The Bar

I'm not sure what I initially intended this to be and I'm not sure how to classify what it eventually turned out as, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. It's just a bit of loose writing on the side that I think ended up as something readable, but you tell me.

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It was one of those bars where everyone sitting up by the counter are regulars, the ones who cast sideways glances at any newcomer who tries to take a seat nearby until he feels so out of place that one of the booths looks comfortable and soon proves to be, at least as far as cushioning goes—the window seats were cold in the winter due to a draft let in by a bad seal. The owner and bartender, Stu, had never heard a word about drafts, though, since nobody who complained ever sat by the windows, although they knew. The hardwood bartop was kept mostly clean, although there were the ever-present rings of condensation from the iced mugs and maybe a bit of food here and there, but really, the place was clean. It felt clean in the way that well-loved places do, and nobody paid mind to the thin layer of dust on the jukebox nobody ever used, or the salt packets scattered over the far table, the one where the draft was the worst.

It was winter, and that made it okay to be out drinking on a Thursday night. The blizzard outside wouldn't let anybody get to work the next day anyway, big city though it was. And so the men drank. The big screen TV above the bar was playing a hockey game, but nobody was paying attention anymore. Not since the newcomer had come inside.

In fact, the whole place was dead quiet.

He wasn't dressed unordinarily; in navy jeans and black coat, both of which fit him well, and a matching fedora, justifiable with the falling snow. His face bore a few days' scruff, although it looked as purposeful as his heavy, snow-blown, shoulder-length hair. Really, to a newcomer, the patrons wouldn't have seemed abnormally silent at all had the newcomer's lit cigar been politely acknowledged with directions to the nearest ashtray. But the glowing ember beneath the hat, pulled a bit low, remained a silent guest.

His voice had a laziness to it, authoritave, yes, but content to be so on its own time. “I'll have a beer,” he drawled as he took the bar stool nearest the door, oblivious to the silent looks wafting in his direction.

Stu looked a little flustered. “Uh, what kind?” he managed.

The newcomer's head tilted back up just a nudge. “Beer.” He didn't seem to feel the need to be more specific, not aggravated but certainly not feeling particularly generous either.

Stu glanced at the other men, all of whom raised eyebrows or pulled their lips taut silently, signalling that they were as stumped as he. If the man wanted a beer, a beer it would be. Nobody seemed very eager to start a new conversation with that dark, massively assertive, if a bit unspecifically so, apparition down the bar. The tap fwashed a pint glass full of ale, Stu wiped it down and placed it on the bar before the newcomer gingerly, waited for a brief moment, then pushed it forward into a waiting hand.

Then, the glass lifted, tilted back and drained its contents into the man's mouth. He set it down quietly, let out a barely audible sigh of contentment, withdrew a ten dollar bill from his pocket, set it on the hardwood, careful to keep it away from any condensation from the glass, stood up and left the building.

Silence rang loudly for a brief moment before one of the men spoke. “The hell was that about?” he muttered and threw the rest of his beer back as well. “Another, Stu?” Stu complied and conversation started up again.

“What a nutcase, eh, Sam?” a wiry man with glasses leaned forward, elbows on the counter and searched for Sam at the end of the row. “Sam?”

And Sam, the biggest of the bunch, toppled forward, forehead bouncing off the hardwood with an echoing smack, slipped sideways and crashed to the floor, unmoving. The entire bar erupted in leaping men, each doing their utmost to free themselves of their bar stools as quickly as possible to get to his side.

Oddly, Stu was the first at the big man's side. “He's dead.” He spoke matter-of-factly, his voice shook with a slight quaver, but also rang clear through the room like something that shouldn't have just happened. He raised a hand clutching a knife cloathed in blood up to the hilt where it dripped onto the unmoving man's arm.

With a bellowing roar, two of the group rose to their feet, both with matching looks of rage. They were not the biggest of the bunch, but they were the most formiddable, and seemed to be accepted as such. The others stayed back as their silently chosen defenders ran out the doors.

“Get 'em, Roger! Beat his face in, Jared!” were the last things they heard before the doors shut behind them and the world dissolved into a blinding flurry of snow. Circles of light glowed in the labyrinth of white flakes, street lamps obscured entirely but for the light they gave, which was amplified by the storm.

Their quarry was nowhere in sight, but that didn't stop the Morris brothers. Without hesitation, they both stalked to the side of the bar, where an alleyway cut its way between buildings. There was much less snow here, but less light as well; all they could see of the murderer was the glowing ember still in his mouth, a spot of orange against an otherwise nondescript shadow.

“You son of a bitch!” spat Jared as they slunk closer.

The shadow didn't flinch even when they got close enough to make out a deeply shadowed face beneath the hat. Either the man was incredibly competent or incredible stupid, both of which were unnerving when hidden in shadow the way he was. A bit of darkness reached up and removed the ember from beneath the hat.

“My mother was a good woman, thank you very much,” he drawled.

Roger and Jared exchanged confused looks. Then Jared spoke. “You killed Sam.”

The ember went up, flared, then retreated down to the shadow's hip. “The hell would I kill Sam?” he asked conversationally, not demanding but certainly not allowing room for further accusation either.

Then Roger spoke. “I don't know, but he's dead and you're the only one who could've done it. You've killed before. I can see it in your eyes.” And he could, he realized a moment before the words left his mouth. They glinted in the dark; cold, hard, merciless. Damned unnerving.

Then the alleged killer stepped forward into the light. A flurry of snow flung itself from a nearby roof and showered his hat and shoulders. He didn't seem to notice, though. “Let me give you boys a bit of advice.” His tone had changed to something matching the icy shards dusting his figure. “Don't you ever go around accusing men of killing unless you're damn sure you're right, especially,” he paused to suck on the cigar for a moment, “when you're sure they're capable of doing it.” He gestured around him. “We are in a dark alley, boys. Neither of you two have so much as thought about killing a man before, yet you march out here and accuse me of worse. Well,” and he took comfort in the cigar one more time, “you two have made a very, very poor choice. I'll let it pass, though. You've probably had a beer too many to think clearly and we'll let that stand in your defense, shitty excuse though it might be. Follow me inside. We'll figure out who did the killing 'fore the night's over.”


Left without much choice, they followed him, as much to escape the frigid air as to find the answer to their problem. At least they could have him in a room with all the other men. Nobody was foolish enough to fight so many single-handedly.

They entered the bar again to see their friends still gathered in a semi-circle around Sam, but now they were all standing, warily watching the returned stranger. Nobody seemed sure of what to do.

The stranger chuckled, his voice dry and loud now that the screens above the bar had been turned off. It was an insult to the dead man onthe floor, and deliberately so, because the laughter carried only disgust. Then he turned to the brothers behind him.

“Come 'ere,” he invited them to an open space at his side. They acquiesced warily. Then, with a pull on his cigar, he placed an arm around the shoulders of Roger, who was closest, and looked him square in the eyes as he exhaled a plume of stinging smoke. He addressed the room without turning his head. “You've got almost ten men in here, one of 'em dies and what do you do? You send two after me. Now I've got to admit, I'm a little hurt, boys. What did you think they would do, outnumber me to death?” He shook his head. “Shame. It's a bloody, crying shame.”

And then he moved so fast nobody could have stopped him, stepping in front of Roger without removing the arm which was now hooked around the staggering man's neck, and grabbing Jared with a giant hand clamped aorund his throat. Then he heaved the brothers together, stepping back in time to watch their heads collide with a resounding crack and they crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

He turned to the rest of the men as he stilled his quivering limbs with effort. “Now!” he barked. “Does anybody else care to accuse me of murder or is the killer obvious enough?

He was answered with simpleton eyes, uncomprehending. Then the bartender spoke.

“Did you kill them, too?” His voice shook with fear.

“No, you stupid sonofabitch!” cried the stranger in frustration. “Do I have to spell it out for you, you daft bunch of fools?” He brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched, bowing his head to regain control. Then he raised his head as he inhaled sharply through his nose. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to lose my cool. It's all just so simple.” He was shaking a little.

Straightening and squaring his shoulders, he proceeded to march around the bar, push his way past Stu, reach into the cooler and pull out a beer, seemingly at random. He twisted the top off vigorously, letting it fall onto the bar where it bounced, spun and slid off the edge while he brought the bottle to his lips and drank it all. Then he slammed the bottle back down

“I'm going to dumb it down, because I think it's the only way you'll ever realize what happened. I thought,” he took a moment to look them each in the eyes, “at least one of you would be smart enough to figure it out, but I guess not. Where's the knife?”

One of them handed him the bloodied blade. He took it gingerly between two fingers and moved to where Stu kept all of his cooking utensils. Then, he slid one of the knives out of the wooden block where Stu kept them and returned to the bar.

He set them down and stepped back, visibly relaxing for the brief moment before Stu unleashed an unearthly scream and flung a hand toward the stranger. Both knives swept into action as the outstretched hand whirled past, sailing through the air at near-invisible speed and slammed themselves deep into the black-swathed chest that was their target.

The man in the dark coat, face still shadowed beneath his hat, grunted miserably and staggered back and down to one knee. Blood pooled beneath his hunched form as he inhaled deeply and lunged back to his feet. His hands had not moved from his sides, but both knives clanged onto the hardwood floor, sprinkling red droplets onto his boots. His face was visible now, a disgusted glare easily visible in his dark eyes hooded by heavy eyebrows. His lips were drawn tight together, and his unshaven chin acted as a permanent shadow. Even the placement of his feet exuded danger. Stu took a step back.

“Stu killed your man, boys,” the stranger growled. “And now he tried to kill me. Unfortunately for him, I am one of his kind.” And then he added in a voice pitched slightly higher out of contempt. “And I'm far better at it.”

With these words, he thrust both hands toward the floor which the knives left eagerly and hurried into the embrace of each hand. Then, he threw a foot forward and flung both knives with a cycling motion of his arms so that one hand was above his head and the other suspended just above the floor.

For a breath, the bar was silent but for the whistling of the two spinning blades, and then they sunk themselves deep into his frightened eyes, throwing his head back against a row of wine glasses, which shattered, before the fat man thundered to the floor. He lay unmoving as a halo of crimson spread around his skull, eyes replaced by knife hilts. But the stranger did not straighten from his twisted crouch, but watched warily, waiting.

His suspicion soon proved itself wise. The bartender lurched to his feet, drawn by an invisible force so that he stood upright, head still lolling on a limp neck.

“Pathetic,” spat the stranger. I have separated your spirit from body. You are compelled to leave this place, black mage!”

The room filled with a cackle without a source. The men, still gathered around the body of their dead friend, unfroze and cast terrified glances around the room to no avail. None of them spoke, but a whimper of fear escaped the group.

“Demon! Vermin! Scum!” roared the stranger. “I command you, by the authoirty given me, to leave this place at once! If you do not obey, your punishment will be far, far worse, I warn you.” His voice had abandoned the drawl, the ease of use, and had adopted a harsh, tense tone that spoke not of fear or insecurity, but of tremendous exertion of will.

The body lurched toward him, drawn as if by a string around its neck. A look of dismay flashed once through the stranger's eyes before he twisted and threw a fist into the spectre's mouth. The dead man's skull disentigrated in an explosion of crimson and the body dropped to the floor at his feet, but it did not stay down. The grotesque corpse rose to its feet again, knife in hand.

“Die, warrior!” the disembodied voice crackled, distant but present.

The corpse slashed with the knife, was narrowly avoided by its aggressor, and stabbed forward, moving faster than anything alive. The knife nicked the stranger's ribs this time, and he grunted, but did not waver. Instead, he grabbed the thing's wrist, forcing it sideways, and drove a knee into the body's ribs with a loud crunch. Then, he brought his free hand around and plunged it completely through its torso.

This time, the body writhed and dropped to the floor, a deadweight. The stranger straightened and dropped its heart onto the floor.

“I have severed all link with your past body, demon,” he spoke calmly but loudly. “You have nothing here. Leave now.”

The voice spoke again, but was accompanied by a whooshing sound as it faded away. “Next time, warrior...”

The warrior was shaking now, soaked with blood and bleeding badly from several wounds. “Go home,” he said to the men. “Make love to your wives and take comfort in the knowledge that this thing will never bother you again. He placed his elbows on the counter and bowed his head as he continued to speak. “I am...sorry...you had to witness this. I am sorry for your friends...” He wavered slightly. Then, when nobody moved, he barked, “Go!”

When he looked up a moment later, the room was empty, the last of the men just visible through the flurry of snow outside. In the distance, a strobing red and blue glow announced the emergency vehicles. They would take the bodies away.

Summoning the last of his will, the warrior straightened and limped to the back door, the one that led to an alley, where he returned to the place he had prepared before. Taking the now dead cigar from his pocket, he placed it between his lips and lit it with a shiny lighter that disappeared into his pocket when it had expended its usefulness.

Then, as he took another long pull on this vice, his shadowed figure, twisted in upon itself and vanished, leaving behind only a blood stain in the snow as evidence that he had ever existed. The police would find an unexplainable mess but it was better that way.

For now.

Excerpt from A Broken World

I thought I'd hand out a bit of my novel here. It is, without a doubt, prone to some kind of change at some point, especially considering that it's the first draft, but I think it's worth reading anyway. Please don't hesitate to tell me how awful it is. ;)

And I do mean that. Tell me, truly, how awful it is. For as Sinclair Lewis said, "It is impossible to discourage the real writers - they don't give a damn what you say, they're going to write."

And here is the eighteenth chapter, subject to critique, rewriting, rethinking, rescribbling, and other various forms of redoing until it lies limp and devoid of any enthusiasm.

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The true valour of a man is best seen when nothing else will do; when all that's left of a world is fire and rubble; when bones are as numerous as the ashes they hide within; when the only thing one can do is strive forward because giving up is no option. It's at these times when responsibility is not delegated, but rather thrust upon whoever is in its path. The crown set on the head of a reluctant prince who never had a choice in the matter.

Jehoyl did not feel like a prince. He didn't feel like much of anything, really. It felt like this newfound duty had consumed and purged him of anything that might argue against it. Not that he minded. It was almost a nice feeling to not have anything to worry about for once.

Kirah, on the other hand, though it was obvious she longed to support him, was adamant.

"It's somebody else's problem, Jehoyl!" she insisted. "There's absolutely no use in running off and getting yourself killed. Let them do the work."

He fixed her with a gaze both frustrated and determined. "An army cannot punch through an enemy the way a small group—or even one person—can. We know Foul better than most, Kirah. That's the difference between us and soldiers. We fight; they defend. We hunt these things. You can't send a rabbit to find the bear."

She took in his words quietly, obviously fighting within herself. The battle behind those hazel eyes must be more vicious, even, than the one he was going to fight.

Not that he needed her approval. He knew he would go regardless and that she would forgive him for his choice, because they needed each other, but he was growing to love her more fiercely than life itself. What would happen to her if he never made it back? He suspected this was exactly what was going through her mind, so he sat quietly and waited.

Finally she spoke, teary-eyed and weak-voiced, "Okay. But I'm going with you."

He nodded. The words had been expected, dreaded; he would do anything to keep her safe and away from the fight, but he didn't even need to look into her eyes to know the determination he would find there. But then he looked anyway, because they were beautiful, and because he wanted her to know how he felt.

It wouldn't be long before they left, something they both knew and acted upon without much deliberation, and set out to do as quickly as possible. There were things to gather together, plans to draw up, maps to study. For the first time in his life, Jehoyl was not hunting just any Foul, but had a specific target in mind, a reason to avoid the rest. He tried not to think about it much, afraid that this change could be enough to finally upset the delicate balance of life and survival, emotions that threatened to brim over and spill. It would upset everything and he simply could not afford it.

One again, he couldn't stop gazing at Kirah. How strong must a woman be to bear this much of a burden? This life, though it suited her well, was not fair on anybody, especially her. He bit back a wave of regret. There was work to do.

* * *

Unconsciousness is like being submerged in a deep, dark pool where there is neither up nor down, but the surface needs to be found nevertheless. Andre had been here so many times that he hardly needed anything more than his fury at the claustrophobia to help him claw his way to the exit and emerge into a world of light and pain once again.

He groaned. "At least it was comfortable in there, if a bit stuffy," and struggled to sit up. A startled yelp, also not unexpected, came from one side. He turned his head, which felt waterlogged, in the direction and saw Jenna, kneeling by the fire, twisted toward him, expression of surprise on her face.

"You're awake!" she remarked, a little too dumbly to be held against her. Shock was funny.

"Hungry, too," he muttered and, when he caught sight of the clothes he was still wearing, "And in need of a shower, it looks like. My blood?"

"Most of it, if not all," she replied, having recovered from her shock and returned her attention to the pot over the fire. "Scared me half to death."

"Well," he grinned at her back, "I didn't see you there."

She snorted. "Melodrama does not become you. Have some coffee if you can move."

He stood, though his body threw up a dozen flags of protest, and joined her, squatting to stare into the pot and ignoring his aching knees until they gave up and the pain slowly faded. Accelerated healing was a very convenient thing to have, although it seemed to attract more injury somehow.

"So you're one of us, too?" she finally asked.

"One of who?" He looked at her, puzzled, fighting back a small, nagging thought.

She shrugged in a nondescript way. "Hybrids, Mutts, people who aren't animals, whatever the hell you want to call us. You heal just as quick."

Now his legs gave out, dropping him onto his backside. "Uh," he said. His mind was whirling. Then what did that make him? Neither hunter nor hunted, certainly. Wouldn't they have tested him to make sure he wasn't a Mutt? His quickened recovery, he'd reasoned, came from the augmentation, did it not? But then, that wasn't possible, was it?

She looked at him, interest showing more dominantly than concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he said distractedly. He was supposed to hunt others like her? But what of the Mutt in the basement? It hadn't been human, had it? He cursed silently.

It dawned on him then. The people they'd run from in the Compound, they had been other hunters. "Oh God..." he moaned and rubbed his face with both palms.

Now Jenna was concerned. "What's wrong?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "You need rest, Andre." She moved to help him.

He shook her off a bit more fiercely than he intended. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Just..." and he trailed off because he couldn't tell her. A beautiful woman like this could not possibly be a monster. What was wrong with Tank? And speaking of which, what the hell was wrong with the people in charge?

What a fool he'd been! Believing the words of a man without question, a man who killed Mutts for no reason other than that they presented a potential threat. It was ridiculous, closed-minded thinking. Something else occurrsed to him and it washed chills over his entire body. The hunters in their sick, single-minded attack on mystery would not stop until they found her.

He stood. "We have to go."

"But what about the others?" She looked frightened by this change in him.

The previous night came back to him in sporadic flashes of memory. He cursed.

"They went to get their vehicles and supplies," Jenna offered as she, too, stood.

Another moment of fierce decision-making and Andre was decided. "Forget them. We have to go."

She looked at him, searching his eyes and saw something there. "Okay, but I expect you to explain why on the road."

They hurried to his car as he struggled to come to terms with his newfound respect for this woman. So quiet and seemingly fragile, yet she fought fiercely when need arose. He regretted leaving the others behind; they had seemed like a nice group of people.

The air felt so quiet as he opened the car door, like the solace offered by the hillside was exactly what he needed. A short break, a moment away from all of this—from life—was so incredibly appealing. Valiantly, he banished the thought and got into the car, slamming the door shut and exhaling heavily. They pulled back onto the road without a word, both aware that they could very well be leaving behind the only companionship to be found in this desolate part of the world, a comfort abandoned for the sake of responsibility.

Angel

An excerpt from my short story, The Final Peal of the Dead, A Floundering

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The dripping sound hadn't stopped when I woke up. Well, my mind flickered to consciousness in the way the mind does when the eyes don't feel like opening yet. I'm not sure if that counts as waking up or not.

Drip, drip drip...

I tried not to think about what had just happened; a part of me—hopefully the smart part—seemed to have decided that I wouldn't like it when I realized. So for the moment, I hung there, eyes closed, motionless with lethargy and waited. I knew I was still in the truck, because I was hanging from something that felt an awful lot like a seatbelt.

I think it was the breeze that fucked up my careful application of not thinking about my surroundings. It whistled in my ears loudly, thickly. The city was too quiet somehow. Not that it hadn't been quiet ever since people quit bustling and started shuffling without much enthusiasm; it just felt different now. Worse, somehow.

My eyes opened reluctantly, giving grandose entrance to the sight of a thousand fires and a looming mushroom cloud where a city had once stood and it dawned on me: I was in a fallout zone. I was slowly, surely, being radiated to death. I would die of something bizarre like uvula cancer and nobody would ever know. I cursed my birth and shut my eyes again.

God did not exist and I was in hell. That, I decided, was the most intelligent solution to this whole fuckup. People didn't become zombies in real life. God didn't let them. But they had, and so He must not exist. And now the world around me was burning with fire and radiation just like hell must be. This was hell and God did not exist.

I fought back a wave of guilt at the thought, as if I had been caught in the act of doing something I shouldn't have. God didn't exist, right? So it didn't matter. It couldn't.

Eventually, I had my wits about me enough that freeing myself from the remains of the truck cab, which—I swear—looked a hell of a lot more like curly fries than any kind of vehicle. It was smashed and driven into the concrete wall that sided the freeway. I wasn't sure how I'd lived through this curious ordeal, but decided not to give it much thought. Some things are best left uncontemplated.

“Hello.”

My eyes opened almost hard enough to make my head rock back and forth. I couldn't move much, but gave a valiant effort to twisting and turning to see where the voice had come from. Nothing assauged my panicked curiousity.

“Would you like some help?” The voice was coming from somewhere nearby, but my ears were ringing for some reason, making it difficult to distinguish. It was deep, adult male, but carried a sort of wisened innocence that belayed anything I'd ever learned about anyone. Maybe it wasn't innocence, but a sort of willingness to help. That made more sense, at least.

“Sure,” I muttered. My throat felt raw for some reason. I didn't bother to think about it much.

My seat belt clicked free, leaving me free to flail before hitting the pavement spread eagle. It was warm and gritty and I'd skinned a knee. Reason enough to direct my slowly accumulated anger at the invisible voice.

“The hell? Hey, genius! What, do you have wings or something? 'Cause I don't. That hurt!”

He stepped out of the truck cab, which, I had to be impressed, was suspended a few feet above the pavement, embedded so firmly in the wall that it couldn't fall to the ground, and landed easily, bending his knees only a little to absorb the impact.

Swathed in dark jeans, black t-shirt and a coat the exact same hue, his face was framed in long, black hair that blanketed his shoulders in a messily tidy way and a decent beard framed his mouth. He looked like Jesus, only...darker. No halo on this mysterious figure. He wore a rifle slung over his shoulder and carried a handgun that slipped behind his coat before I could make out the model.

“How'd you get in there? Where did you come from? Who are you?”

“My name is Jacob. What's yours?”

“Call me Buddy. My name is no concern of yours. Who are you?”

“Okay, Buddy. I am an angel.”

I barked a laugh, couldn't help myself, at his words. “Like hell you are. Fine. What do you want?”

“I saved you.”

“Did you now? Last I checked, I just got nuked into a fucking wall. That's not what I'd call saving, Jake.”

“Jacob. And I did save you, but you don't have to believe me.” He started walking away.

“Hey!” I called after him. “Where are you going?”

“We have to leave now. Before they find us.”

I assumed he meant the zombies. “We? Why would I follow you?”

“Because I'm your angel.”

“Again with this angel shit!” I sputtered. “Look, delude yourself all you want, but don't try and suck me in, too. I'm fine with whatever just happened.”

“Obviously.” He continued walking as I hurried to catch up.

“Okay,” I conceded. “Where are we going?”

He looked over at me. “Wherever you're going, Buddy.”

I watched him for a moment, puzzled. “Uh, okay. Well I was looking for some friends.”

“You have friends?”

“Yeah, I—well, kind of. Come on.”

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(Like what you see? Look for an update in the near future for more information on where the rest of this is going.)

Of Drunken Men and Pinatas

A blog entry written not too long ago, though it has faded in my memory enough that it could be years past.

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As my life has progressed, I've faded in and out of a blogging habit. There was a time when I wrote ranbling, drawn-out stories of how my day had gone in some futile effort to garnish some form of attention from the few friends who read it. But the desire to share my life so fully with random people left me to return some months later as a stronger desire to write about things abstract or to wander my way through subjects I thought were interesting. But, in the end, this, too, simply left.

But now I am jobless, and in dire need of something to do with my time. So I do the one thing that comes naturally to me. I write. And, sad though it is, the writing that comes easiest is not always fictitious. I wish it were.

Today, I've decided to tackle the subject of people and socialising. Because it fascinates me and because it's been on my mind. I'll start with a short story.

Early this morning, not much past midnight, as the Canada Day revelries wound to a close, I found myself squeezing aboard an LRT in one of Edmonton's train stations. The car was packed with people and I made a comment to a few of them that if the train were to collide with anything, we would at least be safe, since our close proximity didn't allow for much jostling.

As the train pulled to a stop at another station, the door directly to my right slid open, revealing a leering, drunken man. Rude and abrasive, he called into the car with an offer to “cop a feel” from anyone inside. Naturally, this struck me as repulsive, but his drunken state also awakened a bit of humour and I tried to keep a straight face as I drilled a look into his eyes that spoke clearly of his need to back away.

He noticed. That is, he noticed me. And proceeded to direct his offer directly toward yours truly. Words failed me and a small grin found its way through. Thinking that it would provide him with more entertainment, I pointed out to the platform, where a trash can sat, rather artistically I might add.

His reply wasn't much more than a slurred, “fuck you,” but again, struck me as vastly hysterical as I bid him a good night. He got the parting shot, though. As the train pulled away, the people inside the train car burst into laughter at the sight of his drunken, rude gesture.

So this long and possibly arduous story brings me to my question. People, in general, when seen face to face, are usually quite polite. Go to any social gathering and you're bound to run across someone who's having a bad day but nobody even notices because it's so well hidden.

People are fantastic at creating masks for themselves. Masks that look so much like themselves that hardly anybody can see through it, and that at great effort. It makes me wonder. After all, isn't life a more joyful experience when we can be open and honest with one another? Not with every subject, mind you, but it seems to me that hard times call for assistance. And what are friends for if not to haul their comrades through the mire of life and back onto the green grass?

But it isn't “socially acceptable,” is it? The only times when people are treated with forgiveness for being rude or indecent is when they're intoxicated somehow and that's only because they can't control themselves any better.

I'm not saying it would be better for us to do shots until the dam breaks, though I'm sure there's a place for that as well, but I am curious as to why we build these walls around ourselves. Seems to me that life would be much simpler without all this red tape and pretense.

After all, isn't the castle the marvel of architecture and not the walls that surround it? I can speak for no one but myself, but I say what's on the inside is always more beautiful than the paper mache that surrounds it.

Unspeakable

My attempt at writing something akin to Rudyard Kipling's collection of darker short stories.  This was definitely more of an experiment than an actual attempt at writing something publishable, but sometimes it's best to try painting with your off-hand.  It's educational, at least.

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I met him per his request in a dingy bar on the north side of town. The once-polished wooden bartop was etched in swirling patterns from numerous beer mugs and bottles, sent and received, tender to patron and vice versa. Dim lighting, having once created a calm atmosphere, now served to conceal, if badly, dirt in the corners of the room. The tavern was dark enough in some places that its few occupants, whom I assumed to be regulars, stood out as little other than hazy forms, for there was smoke in the air. Apparently, non-smoking laws did not apply here.

I returned my gaze to my acquaintance who was also smoking a cigarette. It wasn't his first, either, judging by appearances, for a boquet of the things already occuped the nearby ashtray, fresh enough to avoid the mashed, ashy look of their comparts. His face, though white, was still handsome, or had once been, as it was now lined with age. I took his appearance in with a start, for the last time I had seen him, he had been dressed in a well-cut suit, with hair well-arranged and his shoulders square.

But now before me sat a man defeated, it seemed, by whatever ordeal he was about to reveal to me. An ordeal, I hoped, would be false, for a tale with such an impact would undboutedly excercise some of its power upon me as well.

And, though it has, I record the following for more to read. Not to invoke fear, though I am without a doubt that it will, even, terrify some, but to inform. Because no man should have to suffer as this man did, mentally and emotionally, that is, for he emerged in better health than would be expected. But that is cutting in near the end of our story and I have yet to begin, so without further adieu, I shall write it.

And I do hope my tone echoes his, for, though I have replicated his words as accurately as I can, I fear that my own voice speaks these words in my own way. He was no storyteller, of course—which is why he asked me to accompany him through his memories in such a manner—so some aspects may have changed, but only in form and not in fact, I assure you. Although he did resort to pen and paper near the end, for his voice quaked so. That writing is his own.

- - -

It was a hot, August day and I sought to escape some of the many duties afforded me by my home. I had allowed the tidiness of the place to escape my day-to-day control and it cried out to be thoroughly cleaned, but I could not bring myself to do so as the sky was so beautiful. I am not a lazy man, I will have you know, but summer is so short-lived in these parts, it seemed ludicrous to miss it.

On this particular day, I had taken it upon myself to venture out to the foothills of the mountains and I took my time preparing my lunch, which I had brought with me, upon a blanket I had also brought, while I took in the vista. Before me, rolled out far into the distance on many moguls, stood the mountains, their grandeur naught but complimented by the array of lush, green landscape before them. Hay bales scattered the land and a stream cut its way at the bottom of the nearest valley. A breeze was singing through the grass, harmonizing with the birdsong and putting me in a fantastic mood.

Not long after my lunch, I was finding my way through the grass; it was tall, you see. Up to my waist at places, in fact, and filled with brambles and thistles, though I did not mind much, being far too caught up in the beauty of the place. In the distance, I heard the starting of a chainsaw, but paid it no mind because it did not concern me. I wondered, if only briefly, who would find it in themselves to fell these trees, but dismissed that, too, as none of my business and returned to ambling without purpose.

In time, it became evident that I was drawing nearer to the source of that one sound that was not natural. The roaring of this tree-felling instrument. From my vantage point, I could see no trees falling, nor could I hear them, so I assumed the wielder must be clearing a path somewhere, perhaps reducing a tree to something more easily managed. I gave it a mental shrug and, for what I hoped was the last time, allowed my mind to wander about. This was my day off, my hooky from responsibilities unimportant in comparison. It did me little good to worry about things out of my control.

But I drew still nearer, for I did not wish to cross the river and it was winding toward the copse of trees from which came the sound. Reluctant, for I am not an outgoing man, I decided against attempting a crossing and proceded, instead, to convince myself that, were I even to cross the path of whoever was behind that shroud of wood, it would be a mere passing greeting, perhaps a small, polite exchange, nothing more.

Thus satisfied, I pressed forward a bit more quickly, now eager to get it over with. The trees drew near; I could see between them now, make out the occasional glimpse of the man inside. He seemed intent on his work, however, unaware of my presence. Ahead, I spied a small opening between the trees and river, a place where I was sure I would be able to find solid footing. Grateful to avoid unnecessary confrontation, I made my way forward again.

But my reverie, and I will admit some relief as well, was shattered by a scream. I whirled about as the sound of the chainsaw sputtered and died. It seemed as if the scream was still echoing through the valley, so clear and anguished it had been. Hesitantly, I turned toward the copse and made quavering effort to call forth, but it stuck in my throat. It could not have been a wild animal, I concluded as I passed through the first few of the trees; the birds had taken up singing again.

It amazed me how little sunlight filtered in through the trees, even when I entered the small, recently created clearing. Why someone should choose to work in such a setting, especially on a beautiful day like that day, was beyond me, though I soon saw the reason for the clearing.

In the very center of the felled trees and branches gaped a maw, which just happened to take up most of the space where a long ray of sunlight penetrated the cover overhead. Tiny particles of dust swarmed in swirling patterns at the mouth of the hole, illuminated by the golden beam.

Cautiously, though I did not know why, I approahced the opening and peered downward, then pulled back with a gasp that seemed murderously loud in the quiet. The birds had stopped singing now; I looked around for a source to their fear but saw none and returned my stare to the chasm at my feet.

The man was lying facedown, legs obscured in darkness though the sunlight displayed his plaid shirt quite clearly. His arms was splayed on either side of his head as if they had meant to catch his fall, and perhaps they had, it was hard to tell. I called down once again, but got no reply.

Then the thought occured to me and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out at the idea that he might be dead. Furiously, I settled down to my haunches and extended both feet over the rim of the abyss, determined now that the unnamed, yet faceless man be proven alive and well.

- - -

And the rest is told not by me, but by the man who experienced it. He is not so accomplished a storyteller, but perhaps the rawness of his words will help convey the message better. I will admit that the tale seems extraordinary, for it is, but implore the reader to continue on.

As written by the man who experienced it:

- - -

Then I felt myself slipping, cos of the grass you know, it was long-bladed and slippery, and I fell forward. Miraculously, because I cannot think of another reason for it to have happened this way, I landed upon my feet and fell to my hands, unhurt.

For a moment, I was unsure as to why I was uninjured but soon found the source, and this shames me almost as much as it horrified me—my feet had landed directly on the back of the man below me, pressing him further into the mire that was the bottom of the pit.

And then my worst fears were confirmed, for he had not uttered a sound. I was forced, then, to come to terms with my situation. I was trapped at the bottom of a pit with a dead man lying facedown in the mud.

I was suddenly taken by a desire—the need—to see his face, for I didn't think I could ever be sure there was no hope for him if I didnt lay eyes upon his, if only for a moment. I fell clumsily to his side, getting mud all over my pants, and made to heave him onto his back as I gripped his shoulder.

I was surprised, then, to find that he would not move as easily as I had expected, but was stuck on something. Puzzled, I gripped both of his shoulders firmly and pulled one, to no avail, and again with all of my might.

Something popped, I heard a sound like liquid pouring onto dirt, the body came free of the ground and turned over with a ragged gasp that sounded more of a roar. I screamed then, I think, but I'm not sure. I did scramble backwards as fast as I could, though, because the dead man was sitting of it's own akkord, to my great disbelief.

The sight of him sitting like that has been burned into my memory forever, I know I will never forget it. Mud dripped from it's face, lining the wrinkles and forming them to be darker. It's white eyes stared at me from a gaunt face, they were rolled back so that I could hardly see m. Blood gushed from it's chest, too, where a big chunk had been tore free and when I looked to see what had done it, I saw a hand made just of bones sticking up out of the ground and holding something like meat.

And then he reached for me. I cant explain it, what happened next, but to say that I panikked. And wild as my eyes were, I laid them on the chainsaw that had also fallen in and made for it as quick as I could but he caught my ankel so that I tripped. My hand closed around the handle of the chainsaw as I landed so I pulled it toward me and pulled at the black handle on its side.

The thing almost sputtered to life on the first try and I should of been happy about that but the dead man was crawling towards me, his hand still firm about my ankel. His mouth was gaping, like it wanted to bite me. I think I was screaming the whole time.

Finally, the damn thing started up and I pulled the trigger as hard as I could, swinging it at him with all my might. The chain hit it's head, I don't know why I was watching still unless it was just to see that I didnt miss. I swung again and again, the chainsaw screaming and spraying more mud than blood, but there was plenty of that too, I can tell you. It covered my clothes.

Pretty soon, the body was lying still in the muck. I don't want to go into detail of how it looked now. I threw up more than once before I realized that the hand in the middle of the room was moving from side to side, seeking, I thought, to escape. I was horrified, all of a sudden, to think that it might be attached to another body.

And then I began to search for an escape in ernest. I could not see how far the walls of the cave extended, only one side was visible to me and I put my back against it, terrified of what might present itself from the shadows.

My searching gaze soon revealed to me a way out, but the hand in the middle had created a bit of a depression already and it's arm was revealed up to the elbow, which had enough room to bend now. I cursed, and there were tears falling down my face, returning my gaze to the beam that held up the roof.

The chainsaw was still rumbling in my hands, spattered with muck though it was, so I raised it to the ceiling support and cleaved it in two. Immediately, dirt began to sift from the ceiling, but did not fall. The beam had slipped down a few inches, but had enough support still that it was resting against itself at an angle.

A sound from the rapidly emerging skeleton brought my attention back around and I saw that it was now struggling to free it's last leg from the murk. My voice was nearly gone by that time, I am ashamed to admit that my breath had been coming out in a most unmaskulin way, but I managed a roar of fear as it took it's first step towards me.

I cannot say how or why, but I turned the tool in my hands not toward the enemy, but once again to the ceiling supports, this time directed at the vertical beam which supported the quivering one over head. It cleaved in two without much effort, the wood was old and brittle though damp as the rest of the pit. With a thunderous noise, the ceiling support crashed into the mud, crushing the skeleton a moment before it reached me. Still whimpering and drawing breath hastily I scrambled up the beam, which was now angeld into the hole so that I could make my way up to the surface and soon found myself panting for breath on the cool grass.

- - -

Thus ends the words of this unfortunate soul, safe though he may be. I shan't think the man will ever be the same for the things he has seen, whether they are believed or not, but there seems to be a twinkle in his oft glazed eyes, perhaps a joy found not in the memory of horror, but in thankful realization that it is over. And while I cannot support his story with any facts whatsoever—the pit seems to have been filled in—I can attest to the look in his eyes when he first revealed it to me, the look that did not vanish even after I had bought for him far too many drinks. Let his tale remind us all that an evil exists, not undefeatable, but exists nonetheless.