Words On a Page

[Lightfoot]

This is some of the most recent things I've written. The style is just general fiction, really. I like to call them Start 'n Stop Fictions. Self-contained stories about a page or so long (some incredibly shorter) that I've used as my creative outlet since my Roleplaying absence.

Enjoy.


~`*`~`*`~
Savage by Nature


Thunder clouds, dark and ominous, lingered above the metropolitan city like the stench of stale piss and dried blood that filled the little room. It was going to rain soon, Braelan knew as he pulled out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He surveyed the grisly scene in grim silence, the gears in his mind clanking and working through the possiblities.

Where he stood was once a beautiful couple's bedroom, filled with pleasant memories of passion and love. Now, it was a crime scene. The case's file stated that the couple had been mauled to death by something, but when the tall man's dark eyes met the pile of meaty gore on the floor, he figured that was an extreme understatement. The coroner did mention one interesting fact in his report though. An essential part of the couple's meat pile was missing: their hearts.

This was the type of case that no one would touch, the type of case Braelan always took. The detective kept canvasing the room, careful where he stepped. Deep gashes were in the walls and floor, and by the look of the scratches, led straight to the apartment's balcony. The glass of the doors were shattered and busted outwards, looking as if whatever had torn poor Mr. and Mrs. Hendrickssen apart made its escape from there.

"Damnit, Wade!" Braelan looked over his shoulder to the other detective now standing in the room. "This is a closed crime scene, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were on leave." The fat, balding man's face was red with anger, just the way Braelan remembered it.

"Calm down, Carter." Braelan said in a low tone. "Sarge asked me to come down and take a look around. Said it was right up my alley." He reached into his coat pocket pulled out his lighter. He flipped the silver lid and struck the flame, reaching up to light his cigarette. After a long draw, he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"So, what do you think?" Carter moved a little closer, taking another look around at the scene.

"I don't know yet." Braelan said, the lit cigarette dancing at the edge of his lips. He moved for the balcony, taking a quick moment to enjoy the view of the dark city from the twenty-third floor. The scratches continued outside, even to the stone, and up the outside of the building. The tall detective followed the trail with his eyes, squinting agasint the night sky as the scratches neared the top.

He traced it back down to just above the double doors. There was something stuck in one of the gashes in the stone. Braelan reached up and took it in his hand. He lowered it to his gaze and inspected the strange clump. It was coarse... and thick.

Animal hair... ?

This was the type of case no one would touch, the type of case Braelan always took. Thunder rumbled in the distance; Braelan felt a raindrop fall on his shoulder.

Things are about to get very interesting.

[Lightfoot]

I can fly...

I lean against the wind. My eyes are closed. My arms are out wide. I can feel my clothes rippling and writhing behind me. My face is turned upwards toward the sun.. it's warm.

Jump, a voice in my head says. Don't worry, I'll catch you.

A smile cracks on my lips. My heart flutters and for a brief moment I can't breathe. My skin tingles across my body.

"I know", I respond and step forward.

[Lightfoot]

((This was a piece I was writing about a teen who was being submitted into a mental health hospital. The story was going to be fragmented between entries and given out of order, both to symbolize his crumbling state of mind and to give readers an interesting way to piece together the story themselves as they read. I only wrote two entries, and the other I can't seem to find.))


Journal Entry #1

I watched the bright blue sky through the passing trees, imagining the puffy marshmallow clouds as an old time moving picture; catching only glimpses at a time as they flew with no particular destination in mind. What I would give to be a cloud.

SHHHFT... "You know," Mom said as she lit another cigarette, momentarily taking control of the car with her knees, "this could actually be a good thing." I watched her out of the corner of my eye, taking a long draw. She exhaled a cloud of smoke with a wheeze.

I barely held back my cough through burning lungs and rolled down the window. A blast of chilled air hit my face and blew back my hair. For a second I was high in the sky, flying free.

"You can finally get better," she continued. "Finally start living a better life." I looked at her and saw how she grasped so desperately at the "deathstick" between her fingers, trying to pry out salvation with every draw.

I'm not the one who needs to live a better life... I thought bitterly. I despised the fact that she smoked. The nicotine stained on her fingertips. The yellow teeth, the acrid stench that came from her mouth every time she spoke. I could hardly stand to be around her anymore. The doctors warned that if she kept smoking she'd be dead within months. But she didn't listen...

"What?" she asked. I realized that I was staring at her with a look of disdain. I averted my eyes and went back to watching the clouds.

"It's nothing..."

[Lightfoot]

My Own Piece of Heaven

Her eyes sparkled like diamonds as we drove underneath another passing lightpole. I could feel her gaze on me, stuck on me, penetrating through me. The interstate was empty as far as the eye could see; just miles and miles of orange-hued roads. I glanced at the time, two forty-five, then I finally looked over to her. Her deep emerald eyes were transfixed, wistfully gazing behind her black-rimmed glasses. A faint smile began to creep at the edges of her lips, and I could tell what she was thinking.

I pulled the car over at the nearest rest stop and turned off the engine. We stared at each other for a lifetime, it seemed. I knew what she was thinking, but neither of us had the courage to give voice to our thoughts. So gently, I leaned over and kissed her forehead. She took my hand in hers and rested it against her cheek, closing her eyes and taking in every sensation. I pulled my hand away and met her opening eyes.

"I have an idea," I said coyly. I stepped out of the car and grabbed a blanket from the trunk. She followed my lead, intrigued, but slowly grasping at what I was doing. I climbed up onto hood of the car and she quickly did the same. The chill night air blew through our thin jackets and she was immediately snuggled up next to me. I covered us in the blanket and laid back. Together, we watched the night sky pass us by and smiled as the faintest shades of orange and blue and pink began to paint themselves across the horizon.

"I love you," she finally said.

"I know," I replied, and kissed her forehead.

[Lightfoot]

Deal With A Devil

Lightning flashed and thunder crashed throughout the night, but it did little to improve the husband's mood. He waited at the side of the bed seeing to his wife, who had been stricken with an unknown illness. The man, a wealthy plantation owner, had no second thoughts about spending countless small fortunes on foreign experts of medicine; but even they could not diagnose the strange sickness. He looked to his wife, sweat caked on her brow, hair plastered to her neck and face, an awkward rapidity to her breathing, and felt on the verge of breaking down. He was a man of action, a man of means; there was nothing he couldn't control with the proper influence... except this.

He dipped the cotton cloth he had been holding into the water pot at his side, making sure to submerge it completely. After ringing it out, he began to clean his wife's face, who had begun to mutter strange incoherent things in her delirium. The man had never felt so helpless. He cleaned the cloth once more, rung it out, and placed it at the woman's forehead.

"Don't you worry, love." He whispered softly to her, "I'll find a way to save you. I swear it." He took her hand in his and held it tightly, placed gentle kisses on her fingertips, and waited. The night wore on and the woman's ramblings became more and more violent, just as they had for every night since the sickness fell upon her. She thrashed in her bed and screamed foul, murderous things, never relenting. The husband buried his head into the covers of the bed and wept. He never thought he could weep so deeply. Silently, he prayed, with his wife's torturous voice in the background. He would give anything if to only spare his wife the pain.

A chill breeze rolled in from the balcony doors, which the husband had left cracked open in hopes of some way combating his wife's hot fever, the lights of the oil lamps began to flicker, and the darkness in the room deepened. His wife began to calm, and the husband could sense another presence in the room. He lifted his head, but saw only shadows.

"You!" he yelled into the darkness. "What are you waiting for? She is almost out of time!"

The darkness spoke in a deep voice, raspy and wet. "I have seen the births of empires, and I have witnessed them crumble. Time is of no importance to me." The darkness spoke with a steady conviction that sent shivers down the man's spine. An awkard silence soon followed, and the man knew what he must do. The creature had visited him once before, had told him he held the key to curing his wife's illness, but that the cure came at a steep and terrible price.

The husband sighed dejectedly. "I have decided." The shadows in the room whirled in excitement, but the voice remained calm.

"You understand what it is I ask?" The man felt cold, his face and hands were covered in a clammy sweat, as if just being in the presence of the terrible thing was a cost of effort.

He nodded. "I understand."

A dark hand formed from the darkness and presented itself. "Take my hand," it ordered slowly. The man hesitated. He still had a chance to back away, to explore other avenues of a cure. "It is futile." The darkness spoke with power, as if he had been reading the man's mind. The man looked to his wife, breathing rapidly, and steeled his resolve. He knew the creature was right. He reached up and gripped the thing's hand.

Pain lanced through his body and the man couldn't help but scream. He watched in horror as the shadows greedily rushed toward him and began forcing their way into every inch of his skin. They rammed down his throat, up his nose, into his eyes. He was being consumed.

It ended just as quickly as it had begun. He stood at the side of the bed, looking down on the ailing woman with indifference. He studied his hands, turning them over and again, testing his grip. He watched as black incorporeal tendrils leaked from them. He was as much man as shadow now. They clung to him like the thick mist of a morning fog. They were a part of him. Thunder rumbled off in the distance. He turned and made for the balcony. The storm had passed. He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, getting used to the sensation, tasting the moisture in the air.

With a wicked smile the demon vanished into the night, the protests of a desperate man echoing in his mind.

[Lightfoot]

((I was able to find the other Journal Entry I wrote.))


Journal Entry #6

I have lost count of the days. I no longer see the sun or the moon from this padded cell I've been locked into. The room has a fetid stench from which I am the source. They haven't let me shower in almost three weeks. I can hear clanking from the buckles on my straight jacket everytime I move. I stretch out my legs and listen for the pleasureful pop.

A stinging light erupts from a hole in the door. I clamp my eyes shut and listen for the door to open. There's no need to see who's there. I already know.

"Good morning, Jacob," the man says to me.

"Hello, Steven," I reply. Steven Dempsy. The manager of the facility I am being held in. He's the only staff member brave enough to visit me alone. Everyone else thinks I'm going to bite their ear off.

"Ah, so you're lucid today, good. I was hoping I wouldn't have to deal with that distasteful alter-ego of yours." I can hear him try to hide a sigh of relief at the mention of Donovan. "What do you want for breakfast this morning, hmm? Scrambled eggs or Sausage and Gravy? Oh, I know...how about French Toast?"

"Surprise me..." I keep my eyes shut and my head against the padded wall.

"You know, Jake, if you would just take your medicine I could let you out of there. Maybe you could take a shower and get a haircut?"

Fucking lies... I open my eyes and look at the fat balding man through my greasy brown hair.

"I'm sorry Steven, you're going to have to speak up. I couldn't hear you through all that bullshit." A grimace grows on his face and he adopts an unfriendly tone.

"Fine, be that way. I hope you're looking forward to another week." He turns to leave and I shout after him.

"You can't keep me in here!" He turns back and responds.

"Oh, but I can. As long I give you food and water every day I could keep you in here for months for being so uncooperative. I honestly don't understand why you won't take your medicine. Don't you--" I stopped listening after that. He didn't understand. I can't take my medicine. It changes who I am.

I started thinking of an open field. Rolling hills of shifting green grass. A bright blue sky, not a cloud in sight. I could lose myself for days in a dream like this, and I have before. Just sit back and feel the warm sun on my face. This was my heaven.

"Goodbye, Jacob."

"Goodbye," I whisper softly to the wind.