Tragic the monotone hum, every five minutes like clockwork.
Distant souls roam going about their moments in the world below. Detached window view of time passing.
Loose tie and suit jacket off. Corner office. Total and complete success. I’ve succeeded my way right into a box. Removed from the social sphere and begging god to fling an asteroid my way and not warn me.
Five minute mark, the scanner hums and I’m ticking away at the keys. Clicking and scrolling and typing and scanning.
Ambient chit chat somewhere off in the pit of the building keeps the atmosphere just above silent.
Working but nowhere near present. Dreaming at the florescent bulbs more powerful than the sunlight that beams through the window. Trees and birds, likely not much farther than the ones directly outside. Reality is only revisited when looking to see what number the little hand points at.
Making green to let strangers more clever than I hoard it in a private bank to avoid it getting stolen by anyone other than the owner of the bank. I pay for that individual to have the exclusive rights to use my money how they want while I wait for 5pm. Pay for their vacations and their hookers while I sift through spread sheets. Twelve hour work days to assure someone will have zero hour work weeks.
At least my watch is more expensive than the entire common household annual income. Nothing but the freedom to stare at my wrist and realize I’ve only begun the day.
At the tail end of their first journey together, the couple finds themselves starving and freezing in search of the desert kingdom to make their big sale and find shelter.
We’ve been out here for days. Six. Wandering. No sight of anything. No site or anything. This desert goes on and on. Our water supply is running low. Our stamina is burning off quicker each day.
Our tents have kept us warm during the sun’s intense rule of the sky. We’re on the move again at the start of the frozen nights, following the glow of each others lanterns. But even the lantern oil is drier with each night. With the dark comes harsher sandstorms trying to steal the air away. Yet, the goal has all but…
A traveling trader tells the story of how his wife joined him on a journey.
Crackling embers and creaking crickets fill the silent night. Branches sticking from the dirt holding up wolf meat to be licked by the flames. Martha’s been quiet for hours. She only leaves her tent to turn the meat and returns.
I keep rubbing a smooth stone along the edges of our swords. It seem to lecture her every time we barely survive a battle. “Attack and dodge!” I tell her repeatedly. She assures me she’s doing what she can, but I fear being witness to her death. We barely escaped today’s encounter with our lives.
We couldn’t retrieve the treasure the golem guarded or its heart. We were too exhausted to continue. Running for our lives was what we had left. An entire day wasted.
At the beginning it was just me taking these month long journeys to track and retrieve expensive treasures from across the land. Martha didn’t my elongate absences. She’d complain and request coming along to help. She’d say, together we could watch each others backs and go where I wouldn’t dare alone. Eventually, I had no choice but to agree. We trained for…
A tale of warriors on adventures and worries scared to venture.
There isn’t always a clear path when staring at a journey. Excuses are unacceptable. Walls are no reason. Spilling the ink is the only truth. Yet, warm masks cry reason. Without aim or direction an image forms itself. Narratives aren’t born, they’re crafted from struggles. Pointless clicks and scribbles grab hold of the ether and drag down the fantasies pleasantly floating about. Shapeless as they may be alone, collections get named. Ink formed into abstract ideas discussing themselves. Meanwhile cosplay myths and tales of pens run dry strike fear into the hearts of warriors beginning their path. Religions designed to confuse. Fictions more crippling to the wanderer than the stories eager for design. But the true explorers don’t fall victim. They travel, even with the fear deep…
The great war begins and for those unaware of what’s really going on, it’s not more than confusing chaos and unexplained horrors left and right.
Black leafless trees as far as the eye can see. Like a forest fire ravaged existence itself. Red skies plague a dark aura over all that is left. Dark daylight is as bright as a moment gets. The dirt beneath my boots crumbles like glass crackling under my weight. The great war merely strolled through here. In less than a week the entire state fell. The bunker managed to keep us safe in the meantime. There’s nothing but the aching screams echoing through the air left lingering. Entire buildings up and vanished into the chaos.
My grandmother always said the rapture would arrive without warning. It would just be here one day. And it seems that’s what took place.
One moment I’m at my first day at the office unpacking my things and getting settled in to the desk of a tragedy passed. The next moment my window view witnesses what I can only described as giant winged people attacking a tiny record store across the street. Within seconds their numbers are in the hundreds, then thousands. They’re popping…