Hello, old friend. No don't give me that line where you insist we're not friends; that you've got high standards and too busy a schedule. Don't come up with endless lists of why in your tumultuous existence there is no place to even consider mine as being anything relevant or worthy of note. Denial doesn't make reality—especially a harsh one like this—go away. You might refuse to accept the fact I'm here standing next to you all you want—nice spot, by the way. I'm slightly partial to stone benches in small parks—but you are still listening to every single word I'm saying, even if you most definitely would rather not to.

No. You can't just shut me up. It doesn't work that way. You know full well that it's all part of the deal, and foul moods notwithstanding, you don't get to pick what's real and

what isn't.

I guess you got screwed that way… alright, doubly-screwed and royally so.

But I know you don't need to be reminded that you knew full well what you were getting into when you accepted my proposal. So, having put that out of the way… tell me, Samael, what you've been up to and how was your week, my friend?

You still wonder why I'm keen on talking to the Angel of Death? Well, who else is going to get what I'm saying or see where I'm coming from? It's not like anyone else would even begin to understand being around for so long beyond the simplistic and quite abstract concept of "eternity," let alone grasp the incovenience of eternal life. Yes, I know there's still plenty of people who still are looking for it, but I'm glad you learned from yours truly, your biggest mistake.

I guess neither of us imagined the real consequences that deal would have, huh? I mean, I thought that give, well, all the time I needed to persue whatever odea that struck my fancy. That's what went wrong, you see? There was a time, before we met each other... all right, before I summoned you and forced you into bargain. Potato-patata. The point is I had many dreams based on this ideas I had, but not enough resources and certainly not nearly enough time to acquire them and get started with what I thought was truly important, so I had to get creative. I paid off. The bargain was struck and I set out on my way when I freed you to go on yours.

The silly thing is, that when I had the resources, I found out I had very few dreams left.

In fact, the only thing I really look for any longer is this one-sided conversations of ours I you can see, I changed methods. Now, I come to you, I no longer summon you to where I am at that particular moment, So, that's going to prove people can change. If anyhing, I've become far more polite in this regard. That has got to count for something, right?

It's funny when we think about it. Before I met you, I thought I was slipping into madness, wasting my time doing things I was told were important, only to scratch out a living. Now, I realize I only wasted my life trying to do what others told. Trust me, I been thinking about that for quite a long time, and I also went crazy for real and for quite some time, too. That was when I sought you out with more insistence, and for that I' sorry.

I'm sorry I blamed you. I regret trying to make you feel responsible forthe trouble I found myself in. I apologize for being a needy, self-serving and deluded prick. I brought that upon myself and I didn't have the courage to accept it, so I tried to make your existence as miserable as mine was and I did, for a long span, I accept that now. I totally understand why it shaped the way you act whenever I'm around. Not that we started with the right foot, either, but it wasn't that bad. So, all I wanted to say this time is: I'm truly sorry I was such a pain in the ass.

That being said, how about I treat you to some tea. Or a beer or something harder if that's what you'd like. After all, eternity is meaningless if one can't have someone to share it with, wouldn't you say?

Part 1: Godlike

I. Undaunted We All Barged In, Straight to Our Dooms

People's minds are curious, marvellous things. At the best of times, someone regales us with radical scientific discoveries or astonishing medical breakthroughs. Some are capable of taking our breath away with their sheer capacity for abstraction and sound reasoning; others crack us up with their unbelievable chutzpah or their knack for comedy. Certain minds wander spinning wonders all the while; a few more wonder, and that's how we end up with philosophical treatises, doctoral theses or quite few literary works with a notable tendency to wander off what we believed the tale was about.

     Me? I'm a common man; one who has a rather simple mind and a usually uncomplicated life. I enjoy what I do—most of the time, anyway—as it's what I dreamed about doing as an adult when I was a 12 year-old with too much time on his hands. I had this perfect image of what my life would look like on any given weekday: sitting alone in a room, putting on my headphones over my 'thinking GB Packers beany', then hitting play on the computer's audio player and go on to write the day's quota. Eight hours of cranking up pages and coming up with full-fledged comics books scripts.

     What? The pay is nice, I get to hang around some of the best illustrators and draughtsmen in the industry, and best of all… it pay the bills, rent and the occasional outing. So, yes; I do believe that's quite the respectable job, thank you very much.

     The only bad thing I'd have to say about it might be that it somehow led me in this fine mess I've gotten myself into. I swear, last night all I did was to take a break of the desk and look at the neighborhoods' nightscape through my studio's window. Why, I hadn't even heard a damned thing with my headphones on!

     So, here I am; forcibly stuck with a woman bound for who knows where and bent on doing heaven knows what, all the while trying our damnedest to outrun the very definite threat this very peculiar individual represents.

     Oh, and did I forget to tell you the Weather channel had forecasted possible thunderstorms yet, as soon as we went out the door, the sky seemed to immediately turn into a dark, puffy wet blanket that began to pour?

     Yes; as in 'when it doesn't rain…"

     Anyway, it's a good thing I was done with the scripts for October's two issues; that should leave those stories neatly wrapped up, and ready for the next arc… if any. For I haven't finished making up my mind about this Sophia character and just how screwed I really am; you see, it's known that I've missed a couple of deadlines in the past, but the way this whole situation is turning out… I quite possibly am going to have a brush with the other deadline, and to this seasoned script writer, it sure as hell looks ever more likely that I won't be able to skip that one.

     Damn it! I swear I was just looking to stretch my legs and get a cup of coffee.

***

"You've been awfully quiet for a while now, Mr. Writer." Sophia's voice had a soft, flowing raspiness to its pitch that made it both unique and unmistakably feminine; a strange mixture of a certain coy gruffness, tinged with sweet-sounding menace. "Quite the opposite to how you showed yourself to be during our fateful encounter."

     "Fateful… yeah, right."

     "Is that it?" She asked derisively, a smirk briefly creasing the smoothness of her cheeks.      "That's all I'm getting from you, now? Seriously?"

     "Well, it's not like I'm the one who's packing a gun, am I?"

     Sophia stopped on her tracks and turned to look at the man next to her. His body looked fit, even if slightly overweight, and despite his shoulder-length uneven-cut hair, she could tell he bathed everyday and was used to wearing clean clothes. In a city so full of ripe and sour odours coming out of every nook and cranny—some of them so overwhelming they even made her eyes water—Sophia considered this man's cleanliness to be a small blessing.

     "Oh, enough of that, already! You know quite well I have no intention to shoot you! I mean, I could've done so by now or the minute I came into your apartment."

     "You brokeinto my apartment. You didn't come in. For that, you'd have to be allowed in and I clearly remember never doing so."

     "Oh, that's more like it! Now we got us a discussion about semantics. I guess you really are a writer, after all."

     "Well, I'm not a killer, that's for sure."

     "Neither am I. I've already told you--"

     "Look, I just know I saw you there standing over two dead bodies and with a gun in your hand and, a minute later, you came through my window with this crazy--"

     Sophia looked at me as if daring me to follow up on the phrase to its obvious conclusion. I knew better than to completely piss off someone packing a gun under her parka.

     "Story; yeah, story about how these two had been following you, were doing so under orders of the very individual who killed them. I mean, really? That's what in my line of work we call a major incongruence. It just doesn't make sense; so, you'll have to excuse my skeptical cynicism about the whole thing."

     "Well, in my line of work… you're what we call a major as--"

     "Mind your language, please. I'm the one who has every right to be cursing and calling you all kinds of names, and I'm not."

     "Granted. You could've been a lot more insulting and less snarky, Mr. Writer."

     "You'd think, right?" I mumbled under my breath and saw her face suddenly light up with a wide, toothy smile.

     "Yes. Thank you for that."

II. It Wasn't Your Typical Score



"This had always been such a nice place. Lucky bastards."

     The rumor of the few cars going through Castelar Bridge and heading out to the big city—'The Horrid Maze,' as locals called it—dimmed the sound of the waves softly lapping at the lakeshore. It was very early in the morning and the surroundings remained under the cover of the slowly-retreating darkness; nevertheless, a good number of those living in Alameda Heights were already out and about, diligently getting busy, minding their own businesses and making plans, both big and small, for the rest of their day

     "Not too far from the queen of all rat holes, and it neither became a suburban pisspot nor does it remain the picturesque dorm town." The lone man continued to talk  softly talking to himself in a slow, warm baritone voice; he let his words float away along the vapor left behind by his breath as it trailed upwards into the cold, late January morning air. The man sighed and then coughed, spitting into a paper towel. "Still, even when The Horrid will almost always end up swallowing everything whole, eventually, I must confess I'm surprised at how this lil' place remains mostly unchanged and that it hasn't become anywhere nearly as rotten or crowded as Farnsworth Hill… yeah; it remains quite a nice, quiet place; its neighbor notwithstanding."


     The man stood near the edge of the lake’s northern arm the local boys called 'Greendeep Turn', attentively looking at the still-scarce traffic hurriedly passing by. He noticed how its sound was very much like that of darting, angry wasps, all whistling through the metal and concrete ribcage of a long dead monster. The solitary figure turned around and came face to face with dream-like image created by several rows of middle-class houses that the early light appeared to make them look as if they popping out of the dark blanket spread over the nearby hill; each one of these rows of houses formed tidy man-made strata, which transformed the natural elevation into a series of wide, long terraces peppered with angular, unique structures and identical, neatly-trimmed bushes and very ample, perfect lawns. A few of the buildings had their lights on in different sections of their interiors, while some others remained completely dark inside and to the man’s eyes, they were nothing more than blocky silhouettes cut against a smattering of tree foliage and the dim radiance coming from those other neighboring two-storied houses. These made him think of those shy, light-hating beetles that stubbornly try to remain under the cover of the darkness beneath a rock which had been half-lifted too suddenly for them to react and escape into the receding gloom.

     "This place is so nice, in fact, that I can clearly see how an enterprising, clever man could be pulling quite a healthy amount of jobs here. That's for sure." The loner took out a lollipop from his coat's pocket, tore the wrapper off and put it in his mouth. He put the torn wrapper in the opposite pocket and rubbed his hands. “But breakfast comes before business… I just hope I find something nice and not too fancy so I don’t have to walk back to the city to find a pricier place to eat there. "Cause I'm about done with decent… I just can’t stand the thought of having to munch on Rogelio’s greasy pancakes one more time."

***

As we were making our way out of my apartment and down the alley to the lot where I usually parked my compact SUV, I couldn't help but notice how strangely calm I was considering this woman, a perfect stranger who hadn't given me any option other than to come along with her, was a walking carrying a gun… and that she actually hadn't used it to cajole me. Saying that I had been forced to accompany her 'at gun point,' would be lying to the jury at a court of law. She actually phrased it thus:

     "Alright, I know this looks bad enough and that you probably think I'm here to kill you. But that's not what I do. My name's Sophia and I've been framed."

    And that was that. She continued to explain that what I had just saw—her standing over two dead bodies in the alleyway behind the old warehouse turned apartment-studio that I rent for $1,000 dollars a month, with an option to buy—needed some explaining and that she needed me to come with her.

     Of course, I tried to put a few points across regarding her breaking into my flat through a window that I personally had locked after sunset. Truth be told, I might have been a bit of a smart-ass while speaking my mind about her breaching the sanctity of my 

home and my seeing her lording it over two dead unknowns, of course. But what surprised me was this… this… 'aura' of calmness? Trust? Maybe, the best word to describe it would be 'innocuousness'. Even when I had seen the gun in her hand, knowing she was armed didn't set any alarms or triggered any response other than me trying to vent my surprise and fear by coming up with quips and passive-aggressive verbal abuse.

     Much good that did for me.

     So, as we went down the alley, she signalled for me to stop and I silently obeyed her; she kneeled beside one of the corpses and took something out from one of its pockets, and she then made another sign for me to keep going, so on we went to my vehicle and she asked me for the keys.

     "What?" I replied, not understanding why would she want me to hand her the keys. "Are you also stealing my car?"

     "No, you klutz! I'm taking you with me, but I'm driving."

     Seeing the earnest look in her eyes, I felt equally compelled to cuzz and hand her the keys, but after a couple of seconds I decided we both had enough of my attempts at verbal fencing and just gave key the keys.

     She nodded her thanks and got inside the SUV. She started the engine as soon as I was onboard and then drove out of the parking lot.

     "Mind you, I drive fast… just in case you're planning to jump out of a moving car, Mr. Writer."

     "That's one of the few things I don't need to experience in order to better capture the feel of it for my writing."

     "I'll count my blessings, then. I mean, I could've stumbled with an obsessive method actor or some such."

     I laughed a little at her remark. Having dated a couple of would-be actresses, he could understand why Sophia would make one such joke. 'Everything's an opportunity to build a character; all experiences allow to create a role!' Oh, boy; was in for a ride with that one. Good thing it only lasted for three months, with my wallet intact for the most part.

     "So, what was it that I saw back at the alley?" I asked after a few minutes more on the road. I was trying to make a mental map of the route we were following, but all I could say about it was the we were heading North.

     Sophia looked at me as if sizing me up and shrugged, then turned back too watching the road.

     "Other than me standing over those two goons, with Shorty's gun on my hand, you mean?"

     "Yes. Other than that, Miss Smarty Pants. I don't need to tell you I'm a key witness in a double homicide."

     She sighed and then puffed twice, her body visibly relaxing. She cleared her throat and side-glanced me one more time.

     "Well, for starters, they're fond of fancying themselves godlike," Sophia words hit me like a wave of freezing water. Her tone was serious and direct, and I was certainly not expecting to hear such a opening statement. "But as you've already witnessed, they aren't. They can be unbelievably tough, sure, but for all their resilience and quick recoveries, every single one of them remains quite mortal."

     Nor was I expecting that second one, either.

—To Be Continued…—

Title: They Promised Us Eternity

Genre: Slipstream Adventure (Science-Fiction, Techno-Thriller)

Age Range: 15-35

Word Count: 100K words

Author Name: Txabier Etxeberri Otxoa (pen name).

Why your project is a good fit:

It can add to the diversity of voices and explore the new trend of "super-heroic" fiction without blatantly ripping-off comic book tropes, but actually adding a bit of science and literary rigor to the subject matter. 

The Hook:

An unknown group has found a procedure to bring forth the next step in Human evolution, but they don't have good intentions for it.

Synopsis:

A narrator (Mr. Writer) is brought into the world of corporate cloak&dagger as three groups fight over the revolutionary genetic procedure that will give their chose godlike abilities. As the plot thickens, Mr. Writer and Sophia will face-off the CelGenTech (Celular Genetics Technologies) Group's minions in an attempt to retrieve a microfluidic chip containing the key to unlocking the first stage of "psionic ascendance" in chose human subjects. In the final confrontation with Carradine, Mr. Writer will be forced to inject Sophia with the microfluidic gen-key to save her life from the grievous wound Carradine inflicted upon her, thus turning her into the very thing she wanted to prevent.  

Target Audience:

Young Adults - Adults who enjoy adventure, espionage and fiction based around metahuman abilities (super-heroic fiction).

Author bio:

Platform: Txabier's slowly-developing is mainly made of readers who enjoy fantasy fiction and its intersectioning with horror, epic, "grimdark". space opera and science fiction, and who want deep characterization and dynamic plots.

Education: A Communications major, Txabier Etxeberri has also studied History and Industrial Engineering.

Experience: 22+ years a s translation-localization specialist has seen Txabier working on TV series, documentaries, movies (both TV and theatrical releases), video games, Classic Literature novels, magazines and a couple of comic book projects (aborted when the publishers folded in). Txabier recently published his first novel in the English language under The Ed Greenwood Group's "Hellmaw" banner, and will continue to work with the companies second and third franchises: Stormtalons and Folklore: The Affliction. Personality: Highly analytical yet easy going, Txabier enjoys a good conversation as much as a civil debate. While neither an introvert nor shy, in social situations he performs at his best when interacting with small groups. He usually has a quip or joke for almost every situation and likes to listen to others sharing their views and life experiences. His 

writing style is centred on characterization through actions rather than exposition, so the readers can expect his characters to grow through a lot dynamic sequences and dialogue as the plot advances. Txabier likes music of almost every flavor—he'll listen to everything at least once—fiction and non-fiction books on almost very subject matter—although he still has to finish a romance novel and he won't touch "shock factor" publications. He's also fond of comic books, as well as traditional and electronic war, roleplaying, card and board games. When going for his video-game fix, he's mostly into solo gaming.

Hometown: Mexico City.

Age: 44 y-o.

I. We Once Hit the Ground Running… Into a Wall.

"I beg you, grandpa," the young man in the ragged trousers and old, wide-brimmed beret adorned with a drooping turkey feather grumbled as he frantically reloaded the twin-barreled pistol he carried for 'additional good luck'. His breathing was troubled, every breath rumbling in his chest that felt as if it would burst into flame with the next heartbeat. He cleared his throat and spat a glop of saliva that fear, gunpowder smoke and physical exertion had made thick, viscous and sour-tasting. "Please tell me how in the Fifteen Hells did we get to be in this spot and how could the world go so crazy so fast, precisely here and now?"

"Is that what you learned while earning your keep as a… 'sailor'?" The man with the graying beard and silver-streaked long hair said over his shoulder. He had his polished blunderbuss trained on the small house's entrance, ready to fire it at the first thing that tried crossed the doorway. "Asking utterly irrelevant questions while under duress?"

"Irrelevant, you say? I only want to know why I'm most likely to die inside a musty, gods' forsaken hovel in this damned place! Shite, you even told me this quarter was likely to be deserted!"

The pair heard scuttling sounds coming from outside of the small building. Judging by the looks of it, the young man deduced it had been used a some sort of warehouse back in the days when this section of the city had not died, yet.

"Well, I guess I was… somewhat mistaken about that, Antonio."

"Oh, you think? You said no one lived in this section of The Vile!"

"That's why I said 'somewhat', boy. Those handsome fellows aren't—"

Suddenly, there was a blur at the threshold and a flash immediately followed by a loud bang and a cloud of smoke. There was a thump and a hideous hissing sound came from the shadowy figure thrashing in the floor. Its kicks and raking unsettled the dust covering the old wooden floor. Then, a wave of flailing limbs rushed in and trampled the creature under its collective weight as it entered the cramped space of the rundown warehouse.

Antonio shot his pistol—one shot at a time—finding both of his marks and hitting them square on their chest. As the wounded were thrown back, they took some more of their fellows to the floor with them. Still, there were too many of them for the two men to face in a even fight, even if none of their foes carried a weapon.

The older man quickly jumped from behind the box he used as cover and swinged two more of the assailants with the broad of his falchion, knocking them to the floor. He then quickly made his way out of the tangle of clawed hands in front of him, and skillfully jumped onto the wooden crate that was closest to a small window.

"Antonio! Damned be you, boy!" he shouted as he smashed the smeared glass on the old wooden framed with his blade. "To the window, now!"

The young man had barely unsheathed his sword when one of the pursuers reached for his eyes. It was reflex born out of sheer fright that allowed him to strike the rending claws away from his face using the pummel of his half-drawn sword. As if he was in a spell, Antonio barely noticed his kicking away the first attacker and stabbing another as he began his frantic run to the window his grandfather was smashing open.

"When you land, roll away from the window!" The man with the gray beard shouted as he jumped through the now-battered window. "Roll away!"

Antonio, now that he had had a good look at the pursuing throng, felt his heart sink all the way down to his groin at the thought of being left behind, and in the midst of such frenzied monsters. He was only able to run faster and use the crate to propel his jump, for a second doubting his momentum would actually carry him out of the cursed place.

While he was in the air, driving head first through the window, he could feel avid hands trying to grab ahold of his trousers. Still he made it through and just as ordered, he rolled as he hit the ground just as he realized the alley his grandfather had elected to make their escape good, was a rather too-narrow one.

"Oh, for the luvva—" Antonio was able to mutter before banging his lower back and legs into the boards of the rickety fence. There was loud crashing sound and a white flash of pain burst into his flied of vision, blinding him momentarily. 

The young sailor's speed and weight brought down a section of the rotting wooden fence he had slammed into with him. Antonio had the wind knocked out of his lungs, yet he still tried to turn on his side and stand up to face whosoever had dared follow him out of the rundown building. That was when he saw his grandfather throwing a sizzling object inside the warehouse and duck to help him get back on his feet.

An explosion drowned out the sound of his grandfathers voice and left his ears ringing. As in a dream, he noticed how he was taking quick, staggering steps with the help of his companion who supported half of his weight. After a few painful, anguishing gasps, Antonio felt the stinking air as it burned it way back into his lungs. His ears still rang and his backside hurt like when his shipmates kicked him for not doing something as told or properly.

By the time the young man recovered enough to keep running on his own, the old warehouse had begun to catch fire.

"Those… those were corpses hunting us down!" Antonio roared at the old man and had a sudden cough fit. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat and continued on in absolute disbelief. "Dead men walking…"

"Those were neither dead nor men, any longer."

"What in Damnation's End are you blabbering about, now, ol' man?"

"The monsters we just destroyed aren't alive and, as you could grasp from their swift movements and unsophisticated-yet-vicious attempts at punching and raking us to pieces… not quite dead, at all. You see, boy, those back are what the arcanists refer to as the Undying."

"What? You mean those things were immortal?"

"No, you dolt! Our souls, the gods… these are immortal. The creatures roasting back there, can't die. They no longer breathe, yet their flesh turns neither to muck nor dust. Why, given enough time, it might even restore itself to the state it was before their Merging."

"Their merging?"

"Don't you seamen have alchemists or apothecaries onboard?"

"Well, yes… but they do make a habit of not scaring the crew sleepless, you know?"

"No wonder we lost at Puerto Alvarado, back then."

"I know nothing about that."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"I mean, I wasn't on a ship that was part of the fleet. The Viceroy had it his way and outlawed the whole lot of us, the freebooters, so—"

"Yes, yes… a huge injustice, I'm sure. Here take this." The old man handed Antonio his plumed beret as he left him to stand on his own, and took point by advancing a couple of steps while the young man patted his tam clean of dust.

"Well, maybe it wasn't undeserved, but all of his high-horsing? That lost the hypocrite his battle, didn't it?"

"I never said that sorry excuse for a man wasn't an arse, though." The gray-bearded man accepted with a nod and a hard look at his grandchild. "Are you hurt? Did they wound you?"

"What…?" Antonio voice raised a couple of note with shock. "Am I turning into one of those?"

"What? Hells, no! This isn't a milkmaid's tale, Antonio. Still, infections happen and I don't think you'd like to earn your peg leg on land of all places, you salty sea dog."

Antonio had to laugh at his grandfather's grim sense of humor. He looked at the old man and, for the first time, noticed the way he conducted himself as they made their way through the alleys. His brass-coated blunderbuss hanging tightly from his wide leather belt by a short length of rawhide twine; his hand firmly holding the falchion at the ready position as he advanced. His almost imperceptible footsteps as they moved through rubble, gutter water, stale ponds and fermenting rubbish.

"Just what are you, grandfather?" Antonio wondered aloud, realizing too quickly he had uttered his question just clearly enough for the old man to listen to it and turn to face him.

"More questions?" The veteran fighter said and let out a theatrical sigh. "I guess this is a good a time as any to answer this one, at least. People usually have a predisposition against us, that if what you need to know first. Mostly out of superstition and ignorance, rather than true ill-intentions on our part. You see, Antonio, I'm… those of my… faction… are referred to as Reckoners."

"A Rec… Fifteen Hells! You're one of the Tallymen!"

"Yes… a few call us that, too."

At times you remind of when there's no coffee left,

as the sun fades yet its warmth still fills the air,

my day of toil is at an end; I trod on, rest bereft,

as I prepare to reach for your smile most fair, 

my long road back, in spite fatigue, begins,

sweetened by the promise of this night to come,

your joy 'tis comfort and caress; it beams;

in your smile, amid your lips, I find my home.

Then you'll say: "Alas! We ran out of grain to grind,"

most silly an excuse to remain in bed a little longer;

you asleep in my arms, your laughter in my mind…

a joyous song that tears all known sorrows asunder.

As mornings come rinding chill winds born North,

the smiles within my heart'll come surging forth.

#ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

I told Jenny we'd be fine as there's enough canned food in the house. For some strange reason, the infected have gone to the valley—well, most of them. There are a few stragglers, but they can be easily avoided… they walk around aimlessly, mindless of anything but finding someone else to…

Anyway, as long as we remain perched atop this hill, inside Jenny's parents' house, we should be fine… well, as "fine" as this fucked up situation allows anyone to be.

I've been thinking a lot about how the "severity of the outbreak" line the media and EBS are throwing around's just a reflection of how much the newspapers, TV and radio networks, along and possibly in league with government, downplayed or outright hid the fact this infection was getting out of hand. We, the common people, just started hearing about it when they could no longer control it and everything was well in route to go straight to hell.

So "first day", my ass! This must've been going for quiet a while now, and they never gave us chance to prepare for any of this.

Thank God for my in-laws habit of going to great lengths at buying extra food with every trip they make to the supermarket. This, they always do with the intention of making donations in case there's some poor family hit a rough patch or something, or one of those natural disasters… well, it sure looks like we're in the middle of one, right now.

But as long as we don't have to get out of the house, we seem to be pretty safe.

Until such a time when we find ourselves forced to make a run to find more food.

The first logical stop would be at the Alvarez's. Great time to plan a summer vacation, guys! I wonder if things are also this bad over at the beach. Last thing the news mentioned was that all major urban centers were "in turmoil". Now, how's that for an understatement? Everything was going bat shit crazy, everywhere! I just hope they were right and the smaller cities and towns remain safe… that gives me something to look forward to.

For I'm not going to let my family stay here indefinitely and then slowly starve to death; and I'm not going to try and make a food run to the supermarket at the foot of the hill, either. Once we've taken any and all food from the neighboring empty houses, it's time for us to fill some extra fuel cans, stow the SUVs with food and a few spare clothes, and head out to the country house.

Damn it, Jenny! I told you we should have headed straight there, but no! You wanted to visit your folks first. "They'll love spending time with the children!"

They might have… if not for this goddamned contagion.

Anyway, I've taken stock of all the cans and even separated them into categories. According to me, we've enough to go with three full meals for one week and a half, then we'll have switch to reduced rations (that's either two full or three lean meals) for another two weeks… after that, there's no other way around it: it'll be breaking and entering time.

Phil once told me he had copies of various neighbors' houses keys, in case of an emergency or to check up on the properties while they went out for the holidays. What he intended to do as a favor to them, has likely become a blessing for us.

I think that I will pay the Alvarez's pantry a visit tomorrow and see if I can extend the full meals to a whole two weeks-worth, at the very least.

It's right next door, so it should be easy enough.

Elthe Kyrie, for we stand divided.

Come Lord and witness our shame

exposed to Thine horrified eyes.

Elthe Kyrie and spit at our hypocrisy

while our fiery words betray

our abject fears and cowardice.

Have Thine gaze feed on our souls

so diminished, so ill and misbegotten,

so tainted by our creeds that have fallen

and lie at or feet, irredeemably rotten.

See how our mind misconstrued,

how our pettiness despoiled, and

how our hatred ran rampant,

unchecked and self-effacing.

Witness, Oh Lord, who we cannot,

will not back up our actions with temperance

and will not back down in its absence...

See how we have created enemies

and demons of the Other

and refused to see how, in doing so,

we all have become

the only enemy there is.

Elthe Kyrie and cleanse this awful sin

of  our rejection of Thine rule!

Give us Thine light to remind us

what is once was to be human!

Come Lord, for we need Thee

now more than ever...

Elthe Logos Kyrie...

Come Lord Reason

 and leave us never.

Come Reason and guide

us all, forever.

Hello, old friend. No don't give that line where you insist we're not friends; that you've got high standards and too busy a schedule. Don't come with endless lists of why in your tumultuous existence there is no place to even consider mine as being anything relevant or worthy of note. Denial doesn't make reality—especially a harsh one like this—go away. You might refuse to accept the fact I'm here standing next to you all you want—nice spot, by the way. I'm slightly partial to stone benches in small parks—but you are still listening to every single word I'm saying, even if you most definitely rather not to.

No. You can't just shut me up. It doesn't work that way. You know full well that it's all part of the deal, and foul moods notwithstanding, you don't get to pick what's real and

 what isn't.

I guess you got screwed that way… alright, doubly-screwed and royally so.

But I know you don't need to be reminded that you knew full well what you were getting into when you accepted my proposal. So, having put that out of the way… tell me, Samael, what you've been up to and how was your week, my friend?

In the light of a raging, unbridled hatred

I found the corpse of all the former magic…

some wars never end; lives left matted,

spiraling down; meaningless and tragic.

No winter song or whispered lullaby

can keep at bay the bitte'ness

that blindly endures beyond.

Our soul's consumed with fleetness

by a hatred we find ourselves so fond,

that we make of war our alibi.

Whatever was real lies broken,

reduced to rubble and seeping vileness

that deforms what once was kindness

and leaves love lost unspoken.

In the fires of a heart once grand

lies harm in silent ambush,ready to smite me where I stand…

disguised as an aloof thrush;

false calm, hate's perennial token.

So, I live on unconcerned yet wary,

for that heart's no stone but a quarry

where all of my craft turned to spoils,

no pardon ever gained, a memory…

that ever soils.

Upon arrival, stop for a sec and listen

to the many tiny feet pat-patting around,

then look for the slimy trails that glisten

as they go all about the troubled ground.

Pay attention to the tiny mourners' plight

as it rakes and tumble inside your head,

while their lidless eyes shine with delight...

they make room for you, most recent dead.

"Sure this is nonsense," you claim in a rage.

"A stupid delusion, this is all in my head!"

Invisible hands crafting a tenebrous cage

with teeth like diamonds and innards so red,

your life now a blot in a musty old page.

'Tis now dust as a shawl and bones as your bed!

"Where have I faltered, where did I err?"

Your question lingers in the chilling air;

no answer, it's obvious no one doth care...

the mind's now broken, so ripe for despair.

Then you start dancing, with feet that are bare...

if you've slipped into madness, you'll do it with flair!

Shocked, you tear yourself for the damnable dream;

your breath comes out hasty, the sweat's wetting your head.

Your thoughts are still frozen by the echoing scream...

the tiny mourners keep waiting for their dancing undead.

#fantasy #poetry #horror #WinnerTakesAll @mamba