“I stopped believing there was a power of good and a power of evil that were outside us. And I came to believe that good and evil are names for what people do, not for what they are.”
― Philip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass
anti-hero
JSW Prompt 8-27-2015
Do you know who is talking?
JSW Prompt Response
It’s not easy, but I do. It’s much easier to pretend to be as dark as somebody else than acknowledge your own. The truth is, I hate him. I hate his darkness. I hate what he has done and, more than anything, I hate what he has made me. I am but a speck in his shadow, a thing used and left behind. A shadow of sunlight. A soiled hankie.
Perhaps I had some darkness before. In fact, I know I did. There were days of pain and despair, anger and hatred. There were days I could not rise out of bed but wallowed away sunshine as if to keep myself hidden from what lay beyond my four walls. I hated, but my hate was directed inward. I hated what I was, what I had become, what wasn’t my life. Now I hate him.
I resisted as long as I was able, but he knew about the pain and despair, he used the anger and hatred to bind me to him. Even if it had been only one day, the stain of his darkness would always be upon me. It is easier to do the things I did in his darkness, for him, than to remain afraid in mine.
I don’t remember the act itself, not in any traditional way. I remember only the smell of smoke and ash, the feel of a wash of colors around me, destroying any future that might have lain before me.
Could I have helped myself? Perhaps, but if I pretend my darkness, before him, was the same as his, after him, then I can pretend I am not to blame.
Yet, I am. What man can force my limbs to obey him? My mind to accept such darkness? My soul to shrivel and shrink until no more? I am but a lie that keeps on lying.
The darkness has no end. I am trapped forever, inside and out. In a white room over-filled with fluorescent light. Whiteness all around and around until I am colorless. My body aches in my jacket, warm and still.
My arms shiver with the ache to be free.
Quote For The Day 8-1-2015
Quote For The Day 7-24-015
Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard spectres, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again for ever.”
― H. Rider Haggard, King Solomon’s Mines
JSW Prompt 7-23-2015
Come on! Tell me a story!
JSW Prompt July 23, 2015 Response
He crouched in the dark, one knee down, toe of his boot pressing rocky floor, his other boot poised to propel him forward when the moment arrived. And it would arrive. He just didn’t know when. But knowing when wasn’t his job. Getting in and out safely, prize in hand – that was his job.
His eyes adjusted slowly to the dark, allowing him to pick out the rough rock walls of the tunnel, the scattering of broken stones and bones across the ground. Bones left as a warning. How nice.
If he could have snorted silently, he would have. The bones were a challenge, at least for him. He’d already left two dead behind and he’d leave more if needed. Life meant little to him less’in it was his own. And even then, only marginally. So what if they planned to kill him if he failed? He would not fail. He never failed.
The rock around him started to shake and heave. He sprang forward, running through the darkened tunnel, leaping stones, avoiding jagged protrusions on the walls, ducking low-hanging stone. Arms out for balance, he stumbled, rightened himself and ran on, counting silently.
Ten, nine eight. Around the first bend. Drop to his knees and shoot through the narrow opening under a rock fall then back to his feet and running. Gathered himself and leapt across the snake pit, rolling to his feet on the far side.
Seven, six, five. Dropped into the rock chimney and slid, boots and gloves against the walls to direct his fall.
Four, three, two. Almost. Hitting the ground, he ducked out of the chimney and ran, reaching the next turn of the tunnel as the chimney collapsed behind him.
One.
He slid into the cavern, freezing for a moment to listen, sense. The silence was empty, vibrating around him the way a tuning fork vibrated to a touch.
He was alone.
He rose and walked to the pedestal, staring at the two-fisted size gem resting upon a velvet cloth. Warily, he circled the pedestal, searching visually for the small catch able to release the stone. Reaching the front of the pedestal, he moved closer, removing his right glove to ensure a better feel. Fumbled for a moment and then pulled the catch forward and up, freeing the stone. As he worked, he felt something brush his hand but ignored it.
Rolling the gem into his left hand, he let go of the catch, hearing the crack of stone. Pulling his hand back, he frowned at the black glove encasing his flesh. The moving back glove……
He shrieked, shaking his hand violently to dislodge the black mass…
Spiders!
SpidersspidersspidersspidersSPIDERS!
Dropping the gem, he brushed frantically at the creatures with his gloved hand, whole body shaking with the feel of tiny hairy crawling feet.
Falling back against the wall, he drew in long panicked breaths, fighting the shivers consuming him. S-pi-d-er-s. Threw away both gloves and ran his hands frantically through his hair, brushing away imaginary spiders.
Garden spiders. Freaking garden spiders, but he didn’t give a damn. Just the thought of them touching his skin sent him into violent spasms, fighting for breath. Stomped the ground around him with both feet to squash any that dared come near. Scratched his hands through his hair again, hard. Wiped at his clothes over and over but the feel of them wouldn’t go away.
Spiders.
Just on your hand, just on your hand, he repeated over and over, trying to wish away the feel. Hand, hand, hand! It as no use. He still felt the anguish of their legs on him. Coming to his feet, gem forgotten, he started to run. Where, he didn’t care. How, he didn’t care. All he needed was to get away.
Read of the Week – 7-12-2015
Detective Gabriella Versado has seen a lot of bodies, but this one is unique even by Detroit’s standards: half-boy, half-deer, somehow fused. The cops nickname him “Bambi,” but as stranger and more disturbing bodies are discovered, how can the city hold on to a reality that is already tearing at its seams?
If you’re Detective Versado’s over-achieving teenage daughter, Layla, you commence a dangerous flirtation with a potential predator online. If you are the disgraced journalist, Jonno, you do whatever it takes to investigate what may become the most heinous crime story in memory. If you’re Thomas Keen, you’ll do what you can to keep clean, keep your head down, and try to help the broken and possibly visionary artist obsessed with setting loose The Dream, tearing reality, assembling the city anew.
Goodreads –
JSW Prompt 7-5-2015
Quote For The Day 6-21-2015
Chaos is just a point of view.
A Writer's Life 
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