Malfeasance - ch. 2

2/Escape

Victor turned in his bed swallowed up in the satins and silks of the feather-down mattress. He had left the window open that evening to allow the fresh ocean breeze to fill the dank tower, his home. The boy slammed his head on the pillow before viciously handling it, puffing it, and again slamming his head on it. He could not get to sleep.

The breeze shifted and pushed the long transparent curtains up into an eerie levitation that seemed never to end, dancing on the air like a forlorn leaf in August. The unwary child watched the curtain display like a tantalizing exotic dance and he thought to himself what amazing things his Father must have seen throughout his adventures.

The boy could hear footsteps pounding down the hall. The peculiar noises weren’t normal for this time of night, so he thought to himself something must be wrong. Maybe it wasn’t as late as he had first considered, he pondered that that would make more sense. The moon was at its fullest as well, glowing red and turning the interior of his room into a crimson spectacle. Something about the night felt awkward and unnatural. He questioned what manner of witchery was afoot this evening that tormented him so.

Victor began to grow more frustrated at the noises that stopped him from entering slumber. He had a long day tomorrow; much like how every day was in the castle spire. In his castle fortress built in the side of the tallest mountain on the island the boy learned the arts, mathematics and sciences, he was taught to handle gun-blades and sword-play. Every day he was being taught and being prepared to control a kingdom.

He considered going out from his room and into the hall to demand that the noise be stopped. Being the son of the king has its advantages. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his teacher the next day. Humility was expected of a young prince and the use of authority was to be handled with care and diplomacy.

The child turned in his bed and he wrapped his head in the pillow. He faced the opposite side of the room from the door and gazed aimlessly into the darkest corner he could find. He would certainly find out what all the commotion was in the morning and how to resolve it in the future. No one would dare interfere with his sleep again. He would make a point of it that much he assured himself. But for now, for the love of the gods, sleep!

The door to the prince’s chamber opened abruptly. The sound of footsteps pounding against the wooden planks was heavy and bold. He heard the steps getting closer behind him but he was too afraid to turn around to see who it was. He closed his eyes and wished that he had slept with a dagger under his blanket tonight. His mother had recommended it when he was afraid of the dark. Why hadn’t he kept that suggestion in mind?

Wooden drawers from a nearby cabinet opened and the shuffling noise of clothes and trinkets consumed the room over the breeze and constant toil of muffled noises throughout the spire. Was someone going through his things? How dare someone go through his things!

A heavy accented voice bellowed something about something while shuffling and pulling open various drawers. The prince was not going to take any chances for this intruder going through his personal things and as if acting like a sleeping babe shifting positions as did the boy. His new angle gave him a better opportunity to see and attack this stranger.

“Young Master, now is not the time for games,” the intruder said to the boy without as much as giving a glimpse his direction.

The prince knew the voice of the dark figure above him He knew it as his teacher and protectorate, Thomas Valeck. The teacher was a tall lanky man in his mid fifties. The tufts of grey hair showed his age as did the crow’s feet beside his glimmering blue eyes. Victor had considered him a swashbuckler back in the day, a hero that flew about on clipper vessels fighting the wicked ways of pirates on the high seas. Perhaps he did, Thomas never denied his prowess with the sword or the gun, nor his knowledge of martial combat or topography. The teacher was everything Victor wanted his father to be, he considered this idea more often than he should.

Victor’s eyes narrowed at his teacher and scorned him for entering without permission. He was going to continue but Thomas silenced him the way a parent silences their child.

“Get your things together,” Thomas said, “we have to leave right now.”

His voice was full of urgency and caution. It was also suspiciously quiet considering the noise outside his room.

“Where are we –” Victor’s voice was halted again.

“Do as I say, we haven’t much time,” Thomas’ voice edged perilously near panic. “Do you remember the escape route I taught you?”

Victor nodded, “Aye, in the study, the secret door behind the book shelf.”

The prince had gotten up and slipped on some clothes that had been picked out by his teacher. They were simple and modest clothes assuredly not from his majesty’s noble wardrobe. Where had Thomas found these? He had inspected them, even smelled them before putting them on. At least they smelled clean he thought.

“Then where do you go?” Thomas followed up continuing his quiz on the boy.

“The stairwell leads into the mountain. Follow it until I reach the end of the tunnel out to the shore.”

“Yes, young master, but we cannot use the route we predetermined.” Thomas threw a bag of the prince’s clothes he had selected to him.

“What is this about Thomas?” Victor caught the bag and tried changing the subject.

Thomas shook his head and leaned toward the boy and whispered, “The world has finally gone mad.”

The boy swallowed hard as he processed the words. He looked deep into his teacher’s eyes and for once he felt unadulterated powerlessness and fear. The yelling throughout the castle had become clear to him. Someone was after him, but where was the guard? Why hadn’t they come for him first? Why was it his teacher that came to aide him?

Thomas could sense the dreadful feelings consuming the boy. His innocent eyes and face gave him away too easy. Victor hadn’t been a good student in the arts of deception, not yet. He was still too young to be dropped into the pit of politics. It was a skill that the boy would learn later.

“Victor, listen to me now. Only me,” The seriousness of Thomas’ voice grabbed the boy’s core attention, “Follow close behind me and do not fall behind. Don’t be frightened young master, today you become a man. I will explain everything when we are safe.”

Victor wanted to ask so many questions but Thomas put him at ease, at least for the moment he gave the boy a sense of commitment. All will be answered when they were safe Victor thought to himself. The boy nodded to him and slipped the bag around his shoulders.

“I’m ready Thomas.” The prince said to him with new found fervency.

Thomas clenched Victor’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. He nodded to him and smiled. The teacher lifted up and moved gracefully toward the door and placed his ear against it. The teacher withdrew his gun-blade and held it near the seam of light that entered from the hallway. With that same hand he extended his index finger to his lips and hushed the young prince.

The protectorate squeezed the bronze doorknob and turned it slowly. The clicking sound of metal contraptions unbolting the door sounded louder than it really was. Victor was afraid of what might be on the other side of the door. He was even more concerned with the route to the study where the escape door was located. Never before had he thought and practiced the movements he was about to commit himself to.

A crack of gunfire erupted in the hallway. There was a shout of pain and then an expected heavy thud followed. There was a howling scream of pain that was quelled by a sudden chopping sound that rattled the floorboards viciously. Victor felt the hairs of his neck straighten. A sudden chill overcame him and he felt flushed as if he was about to pass out. He looked towards Thomas who was in turn watching him.

Victor took in a deep breath and recovered himself. He nodded his head and leaned heavy against the cabinet where his clothes were. He was ready to spring out and down the hall. From there he would dash right at the T intersection and dash across the hall and into the third door on the left. He repeated these directions to himself over and over.

“Are you ready Young Master?” Thomas asked one last time. His body was leaning against the door, his fingers rewrapping around the stock of his gun. The bolt was drawn into the door and all that was necessary was a quick pull and the light in the hall way would flood the room.

“Aye,” Victor said.

The door opened fast and slammed heavily against the wall. Victor felt the collar of his shirt being tugged violently. The prince was thrown into a furious dash, striding with the spread of a gazelle he stayed focused on his objective. His eyes squinted from the instant flood of light making it difficult for him to see his surroundings.

Run straight, turn right, one-two-three doors, cross the hall, enter study, ESCAPE!

Victor leaped and stumbled over a corpse. He was so focused that he couldn’t recall if the body was a guard or a servant. He could hear himself breathing hard and fast. His chest pounded violently and it felt as though his chest was about to cave in. Tears were in his eyes and he struggled to keep up with his teacher. The prince was being tugged about like a rag doll and it was up to him not to stumble and fall or even worse, to get caught by whatever men sought him.

Another shot was fired from somewhere near the sound recoiled in the boy’s ear and a pitched chime sung in his skull. Victor raised his hand searching for something to grasp. His fingers found around Thomas’ wrist and he held tightly to his cuff. The prince noticed for no apparent reason other than because it was there that Thomas’ fist still clenched bare-knuckle white on his collar, held for dear life.

A picture frame shattered above the two of them as they dashed around the corner. Debris flew about and Victor covered his face seconds too late as shards of wood and fabric lashed the side of his face. At that moment the boy knew that someone was shooting at them.

“THOMAS!” Victor yelled out for him, either to speed up or to help him move faster through the gauntlet. Either way the sounds of the hallway swept his shout away into a fray of chaos. A nearby vase fell from an ornate wooden side table. The porcelain shattered loudly at Thomas’ boots. Victor nearly slipped on a smooth fragmented piece of the puzzle but he kept himself up merely by the arm that held to his collar.

Where were they? The stretch to the study was longer than he had expected it to be. Did they turn right? Is that where he received the cuts to his face? Victor recited the route toward the study again and again doing his best to forge his mind shut from the ensuing confusion. Of course he had turned right. The doors to his left he recalled were passing fast, the vase he remembered was near the second door. The third door was –

“Get the boy!” A voice shouted over the noise like the crack of thunder in a terrible storm.

There was another gunshot followed by another. The third door was passed them. The next door was their escape but it looked so distant. Victor could see the door nearing and he stretched his arm out for it knowing well that it was still out of his reach. There was another sharp pain in Victor’s ear as another gun fired in the hall. Thomas tripped over his own foot and stumbled forward. He lost his grip on Victor who was thrown forward with excess momentum.

The prince charged towards the door and picked up his stride from the throw as if it never hindered his movement. He stopped and watched from the far end of the hall two sentries heading his direction. They wore the King’s tabard but he couldn’t be sure if they were friend or foe. He looked behind him and saw Thomas on his knees and behind Thomas were three more men in pursuit.

The two men behind Thomas wore the King’s tabard and were aiming their gun-blades at Victor. The third man must have been the one directing the orders He was different than the others. He wore blinding red robes like those worn by the bishops of his church. Was he directing the guards to get him? Victor’s hand clutched the doorknob to his escape.

“Go on Victor! Move your ass!” Thomas tried to get to his feet but failed.

Thomas held his side and with his good arm he flicked the back of his hand at him as though shooing a fly away from him. The guards were pursuing from both directions. Victor ripped open the door and as he did two bullet holes snapped through the wood. Wood shards flail about.

“Halt! Stop and forfeit!” The guards demanded loudly between gunshots.

Victor took another glance toward Thomas and then without thinking of his own safety ran toward him. He dropped to his knees and slid on the marble floor tile toward Thomas. Victor wrapped his arm around his teacher’s waist and lifted him to his feet.

“Stupid boy,” Thomas hissed with irritation and needled pain.

“I’m not leaving you behind Thomas!” Victor grunted loudly as he pulled Thomas with him.

Insults were the least of the boy’s concern. As they made it to the opening the door in front of them swung from the impact of bullets tearing holes through it. The two of them were threw themselves inside the room and Victor bolted the door closed shut. Thomas was on his feet and was moving quickly toward the book case and to the inconspicuous lever that would lead them to safety.

His majesty looked desperately for something to put in the way of the guards once they broke through the door. The room was simple however there wasn’t much in the way of obstacles. A chair, a table, none of this would be adequate enough. The bookcases were more that welcome but he was too weak and his teacher was injured.

Victor jumped back in surprise as the first crashing hammer-noise hit the door. He turned his attention from his search of furnitureback to the door frantically looking for anything to fend off the guards but he stood there defeated and pitiful. Another shattering crash rattled the doorframe followed by a crack of wood, and the tip of a gun-blade pierced through the door.

“This isn’t going to hold them for long Thomas!” Victor yelled over his shoulder.

There was nothing around him that could quickly be put in the way to hinder their pursuit. He could hear the voices of the sentries on the other side of the door. The voices of the guards were filled with malice and discontent. Victor took a shocking step backward when another blade slashed through the wood, a wide sliver flew away from the door letting in light.

“Thomas!” Victor shouted with fright. “We don’t have much time!”

There was a grinding sound of stone against stone and in the darkness Victor could see something even darker. The fireplace was shifting to the right giving way for a small escape tunnel for the two desperate men.

“Lets go Your Majesty,” Thomas said, his voice resounded with pain. There was a quivering in his voice.

The door pounded and shook again, another sliver of wood tore off door. Light and the peering eyes of sentries watched hatefully as the two swept into the darkness. There was a pained howl from the hallway followed by more violent smashing and pounding on the door.

Victor went first down the stair well followed instantly by Thomas who held to the boy like a crutch. He also grabbed a staff from the stone wall with what little light was given from the torn out slits from the door.

“We’ll be safe soon,” The protectorate said weakly.

The sound of grinding stone filled the small black spiral stairwell. Dust fell from the ceiling of the tunnel as the fireplace moved back into place. Moments later the two were overwhelmed in darkness so dark that Victor couldn’t see his face even if he placed it directly in front of his eyes. He did his best to take steps down but the stairwell was old and the stairs were uneven and sweating with humidity from the bowels of the mountain.

“I can’t see anything Thomas. It’s as though I’m blind.” Victor growled to Thomas. His voice echoed back to him.

“The corridor is old Young Master. Tis much older than you and I,” Thomas said, “one moment.”

Thomas lifted his weight off of Victor and blindly felt for something on his body. He was muttering something incoherently under his breath. It was a habit that Victor grew to dislike about his teacher and it was always a sign of when Thomas was growing anxious or angry.

“What is it Thomas?” Victor asked with frustration.

The prince had also grown anxious. He thought to himself, now wasn’t the time for rest. They were being pursued by guards that could not have been more than a stone’s throw away on the other side of the granite fireplace. As he considered this for a moment he could hear a subtle pounding echo in the stairwell. The muffled pounding of stone and the quiet hush of voices gave way to fright. There was no doubt that the enemy was upon them just trying to find a way to move the fireplace. Victor only hoped that the secret passage remained secret for as long as it took for them to vanish.

Victor heard a strike of flint and saw sparks flash around the room. He turned his head and watched the sparks again and for an instant he saw red. The flash struck a third time and Victor squint his eyes and looked down at Thomas’s chest he saw red. Instantly he could feel the warmth of fire and the sound of it greedily roaring as it swallowed the oxygen around them.

“Aye, now we can see where we’re going,” Thomas smiled down at Victor and gave a promising reassurance that things would be fine. The swashbuckler effect that Victor had learned to love about his teacher kept him courageous.

“You’re injured Thomas,” Victor’s gasped in horror as he saw Thomas’ clothes covered in red.

“Just keep walking, we have a long walk ahead of us Your Majesty,” Thomas spoke, “it’s just a flesh wound.”

“Will they follow us?” Victor asked as he began his trek down the long corridor.

“Aye, they will pursue us,” Thomas said flatly, “we won’t be safe until we leave the island.”

Victor put his hand to his cheek and felt splinters from where the picture frame shattered from the hallway. He remembered how close to death he was and how he felt pure danger and fear for the first time in his life. It was still too early for him to process everything that had just happened.

He didn’t know what to think of anyone anymore, his guards had just tried to kill him, his teacher was injured and to what degree he couldn’t tell. The young prince tried to put everything together but there was so much uncertainty. Victor concluded in all of this turmoil that there was no going back to the way things were. Thomas was right, he was no longer allowed a childhood.

Malfeasance - ch. 1

1/The Uninvited

The nights were often the worst.

Working as sentry for the Republic came with its toll of labor but the job was well worth the effort. During an economic recession jobs were scarce, crops this year had burned under the harsh and furious tropical sun, and the storms and pirates have made merchant trade to the island all but impossible this season. With all of these problems, a simple thing as working nightshift didn’t seem so bad. The worst that happens while patrolling at night was the insatiable silence.

Jonas should be happy that he was standing guard here at the Eastern Gate of the city. He knew that he and his comrades held the important role of defending the city from enemies that would loot and pillage them. That is if the city ever had an enemy. Night after night they stood there burning their candles and peering vigilant across the land inside the towers that made up the scaled walls which kept the wilderness at bay.

The young sentry volunteered for roving duty this evening after standing countless hours in the small columned towers on the wall all week. Something about the confining area on the tower platforms made him feel nervous. The roving duty gave him the ability to stretch his legs and to mingle with the evening patrons and merchants before the dusk. But, now it was quiet and he was alone in the darkness while those he mingled with slept in peace knowing they were safeguarded.

Something about the moon seemed peculiar this particular evening or so Jonas had thought to himself. The haze of the moon was a subtle red and the size of the orb was remarkably larger than it should be.

There was an old saying he repeated out loud which reminded him of his childhood, “The blood moon’s crop, and the dead man’s field. Be graced by heaven’s greatest meal. ”He didn’t really know what the lullaby meant, but his mother said it to him on nights like this and it always brought him comfort.

The sound of something falling clamored in the blackness of a nearby alley. Jonas shook his head and snapped out of his dazed dreaming state. The sentry took a steady jog toward the alley remaining in the light. He clutched to his sidearm preparing to draw his blade and fire at a moment’s notice. This time of night thugs and bandits roam looking for easy prey that should have long since gone home.

“Hello?” He ordered toward the shadows. There was no reply and so he repeated himself, “By order of the King’s Order, come out of the darkness!” He directed with all the authority given to him as a sentry.

He only received silence.

Jonas tightened his grip on the hilt of his sidearm. The weapon was made of steel, iron, and wood. It resembled a short stock sawed shotgun with a long two-handed handle grip. The wood stretched around to form the trigger-well and the stock clamped tightly to the iron steel of the barrel. The barrel stopped short of two feet but from where the barrel ended, the metal melded to the top of the barrel converged to form a blade that extended an additional foot. These gun-blades had become more common in recent years. The discovery of gunpowder illuminated the fascination of artists and militants alike.

The sentry took great care in each step as he entered the alley. Jonas kicked over a wooden box. He had withdrawn his gun-blade and aimlessly held it in front of him into the darkness. The box made a cumbersome noise as it fell and flipped to the ground. A fat sewer rat scurried away from the sentry and made a mad dash to a nearby flood drain.

Jonas jumped back, “Gods damn it!” He took in a deep breath and shook his head while sliding his blade back into his hilt.

A voice yelled toward Jonas from the lit quarter of the eastern gate. Jonas stepped back into the light and waved toward the voice. He took another look down that alley not completely satisfied with the thought that the tiny rodent was capable of such tremendous racket.

Stop imagining things, he thought to himself.

Jonas returned to his post near the gate. He planted one of his iron boots into the dirt beneath him and lifted his other boot to rest on a wooden pillar holding up an overhang for a merchant market that was busy with patrons during the early morning. But it was strange to see everything so vacant and immobile at night. He had never grown accustomed to it, not really. Something about it often reminded him of ghost towns. It left him with a sunken unwelcoming feeling.

The sound of sand and boots scratching cobblestone came from Jonas’ right. He perks his ears and turns his head to notice the other roving guard for the night’s round. Jonas didn’t care for him as much as other guards in his squad and he couldn’t quite place why. Perhaps it could be the way his smug face poised patronizing smirks after each sarcastic remark, or maybe it was the way he spat obscenities as if he were a pirate they were defending the city from. Either way, there was something deep in Jonas’ core that would never accept Geradi as part of his squad.

“Seen anything worth mentioning Jonas?” Geradi’s voice was burly and scratched as if he drank too much and smoked the heaviest weed.

Jonas shrugged.

Geradi removes his helmet and shakes his head. His hair flails about and he combs it a little. He walks towards the opposite side of the street and poses similar to Jonas. He lifts his leg on a pillar for an overhang. He crosses his arms and holds his helm lazily in one of his metal-gloved hands.

“Aye, damn night shifts Jonas. There isn't 'nothing fuckin’ good of ‘em!” Geradi looks towards Jonas and gives him one of those smug grins that he loathed.

Jonas shuddered a little and nodded back to him, “Aye.”

The obnoxious sentry lifts off his post and goes toward a corner of an exterior table where he must have placed his belongings for the evening, “Eh. Jonas, I figured – The night be young and hell of a good breeze, nay?”

“I figured why not, eh?” He asked the question but he continued talking expecting or not caring for a response. Geradi pulled some bloated lambskin bladder. He turns around to Jonas and grins again, “This should warm things up a little Lad – at the least keep us busy!”

Geradi tips the bladder up and pours the liquid into his mouth. Moments later the loathsome guard clenched his teeth together taking in a deep breath, his eyes large and watering. He clears his throat and extends his hand toward Jonas, holding the lambskin bladder and swinging the contents to and fro, “Try some, it’ll grow ye into a man yet Jonas!”

“Nay, that’s alright – we shouldn’t be drinking on duty Geradi. Ye' know this.”

“Perhaps ye be right but when was the last time you saw a fuckin infraction in this city eh?” Geradi had a point. Oddly enough, the city had very little crime and under the circumstances of recession, the kingdom’s propaganda was doing well in sustaining the morale of the people.

Jonas smiled a little and shook his head at him, “You’re just using this as an excuse to drink…” He pointed out the obvious as he often did. He watched Geradi pull the bladder up to his lips to take another helping of whatever putrid sauce was held within.

Something had pulled Jonas’ attention from the drinking sentry to somewhere behind him on the stone wall. The street torches kept the main drive lit clear but left heavy shadows out against the distant perimeter walls. It was somewhere on the wall that Jonas swore he saw the silhouette of a second person walking toward the staggering drunkard.

As quick as the torch’s light flickered in the wind so was the sight of the second form.

“Hey Jonas!” Geradi waved at him.

For the second time that evening the young sentry had become withdrawn and yanked into a paranoid disillusion. He blinked and brought his attention back to Geradi and his bladder of ale.

“I thought I saw something.” He told Geradi. He thought he should have a drink to calm his nerves, as stupid as it may be Geradi might have a point about one thing. Nothing ever happened in this city. The harvest moon must be playing tricks on him this evening.

As if reading his mind, Geradi tossed Jonas the lambskin bag. The sound of liquor sloshing about inside the bladder was welcoming to Jonas’ lips. To resist the temptation was too much and Jonas smiled at Geradi. He nods to him and puts the funnel of the bladder to his lips. To hell with it, the young sentry said to himself. He drains some of the burning liquid down his throat.

His eyes instantly became warm and his belly burned with liquor that fulfilled some gratification he hadn’t had for some time. Jonas wiped his mouth with his forearm and nodded to his comrade.

Before Jonas was able to take his eyes from Geradi back to the lambskin bag a light flickered and a shadow cast again on the wall where he had saw it earlier. The shade was moving sporadic and violently, growing larger as though closing in on Geradi’s cast shadow.

The strange growing shadow suddenly overwhelmed Geradi’s shadow. The black silhouette raised its arms displaying vicious talons that drove down violently into Geradi’s much smaller shadow. Even though the flicker of the fire moved the shadows here and there on the wall, the two forms appeared to dance in unison as though there were some invisible creature behind him, as though they were in a fight, as if Geradi were struggling.

Jonas dropped the bladder in surprise and fear. He shouted his comrade’s name but he didn’t hear a voice come out of his throat. He couldn’t quite hear anything and the sounds around him had become muffled as though he were underwater. It was then it occurred to him to look behind him for similar shadows. How foolish of him not to consider that from the start!

The young sentry turns himself around. The movement felt like it took an eternity. His eyes opened wide as he watched a massive shadow around his own just as he witnessed moments ago. The claws of this massive creature looked capable of tearing meat, and so it came to no surprised to him when they did.

White searing pain blinded Jonas as he could feel countless punctures tearing into his flesh. The pulsing feel of blood vessels popping inside muscle and sinew, the sound of meat ripping from a butcher’s hook reminded him of the market place he had been standing. He looked down to realize that he was no longer standing at all and it felt as though he were being held. Held and torn apart.

Jonas wanted to scream for the attention of the other guards but there was no sound. His body had become paralyzed and he had begun gasping for air. He rolled his eyes up toward the nearest tower and watched a fellow sentry lazily walk back and forth inside. He could think of one word: Helpless.

Tears ran down his face as he listened to his joints popping out of socket. He could feel his blood warming his skin, soaking his tunic. He wanted it all to end already but time seemed to stop for him. Again he attempted to shout but was met with the same conclusion. He was helpless and could only hope for someone to notice him hanging, bleeding, and becoming disassembled in levitation. He had turned his back to look at his shadow and could no better look over his shoulder to see if Geradi was sharing the same fate. He suspected he was, but thinking became fragmented between sessions of pain making it all very pointless.

A tower guard yawned and gazed out into the distance of jungle, forest, fields and farmlands. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He turned around to look down at the courtyard. It took him a moment to realize what he was witnessing. The sentry had to look twice just to be sure.

From his perspective he could see two sentries twitching and convulsing in the fire light. Pools of blood glinting from the sparkling torches accumulated under their levitating feet. He turned his attention toward the guard tower adjacent and opposite to him from the gate. He saw no one standing in guard. He stood straight up and had attempted to escape and to find help.

The tower guard made two steps toward the center of the tower and toward the hatchway to the ladder before falling to his knees to a burning pain against his throat. He held his neck with both hands and looked down at his body and the floor. A pool of blood had already formed. It was his blood. He knew it was his blood. It was a lot of his blood. As quick as he realized it, he fell against the floor of the tower drifting off to sleep and to his death.

Then there was silence.

The gear system that lifted the east gate began to move on its own. The sound of chains clanging against metal guide-loops interrupted the quiet. The churn of machinery echoed loudly into the city but it seemed it wasn’t enough to gather the attention of the interior guards.

It took no time for the beasts outside the wall to storm within the confinements of the city. The small impish creatures clawed at the wood and stone of the city. These small quick moving monsters were followed by heavier troll-like ferocities that stood twice the height of a man. Store fronts were torn apart and swiped away like a relentless hurricane storming through the city. The terrible crashing noises of metal, wood, and the screams of mortals found in their way flooded the night. Heckle of hyenas and the roar of lions teased the city daring it to awaken and fight back the scourge.

Final War - Coliseum

This place was once crowded with tourists from around the world. The kingdom of concrete and steel enveloped the landscape with a sense of awe and man-made miracles. The civil engineering would be historic but there is no one to write that history down. Not anymore. The day the world went away was the day all of that no longer mattered. It was the day that would run deep in what was left of our morality. The scars that would not heal, the blood that was never spilled, the chaos that caused the silence, the day everything just stopped.

This coliseum was once filled with thousands of screaming fans roaring for violence. Armored men dashed back and forth on this playing field, smashing into one another to score what the game called touch-downs. The iron goal posts no longer stand high. Along with most of the construction, the iron became twisted like left-over spaghetti, all dried, gnarled, and hard. There was no longer the smell of freshly cut grass in the field, the emerald green replaced with black ash, crusted mud and the stains of blood. The carcass of a giraffe lounged half eaten by crows near the 40 yard-line, the aroma of melting flesh in the noon high sun drifted downwind for a touch-down.

A lifetime ago I was one of those men. My number was 37, I was a linebacker. I used to live well, rolling high at the casinos and drinking heavily at the clubs. I had women flocking around me. I was a king, the city was my village, and the fans were my followers. Now everyone I knew are scattered in the wind and sea. Ashes are all that remain of them. Everything was so quiet now. I’m a stranger to those that survived. My title, the game I played, the popularity, the money, the power. It was all gone. I became a victim like everyone else. As if this were a reset to things that went terribly wrong.

For all that we could have done and all that could have been, this is where it ends. I should be thankful I was alive but I’m not. Why could I not have died along with the rest of humanity? What plans are meant for me? I’m not a spiritual man but this has had me thinking. What does God have in store for me? Was I simply forgotten?

“Jeremiah!” Nate said out loud as he walked into the stadium from a dark tunnel filled with garbage.

I turned around to look at the unshaven man. He wore a white button up shirt, what used to be a name brand now resembled a rag rather than some stylish fashion trend. His hair was unwashed and dripping with oil. The split ends of his bangs tucked neatly behind his ears.

“I found the trail. We have to continue moving north. A local farmer pointed to the pilgrims heading to Washington. He told me the pilgrims heard a recording over the radio. Bolling Air Force Base I think,” Nate announced to me before he dropped to his knees and began to cough.

I rushed to his side after he puked what looked to be chunks of blood and food, “So we keep going north?” I asked him. I didn’t know why we were following these pilgrims anyway.

We had lost their trail sometime ago and after wandering the jungle of overgrown weeds and relics of ruined houses from a time before this. Nate was certain that there was a reason for this entire insane plot and that these pilgrims were a key to finding out the answers. He never told me where he found out about them.

I didn’t have any reason not to follow him. After all, what was there more to do? Society had crumbled and it’s hard to find people that weren’t out to protect themselves. Nate wasn’t one of those men and I think he needed me as much as I needed him right now.

I kneeled by his side and placed my hand on his shoulder, “Nate! Bro, are you alright?” I asked him sincerely as he shook his head. He wiped his mouth clean of the warm blood. He looked at me with blackened eyes sunken deep in his skull. Food was scarce in this new world and the radiation poisoning took its toll on all of us. We had no choice but to keep moving. There was nothing else to do now.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” He gurgled before spitting up more phlegm, “Lets pack our shit and keep moving. It’s still a distance from D.C.”

I helped him up and wrapped his arm around my neck and shoulder. I carried him partially. His body was weak and powerless. I feared he wouldn’t make the trip on foot in this wasteland. Washington was still days away, that was walking at a good steady pace. Motorized vehicles no longer function, fuel was scarce to come by. Horses and other cattle were all taken by vagabonds and sold at a price we couldn’t afford. Clean food and antibiotics sold the highest in this new black market.

“C’mon Nate, let’s pack camp.” I said with as much reassurance as I could muster. It seemed to me that Nate truly felt a connection with these pilgrims. He said they were “The Forgotten” whatever that means. Sounded more like a cult in this faithless new realm.

Convict

There is too much confusion here, so many things and so many people. The walls are closing in on me and the world has made itself a little larger without me. I am trapped in this shackle, this shell of a man; behind these bars I watch new fashions replace old trends. I see the world turning and the sun rising and the moon falling.

Each night is like the last, each tomorrow is like today. The things I thought once were important I have now lost interest in. The things I thought were less than important have now become the things that inspire me most.

I once thought that the world revolved around me and that I was the light shining down on a cruel harsh reality. I was parting the dark clouds over the horizon or the hand of God himself giving back to those less fortunate than myself. I was here to serve the will of mankind. I was here to serve a greater purpose.

I was wrong for thinking this way and only after I lost everything was I able to understand that I was nothing important to anyone or anything. The world still moved on while I stared out from behind iron bars. The birds continued to sing their melody and the clouds still parted to let sunlight through without my assistance. Miracles were still being performed and I had no part in any of it.

Quietly I loathed at this and it took me time to consider my faults, my fallacies, and my misguided intentions to judge and be judged. Sitting here in my concrete castle of barbed wire and steel I stood vigilant. I watched as the primates around me ran the asylum, those in control did so only because the inmates allowed them to.

I got into a routine, I kept to myself and I received a reputation of being some zealous mad man. I quickly found a group of men that were also of my same kin. Without them, I would have been torn asunder like a rag doll. Like Jesus himself walking down the alleys of Jerusalem during his last days, so was I walking this fateful line.

I considered the fact that I was not Jesus, I wasn’t even a man. I was treated as an animal. Some nameless face, my name replaced with a number. I was inmate 164325. I even considered my number, the sum of each couple was a seven. Ironic, I thought to myself. It confused me at first but it had to have been coincidental.

Somewhere in this perfect tragedy there was a sense of purpose. I could not save anyone outside the walls of my castle, but I could manage to bring my ideas to the convicts within it. These men would become my disciples. It was only after I succeeded in inspiring these men that I realized that I was not the man I thought I was. There was something more, there was something much darker. I was somewhere between Earth and Hell. A liaison to the devil himself…

Change - ch. 7

The interior of the space station was flaring with red flashing lights and the sound of boots pounding on the catwalks hanging dangerously over open wires and circuit boards. The crew was mustering to their positions preparing for the worst, not knowing what to do next, awaiting their orders from their commander.

“Colonel, we’ve lost contact with Mariner Bravo!” Wallace roared over his shoulder.

Baker looks to the technical sergeant and points his finger to him in frustration and yells over the emergency sirens, “Well, God damn it! Get them back!”

With his other hand, Baker grabs the microphone and presses the intercom button. A robotic click is heard followed by a horn to give his announcement. The sirens became quiet as his voice, like god, blasted over the entire station and to his subordinates.

“We have lost contact with Mariner Bravo. Weather conditions on the planet have made communications impossible. Scramble Mariner Charlie for immediate departure. Extraction and evaluation of Mariner Bravo’s condition is critical. Make it happen! Out!”

The crew was wary and tired. Susan Langley heard the order and turned her attention to another crewman. Susan was a military civilian working in coordination with the Department of Defense on this mission. Her job was to evaluate and assist the crew in asserting possible extraterrestrial or otherwise peculiar abnormalities during the mission. This constituted an anomaly from her perspective.

Sarah looks over to crew member beside her and asks him in cynicism, “You’ve got to be kidding me! We can’t dispatch a second vehicle with what crew is left!”

The crewmember didn’t reply. He was given his order.

“This is bullshit!” She threw down a pencil that was in her hand for no reason. She storms out of the cramped work station and down the maze of corridors to get answers from the Commander’s station.

Wallace was sweating, pressing buttons and flicking switches attempting to change frequencies on the off chance the Mariner Bravo scout party’s radio shifted their channels. He was welcomed by static and feedback loops from space.

“It’s no use sir, all channels are down!”

The colonel looks over to the radio frequencies and notices the same. He looks to a video monitor where the robot camera feed was coming through. The dust and wind on the planet had made it impossible to see anything but flying grey specks.

“Move the camera and see if the vehicle is still in the area.” He demanded.

Wallace did what he could but there was nothing to be seen from the Mar’s canyon. Another fruitless effort it seemed.

“Damn it!” Baker yelled.

A door slams closed and Sarah marches towards the Colonel not at all pleased by the order he had given, “Tell me what exactly you’re thinking sir! We can’t send down another crew on the surface now, who the hell would man the station?”

“Ma’am, the station is automated and I have men on the surface that require immediate extraction. I leave no man behind.”

“Even if that means your extraction may compromise the integrity of the station’s mission Colonel?”

“The station will be fine, this is a simple extraction mission at base camp on the surface.”

“Sir, you realize that the situation on the surface? Hurricane winds and debris may hinder your operation!”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, this is my call. Feel free to write your report as you deem necessary. We’re millions of miles from any beurorat right now. Stay in your lane Sarah and let me do mine!”

Wallace tried not to be part of this argument, still trying to shift channels and frequencies.

“Sergeant, escort her off my bridge!” Baker orders to Wallace.

He stands up and leaves his post and puts himself between her and his commander, “Ma’am, please leave the bridge immediately.”

She hesitated and tried to look over Wallace’s shoulders to the commander and like a reporter, she would not leave easily. Being pushed out she continued to ask and demand questions and responsibility for the station. Her face flustered red with anger.


On the surface of Mars the weather picked up a violent surge. The wind howled like a hungry wolf and debris slammed against the haul of the rover as it tried to escape the raging torrent of a Mariner sand storm.

The vehicle slams into a deep trench, Its nose digs into the soft soil. A boulder hits the rear of the armored tank and slams the exposed under carriage of the vehicle and jolts the crew inside.

A crewman inside flies from his seat and instantly crashes on the roof of the interior of the vehicle as the boulder collided with the bottom of the tank. Chapel braces for the impact and slams face first on a monitor that was hanging on from a stand on the side of the computer module. A third member is flung about like a rag doll, still buckled in his seat that was torn from bolts on the ground near the impact area. Him, the chair, all the items not bolted down bounced inside the small cavity like a pinball in racking points for the highest score.

Chapel shakes his head as he tries to gain his senses. Blood pouring down the side of his head he holds his arm in sheer pain. He groans to his crewmembers, “Jamison! Sampson!”

Chapel’s only response was the ominous howling wind and the creaking of metal as the boulders continued to pound on the outside by the hurricane.

Sampson releases an agonizing moan. He was still buckled in the chair which now hung like an ornament on a Christmas tree. A long metal rod stuck out from his chest. He spat blood and released a weak yell to his Lieutenant.

Chapel hears the pain and crawls over to him the best he could in the awkward walk way of what was left of his craft.

“Sampson!” Chapels made his way near him and saw that his soldier was hanging from the wall or was it the floor, it was hard to say in his state of mind.

“Stay with me Sampson, we’ll make it through this.”

Chapel touched Sampson’s face his skin cold and clammy. His sweat was ice cold and when he spoke blood dribbled down his chin. With his eyes trying not to roll into the back of his skull he replies, “Sir…” To the end, he was a trooper.

Sampson looks to Chapel and whispers a final request. He knew he was dying and they were so far from home, “Tell my fiance’ that I love her…”

“Don’t waste your strength. We’ll be back aboard the ship soon. Colonel Baker is sending help.” Fool’s words for a moment of desperation, but it was all the Lieutenant could do for him now.

A buzzer begins to go off and a mechanical female voice announces to the beaten crew that there was a breech in the haul and that life support was failing. Chapel could hear the whistle of his oxygen escaping from his tank.

Change - ch. 6

“Scavenger Alpha has descended. Making its way towards the target…” The frequency cuts out into gibberish and static. “Is that a good copy, over?”

The surface of Mars is a desolate terrain of cracked mud rocks and powdered rust. Within the red walls of the cavern there lay inside that strange metallic object. Certainly it wasn’t from this world or any world known to man. The Mariner Rover kept distance as the captain ordered and watched in silence as the little box was shot from space.

The box burned brilliantly in what little atmosphere the planet had before smashing into the surface. Even as the parachutes fell on top of the metallic box, labeled with the property of the United States, the enormous cube was quite the sight. The box took quite the beating as it rolled and smashed onto the surface before the impact balloons expanded and rolled the object up right.

The parachutes draped and twisted around the top of the crate and remained as silent as a metallic box could in the growing winds and debris slashing at its walls. It remained unmoving and still for what could have minutes before one side of the box opened up and dropped down like a ramp for loading cars on to the back of a big rig truck. The dimensions of the box were the normal military issued ‘quad con.’ Measuring the side of a small room in a cheap apartment, the box held within it a billion dollar piece of machinery.

The machine rolled out of the crate like some mechanical contraption from any 1960s science fiction. It rolled on a modulated tri-wheel track capable of flipping over even the harshest terrain and it wielded two powerful two-fingered claws that were able to pick up the finest and most delicate material available on Earth. The body of the robot was thin with bulking wires wrapping around what most would consider a spine. Its head was a square block with two massive red glowing eyes for sight followed by two additional cameras that constantly moved about. All of these visuals could be seen from the space station casually drifting above the scout party.
“Scavenger Bravo, that’s a good copy. Atmosphere radiation is interrupting signal. Expect delay in response time. Current time is thirteen fifty-six Zulu, package arrived at thirteen fifty-one Zulu. Do you confirm delivery, over?” Colonel Baker was lounging in his chair and leaned over to look through the small port hole and overviewed the roundness of the red planet below him.

The radio responded minutes after Baker’s response and he heard Lieutenant Chapel’s screaming clear enough to recognize the voice in the speaker. The winds picked up in the response made it difficult to understand his word and the Colonel could hear the small over shaking sounds of rock violently hitting the rover from the massive winds coming their direction.

“This is Scavenger Bravo, we confirm drop and it proceeds to target. Heavy winds in the area will make for difficult movement back to base, over.”

The robot was controlled by Sergeant Wallace near the Captain’s chair. His seat was far from completed. It was a make-shift gnarled wire frame with a torn pillow for the base. It creaked and rattled every time the station made an orbital adjustment. He hadn't grown used to it over the month of his time here, after all he had been working down in the cargo hold for most of his time. Wallace looks over to his commander and shakes his head with disagreement. He wasn’t pleased at all.

The robot on the surface attempted to move to the target inspected by the scout party before it, but it moved in slow periodic movements. It crept several feet forward and stopped. It moved several more feet forward and stopped. This was what the scout party noticed as a large chunk of something crashed against the side of their rover rattling the crew within.

“We can’t stay here much longer Sir, winds are picking up, danger imminent.”

Sergeant Wallace turns his attention to his commander and speaks bluntly, “Sir, this robot isn’t responding to controls. Something on the surface is interrupting the transmission. I suspect it’s the Mariner winds.”

The commander looks to Wallace and frowns. He nods his head and grabs the microphone from his desk and presses the button down, “Understood Scavenger, make your way back to base as soon as possible. Mission scrubbed, over.”

Lieutenant Chapel yelled at the top of his lungs from the cabin of the rover to his crew barely heard over the shattering torrents of wind outside, “I’ve been ordered to scrub the mission, prepare for immediate evacuation from the site!”

The two crew members were far from hesitant to react to the order and immediately began to move the rover around to move out of the chasm that they were in. The robot was left ignored and they all expected it was controlled by the experienced professional on the station in the heavens.

One of the crew members in the rover yelled back, “Moving out now!”

The rover was a massive machine the size of a small tank. It was armored to resist the impact of a nuclear explosion. The design was Russian and even though the armor was expensive it was insisted by several other governments in NATO. The tank moved slowly through the treacherous debris and was struck several times by boulders the size of small cars. The crew inside shook around like marionette dolls, but they held their resolve. Their only focus was to survive this growing storm they had found themselves in.

The robot moved inches and finally stopped at near the haul of the abandoned wreckage. The cameras had already been destroyed by the flying debris and Wallace was driving the machine blindly. There was a single camera left from the impact of the storm, a fail-safe system demanded by the Chinese. The camera recorded only in black and white and the resolution was terrible but at least the machine was still operational.

The grey and black images were spattered with speckles of grey and white flying by at incredible speeds when Wallace reviewed the footage nearly a minute after what the robot had seen. He looks to the Colonel and says, “I can’t see shit in this storm Sir… I don’t think this robot will survive this weather!”

Frustrated and blind, Wallace tries to drive the billion dollar machine out of harms way. This was his opportunity to show his captain what he was capable of doing. The brightest and most well equipped in the world. This was why Wallace was selected for the mission. This was more than just a simple operation to the sergeant, it was a test of mettle.

Colonel Baker looks back to Wallace, “Try and salvage what you can!” He looks over his shoulder and notices the rest of the crew wasn’t there. He turns on the intercom within the station and demands all hands on deck.

Wallace maneuvers the robot near the side of the wall and the lee side of the unknown object. Here the robot had the best chances of survival. Wallace continues to review the dark mass of spatter on his screen and can’t tell where the ship was or what the debris from the wind. The movement was erratic and from time to time the images from the camera jolted as the robot was struck or moved by the wind.

“All hands on deck! This is not a drill!” Baker spoke and his voice echoed heavily and loudly throughout the station, “All hands on deck!”

Suburbia - ch. 6-7

Ch. 6

Thieves sneaking around in broad daylight and trying to hide behind shrubs near the sides of someone's house should be an indicator that something going to happen. A neighbor was outside watering his yard wearing a stained white t-shirt and boxers along with knee high black socks and slippers. He was tall and too slender for his height while his head marked a perfect beacon to airplanes when the sun reflected off his scalp.

He swings the hose around, rainbow colors of water drops misting out around his lush flamingo garden, he notices the thieves at Jimmy's parents' house. Steward was the flamingo care-taker's name but the rest of the neighborhood called him stupid. He was adept at watering and caring for his lawn which had won the annual neighborhood beautification award for the past three years. He hung the medals on the window overlooking the road.

He waves over to the boys sneaking about, "Howdy there!"

A distant sound bellows to the thieves' direction like some exotic avian mating call. One boy had unplugged the bottom of the basketball goal, water draining down the driveway and into the street very conspicuously as the mating tune rung in his ears.

"Dude someone spotted us Roger!" Don whispered loudly to himself as he looks over either shoulder. His accomplice was no where to be seen. Maybe he was attempting to break in through the back door. Maybe he was a chicken-shit that ran before the job was done.

A twig of a man, pale as the moon and as hairy as a beast was waving gingerly at Don. Of course this suburban little paradise would never experience any break-in or other criminal mischief.

This was Brownwood after all!

When you go to a public area and bump into someone that looks up at you then smiles and begins to start conversation, often it is polite to return the conversation until a decisive moment to escape. Sometimes two complete strangers meet and someone says that they knew them from high school or at some other convention. Sometimes the recipient of the comment lies and nods his head saying that yes perhaps they had met. This is often also called being polite.
This was exactly what Don had done. He stood up in the drive way and waved back to Steward with a ginger smile. A loud pound followed by a crack erupts the awkward moment and the criminal goes to check on Roger who by now was either halfway to his car or extending his criminal record.

"Those are some nice boys they have!" Steward says to himself and smiles, shaking his head and returning to watering his garden of grass.

He leaped and bounded over bushes and slammed his boots into a thick puddle of mud. He dashed past the corner of the brick home in the green alley between the house and the fence. Don couldn't help but remind himself of Rambo while charging into the dangerous unknown of Jimmy's backyard and Roger's criminal mischief.

Glass sparkled brightly on the concrete patio in the backyard and the screen was torn asunder with manic glee. Don's eyes bulge from his face and his mouth gapes open like a snake trying to swallow a rodent three times its size. He tried so hard to emit words from his throat but they merely came out as audible chirps and whistles of partial syllables.

Standing there staring at the living room was as traumatizing as the first glance at what the police like to consider 'breaking and entering.' Shards of thick glass laid on the red carpet along with wiry shreds of what used to keep the bugs and vermin out of the house of windy days. The wire didn't withstand rats the size of Roger. The screen wasn't insured for that sort of treatment.
Roger pops out from no where and cracks a huge shard of glass with his tennis shoe, "His parents are freaks!" He laughed out loud. The curiosity had sunk in for Roger and he was far too excited to realize how loud the breaking glass must have been to the rest of the world.

"We need to get the hell out of here man!" Don demanded that Roger stop playing around.

"It'll be okay, bro. No one knows we're here!"

"I think you missed the part where you shattered a door made of glass you fucking moron!"

"Was it loud?"

"Yes!"

"How loud?"

"Very loud!"

"That loud?"

"YES!"

Roger looks over his shoulder and grabs something that looked important. A purple elephant with a crystal held high by the statue's trunk. In reality, this didn't cost more than a dollar at the thrift store.

"I guess we should probably go then?" Roger said while tucking the elephant in his shirt."
"YES!" Don didn't know what else to say. His face was as red as a baker's furnace and his clenched fists were ready to pummel someone like a champion ultimate fighter.

"Get your panties out of a wad…" Roger replies after seeing the fury in his accomplice's eyes, "We still have to load up that basketball goal."

Flamingos seemed to stare at the two boys as they snuck around the side of the house from the backyard. After performing something that is immoral or down right wrong there is often a feeling of dread or paranoia. No one ever raises their hand saying they did it. Even some prisoners serving double life sentences for triple homicide say they didn't do anything. They were framed. They were innocent.

Rome is known for the fine architecture of ancient Greek statues and the astonishing waterfalls and aqua-ducts. Steward may very well be made from granite and marble as the boys exposed themselves to the front yard on their way to the drive way and the truck. The lanky white gardener held the green hose at his hip and the gush of water spewing out from his nozzle looked more excited to be held than not. The dull canvas Mona Lisa staring expression on Steward's face should be a Kodak moment. He watched the boys for a long hard minute trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Don was an idiot. Last season he had single handedly saved his team from an embarrassing defeat when he scored a touch down in the last quarter followed by an interception and an additional touch down in the final minutes to win his season. The all-star player didn't even know what the score was throughout the game. He was ordered to run. That was all Don did. That's all

Don was good at. Don no care cuz don dad rich.

He waves at Steward with a cheerful disposition. Not only does he reveal his face but exposes other attributes so often asked by the police. He is a six feet and two inches tall with blue eyes, and black hair. The stranger was roughly two hundred pounds. Mostly muscle. This was Don and he drove a vintage truck, white. That is what Steward would tell the cops if they came over asking, that was if anyone called the police on the kids. No one had reason to steal in Brownwood after all. The Beaver would envy this little commune of good faith.

Steward quirks his lip into a faint and dubious grin and waves back to the kids. His long green hose flapping mindlessly about as a breeze picks up. A rainbow shimmers from the water mist uplifted by the wind. The green grass beats happily as the water pellets tickle their blades eager for more of what the gardener had to offer. Suburbia could not be more gay and full of Zen.

Ch. 7

"Help me with this damned thing!" Roger whispers in a roar to Don.

Don was already attempting to open his truck and preparing for their escape while Roger struggled with the heavy load. Sweat beading off his brow he looks over his shoulder to the driver of the truck sitting there turning the engine.

The basketball goal was more cumbersome than it was heavy. It stood eight feet tall and weighed a hundred or so pounds at the base. The plexi-glass board behind the rim had a white silhouette of Michael Jordon slamming a dunk. The goal seemed brand new. Of course it would, Jimmy wasn't the sporty type. Besides, his mother hated the idea of allowing her child to participate in sports. Jimmy's health was far too important to her and to bear the thought of injury. Her little Jimmy would never do something so barbaric.

Instead, the boy became a mock of ridicule and dislike. He was weak and lacked any self-esteem because of his sheltered life. His father wasn't much of a father when it came to teaching him how to be a man and to stand up for what he believed in. His mother was just a paranoid lawyer. They both worked long hours most of the time and Jimmy's best friend was the television. This was the life of little Jimmy, his escape was channel 13 between commercials between the hours of five and six.

He could have gone outside and played with his basketball goal if only his mother allowed him to have a basketball. Mom would not hear any of it and refused to allow him the opportunity. Even as society began to stress the importance of living active lives, Jimmy was not allowed to be part of this cast. Jimmy was destined to sit and vegetate.

"Why do we even keep that out there?" She asked Jimmy's father.

He was sipping coffee and reading the daily newspaper that was thrown exactly at seven each morning. He puts the steaming mug down and then looks to her as she slips a plastic wrapped sandwich in a paper bag.

"Maybe one day you'll let him actually be a boy dear." He was so subservient to her, they both knew who wore the pants in the house. They both knew who paid the bills and kept food on their plates. It certainly wasn't him.

"I want you to get rid of it." She demanded as she rolled the top of the paper bag down crunching a bag of chips within.

"Honey, it was a gift to Jimmy. You know how much he cares about it." He says while turning a page. He continues, "You should really let him use it. It's sentimental for him. You know how important it is for the boy."

She huffs like an ogre hungry for mortal blood and turns around to another room.

Jimmy comes downstairs as he does every morning. His feet stomp on each flank as loud as the last and dad reminds him that grandmother is in the other room sleeping. Jimmy's breakfast was already on the table for him. This was just another morning. This was just the same routine as before. This was their life.