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Always Be You
In your pain
Be optimistic.
Through streaming tears
Clutch hope to your chest
And float
On the torrent,
As you flow on the calm
With disregard.
Cling on, if necessary.
But never let go.
For the raging storms will pass
Just as surely as the bright days
Will pass.
And in the end
There will be you.
There will always be you,
With sadness or joy
And hope.
Always hope
Because there will always be you
To shine
Like a contrary sun
In the darkest of nights.
There will always be you.
Hidden
Do I have it in me, I've never had to ask myself this. In a dark ally, yes, I'll not blink, I'll leave a kiss.
I'm a shadow, lost in the crowd, nothing to notice, never too loud. Hanging back in the darkness, keeping too herself, almost forgotten, replaced by someone else.
Her mind is clear, memorizing every scene, replaying in her head the past, the future only she can see. Calmly, patiently, she'll take her time, when its right she'll be ready, She promised a friend of mine.
Never, could she, no one turned her way; only a few seconds, that's all it would take. No hesitation, no feelings of remorse, one move of her finger, it's over, her only recourse.
Gone, never there, not a trace, keeping silent, seen in a different place. Not a blink of an eye, but sealed with a kiss, in the shadows she hid, never noticed, never missed.
Journey Of My Soul
And once again I find myself back on the same road walking aimlessly with no destination to reach to.
A highway where there is no existence of light, life, love, laughter and loyalty.
A highway where is no evidence of pureness, righteousness, spirituality or God.
A highway that reeks of darkness, death, hatred, sadness and betrayal.
A highway where there is no escaping from but doomed forever.
A hypnagonic state of mind I cannot seem to free myself from no matter how hard I try. My cries for help goes unanswered despite both my hands raised begging.
My body aches from battle wounds that never seem to heal. My bare feet bleeds from walking on hell’s road garnished with spikes and broken glass. My bruised hands hurt from shielding the impact of my falls.
The only sounds and vibrations that continuously keep me company are the shuffling of feet coming from the lucipherous demons who continuously dance around me.
The sniggering laughter each time I fall from being shoved by one of them.
My one wing luminiferous angel fought hard and died a heroic death. As I held him in my arms and wept, he begged for my forgiveness for failing in his warrior's oath and duty to protect me.
A slow and lingering death the warrior bearer of light died from as I watched the lucipherous demons greedily feast and suck the energy out of him.
“Narasoma” they chanted in union as they drank from the nectar of immortality. Each time the Cup of Life was filled and gulped from, I died a hundred deaths.
Each pain and suffering inflicted on my dying angel shot through my body a thousand times more for our souls were still bound by the spiritual umbilical cord.
Whispers of immortality echoed in the air. The lucipherous demons watched in glee as my earthly blood was used to sharpen the blade.
The chanting became more and more frenzied as the sword was slowly raised high.
I looked at my dying angel for the last time and asked “Why me? What sins have my soul committed for God to have handed down such a severe sentence?
He whispered, “You have been loved.”
The Governance
“Governance,” Aristotle continued, “can take one of three primary forms: democracy, aristocracy, and monarchy. There are advantages and disadvantages to all three forms. Democracy is the fairest in theory, but if the majority of voters are more vicious than they are virtuous, then democracy cannabilizes itself. On the other extreme, we have monarchy, which - in theory - could be supremely more efficient than democracy, provided that the one individual, with total power, is the most virtuous and least vicious person for that job. As a mean, we have aristocracy, whereby the king and the people alike bestow a considerable sum of their power and trust upon a select, elite group of individuals. Of course, if said group is more vicious than virtuous, then society is dealt an equal degree of injustice. These three forms considered, the question at hand then concerns which of the three would be most conducive toward eliminating all crime on Earth.”
Alexander stood. “Monarchy is ideal but equally unrealistic. From what Musk has shared with us, Earth in the year 2019 AD is dominated by aristocratic rule, but, correct me if I am mistaken, teacher, but would its perversion not be denominated by ‘oligarchy,’ and, given the state of affairs, would it be safe to conclude that this form of governance is not suitable, either?”
“I would not disagree with your reasoning,” replied Aristotle.
“Then I cannot help but infer that democracy is our only hope.”
“Democracy is a possibility,” said Socrates, “but provided, and only provided, that education ensures every voting party is wise, just, and hence competent, to engage in the democratic process.”
Everyone at the table seemed to agree.
After a long pause, Plato stated, “Perhaps, then, in summary, we can agree upon democracy and education as key ingredients. But how do we achieve such an end?”
“Again. Technology,” cackled Musk.
First chapter of an exciting new book!
Chapter One
A warm breeze rustled through the arid canyons, stirring up dust devils that scampered across the tops of the plateaus and dove off the edges to drift down to the dry riverbed below. The steep canyon walls cast barely any shadow in the peak of the day, and the sun, directly overhead, beat down from a cloudless sky, relentlessly scorching the occasional cactus or thistle that composed this region’s hardy, yet scant, flora. In the distance, the air shimmered above the horizon as the barren ground tried to radiate some of the surplus heat back up into the pale blue sky. As the next gust of hot wind gently brushed the sand and dust from the surface of the mesas, one of the more dessicated thistles broke free from its dry, dead roots and bounced gently as it rolled away, until it tumbled over the cliff’s edge.
A faint sound of flapping wings could be heard from beyond that edge. A buzzard, disturbed by the falling dirt and tumbleweeds, poked its head out of the nest it had built in a curiously stubborn tree that had somehow taken root in the side of the cliff. When the startled bird was satisfied that no improbable predators had scaled the tall cliffs to threaten its impregnable habitat, the buzzard’s attention became fixated on a column of smoke rising in the distance, just around one of the many curves of this canyon. The source of that smoke gradually grew closer, until it rounded the bend and was revealed to be an approaching steam engine. The train further identified itself with a trademark whistle.
These particular train tracks had been painstakingly installed halfway up the far side of the canyon from the buzzard’s nest, where the sidewalls were sharply sloped rather than sheerly vertical. Years of backbreaking labor had gone into carving out a level path, shoring up the gravelly edges to prevent erosion and landslides, and then pounding wooden ties and steel rails into the ground. The result was well worth it, however, now that trains could easily carry supplies from civilization to the smaller mining towns, and then cart their precious metals and ores back out. The train could accomplish this trip in just over six hours, and usually made the trips every Thursday, returning on Friday (not that the buzzard had a calendar or clock in its nest, or any real concept of time). The treacherous footing, combined with the lack of springs and surface water in this canyon, made travel by horseback or horse-powered vehicles prohibitively difficult, since the full route usually took about four days for a horse to complete.
These critical details had apparently been forgotten, or simply ignored, by a handful of horseback riders, who were chasing the train at full gallop. Or rather, the first rider was chasing the train, while the other riders were chasing the first.
Without knowing the identities of these riders, a casual observer might have thought that a group of bandits was attempting to chase down and kidnap a small child, for that first rider was much smaller than an average man. He wore a leather duster that was flapping behind him and his cowboy hat was dangling on his back from a drawstring about his neck, having been blown from his head at the start of this chase. This small fugitive also wore a gun belt slung low around his waist, and carried a cane in his left hand while holding the reins of his horse in his right. For their part, the outlaws behind him were dressed in a similar manner, but had their revolvers in their hands and were firing wantonly and clumsily at the man up ahead.
The buzzard watched these events unfold with a certain primal curiosity; although the train was a regular intruder through the canyon, it was extremely rare for men and horses to pass through these days. It would be easy to personify the buzzard’s interest in a human fashion, but truthfully, it was simply hoping that one of the horses would stumble and break a leg, or that one of the riders would be thrown from his horse and plunge down into the canyon and left for dead. There was no overt malice in the buzzard’s hopes; after all, it was a scavenger bird, and a hungry one.
The locomotive once again sounded its whistle, this time with two sharp blasts, probably indicating that the engineer had noticed his pursuers and was hoping to communicate a message to them. He probably meant those low-pitched warning tones to say, “Stay away!” or “Go back!” but truly it was impossible to translate those sounds into precise words. Since the lead horseback rider pressed his horse even faster, it was likely that he had interpreted the sounds saying, “All aboard!”
Among the other nearly infinite combinations of two-word messages was one that neither the lead rider or his pursuers considered: Tunnel ahead.
The Johnson Tunnel would one day gain infamous notoriety for being haunted by ghosts, after a series of accidents, fires, train wrecks, and even a suspected murder would leave a variety of victims at the site. But at this time, the tunnel was relatively unknown. Its twists and turns underneath the rock effectively prevented light from the exit at the end of the tunnel to reach an observer at the entrance, so most of the 326 feet of track inside the tunnel were cloaked in pitch darkness, even at the brightest times of the day. In fact, the abrupt transition from the bright noonday sun to such sudden darkness would easily disorient any man or beast. The train, guided by its tracks, could confidently race through the tunnel at top speed despite the lack of visibility.
A horse and rider, on the other hand, would be forced to slow to a slow trot while inside the tunnel, or else risk stumbling in the dark or running into the walls as they curved without warning. No experienced rider would dare gallop through such a tunnel; in fact, no horse could be persuaded to run through such dangerous darkness.
Of course, the buzzard was conscious of none of these finer points. It only knew that something unusual was afoot, and perhaps had some supernatural anticipation of an impending disaster. Regardless, it watched with its head slightly turned and one beady eye fixed now on the lead horse and its rider.
The six-car train rounded the last bend before the Johnson Tunnel, and this rider galloped closely behind the caboose, tailing the train at a distance of only ten yards. As the train completed the turn, the rider immediately became aware of the tunnel up ahead. The prudent course of action would have been to slow down, but the rider was still cognizant of a hostile pack of riders behind him, desperate to catch up to him with malicious intentions. So he spurred his horse even faster, leaning forward in the saddle with his small frame and shouting encouragement in the horse’s ear.
The buzzard had never attended public school math classes, but if he had, he would have recognized this scenario. A train was travelling at a certain speed toward a tunnel just one hundred yards up ahead. The train was being followed at a distance of ten yards by a horseback rider who is sprinting at a certain speed just slightly faster than the train. And twenty yards behind this rider is a posse of outlaws, possibly travelling even faster than him.
Since the invention of the steam engine, no student has ever enjoyed such a scenario. Certainly, the buzzard lacked the capacity to calculate the chances of a grisly collision of horse, rider, train and tunnel, but still it watched, waiting and hoping.
Soon the pursuing posse also realized that their quarry was trapped, and that he would be unable to escape through the tunnel at any significant speed. Not wishing to endanger their own lives or horses, they slowed their pace and lengthened the gap between themselves and the lead rider.
But it seemed that this pack of outlaws had underestimated this loner’s resolve. His horse was snorting violently and sweating profusely, and its eyes grew wider and more terrified as it neared the train, and as the dark tunnel grew closer. The gap shrank to five yards, then three, then the horse was just a single yard behind the caboose.
The small rider stood up in the stirrups and extended his cane forward as far as he could reach, but it was still short of the caboose by about a foot and a half. His horse whinnied in fear and panic, and in a desperate attempt, the rider leapt from the saddle and managed to hook his cane on the back handrail. With great effort and dexterity, he swung himself to the safety of the caboose platform; and not a moment too soon, as his horse, now riderless and lacking motivation, skidded to an abrupt halt at the mouth of the tunnel.
The train plunged into darkness and the escapee stared back at his abandoned horse and the frustrated outlaws, and sighed with a measure of relief, mixed with regret.
That was me, Sparrow, escaping pursuit on that caboose. And I was quite fond of that horse that I was leaving behind. His name was Champ, and we had been through a lot together recently.
Book Giveaway!
Hey, Fellow Writers! I’m pleased to announce that Episodic Sleep Disorders is now available on Amazon!
Our favorite travelling storyteller visits a wintry mountain village that has fallen prey to a nightmarish creature, and finds himself in the middle of a twisted mystery of man and beast...
I am giving away a handful of copies of this e-book to some lucky followers who check out my Amazon page! Go to this link to try and win:
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Good luck, and don’t forget to leave a review if you like it!
At the Hotel Ritz, Paris
I pushed my way through the small, crowded space and took a seat at the bar, in the far right corner. The bartender, a well-dressed, bald gentleman, punctually approached me and said, in a mellifluous voice, "Welcome to the Bar Hemingway, sir. What can I get you to drink?"
"A dry martini, ice cold and crystal clear," I said.
"The gentleman has done his research, it seems," the bartender complimented me. His nametag read "Colin." I recognized the name from the reviews I had read in many famous travel blogs.
"I'm sure I don't need to tell you the story," Colin continued, as he poured the drink, "but legend has it that when Ernest Hemingway liberated this hotel from the Nazis, he marched straight in here and ordered fifty-one martinis for himself and the soldiers with him."
"And the soldiers were forbidden to drink, so Hemingway drank them all by himself," I said with a grin. "Cheers!"
"You know, you're sitting in his spot," Colin remarked, before turning to help his other customers. "That's precisely where Hemingway himself sat, arguing with F. Scott Fitzgerald."
I took a moment to appreciate this wondrous coincidence. Behind the bar, facing me, was a bronze bust of Hemingway.
"I wonder what he'd argue about with me, if he were here today," I mused.
Colin returned later, to make conversation, as all professional bartenders should. "So, what brings you to Paris?" he asked.
"I'm a writer, researching my first big story."
"What were you before attempting this monumental feat, if I may inquire?" Colin asked.
"I retired from the military, after serving ten years and deploying to both Iraq and Afghanistan."
"Then I think you are ready for the challenge," Colin told me. "Hemingway himself said, 'In order to write about life, first you must live it.' It sounds like you've lived as much life as Hemingway did, and I hope you will also write about it as well as he did."
I thanked him, paid for my martini, and went back to my hotel room to start typing.
New book description!
Beware, beware, the beast of Lozère!
Who lurks in your dreams, and knows how to scare
You will freeze at the sight of strange dancing at night
And the dead, from their coffins, still stare.
A menacing wolf is terrorizing the village of Lozère. A beautiful young girl has lost her family and her best friend to this nightmare. But all is not as it seems in this cold mountain village, where the beasts are like men and the men are like beasts.
Sparrow came to Lozère to tell stories, but he stayed for the stories Lozère told him...
PLEASE REPOST IF YOU LIKE IT!
The full novella is now available for $1 on Amazon! Please leave a review!
You can find it on Amazon.com with this code: B07SM95JR6
hungry?
Marie-Jeanne returned at that moment with my breakfast, along with a tiny coffee to call my own. She lowered that coffee first, and a trail of strong, bitterly-scented steam rose from a single shot of pitch-black liquid, awakening my olfactory senses. Next came a small ceramic plate, holding a large, blonde croissant. It was big enough that the tips of the crescent reached over the edges, and because of the warmth radiating from it I could tell that it was freshly baked. She then took a small porcelain pitcher and from it, poured a drizzle of opaque golden honey butter over the pastry. I expected it to bead on the surface of the croissant, but surprisingly, instead it sank under the top layer and disappeared into the bread, leaving no visible trace outside. She finished pouring with a flourish and replaced the pitcher on her serving tray. After an obligatory smile for the others at the table, she disappeared back into the kitchen.
I gingerly picked up the warm croissant between my thumb and middle finger. It was so light and soft that even this gentle grip threatened to crush the delicate crust. I bit through the outer shell and hot, yeasty gasses from within the pastry burst out. When the flaky layers of puff pastry hit my tongue, they deflated and collapsed, reducing my large bite to just a small morsel of soft inner dough, soaking with buttery sweetness. Once the structural integrity was compromised by this first bite, the entire croissant began to lose its form, and I had no choice but to consume the entire thing in rapid, successive mouthfuls, which was easy due to its tendency to dissolve in my mouth. In just a few short seconds, I found myself staring incredulously at my empty hand and the few remaining flaky crumbs on my fingers. I subconsciously reached for my coffee, and the strong, hot, bitter brew cleansed the honey from my palate and awakened me from my food trance.