scalp feels colder though, my hair must be thinner. That is less good. It is almost time to open my eyes. First I grip the podium in front of me. I am making a speech then, this is normal. Expectant sheep murmur, not violent approval and agreement. Have I arrived in England? These are not my people. The crowd stinks like mongrels and culture destroyers.

No more time to waste. I feel eyes upon me, they are waiting for my answer, so they must have asked me a question. I open my eyes and things look so different I know I am in either the future or the past. A quick look to the camera reflecting my image and I know it is the future. That is acceptable, I have always adapted quickly. I see in this image that while my hair is thinning it is the right color, and so are my eyes. This trip has turned me into one of the master race I love so much.

The people though. They are sickening; overfed, weak, imperfect. For all of that there is anger there, a willingness to shed blood, the ability to go to war for no reason beyond being disillusioned. They are my people. My first people were no better when I swayed them. The leaders of the sheep, those at the table, look at me expectantly. I cannot ask them to repeat the question. That would be weakness.

I look to my right and see the dark skin of one who should not be allowed in public, much less a debate. I can look no further that way. My head jerks left. Three ugly men and a woman who does not know her place. I look back to the crowd and know what I must say.

"We must keep the Jew from gaining power and destroying our great nation..."

I have more to say but the crowd erupts in applause and shouts. Just like before.

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