Perspective

This piece is a bit more concept driven then my recent entries.

He walks from east to west, following the fiery conductor in the sky, the one who promised him an answer. Every night he sleeps in alleyways, on suburban sidewalks, and under trees. Then each morning he walks as before. Food is found when needed in dumpsters, from strangers both friendly and not so. Every day his actions only change on a superficial level. His actions are always meant to prolong survival only so his goal can be reached. Through dense cities and the forested nowhere he walks in search of his destination. Others have approached him and asked, “Where are you going in such a hurry?” To this he responds, “To the end of the world of course.” Confused the others continue, “But why and how?” He answers back, “When I reach the end, the cliff with nothing after, I’ll jump. How is unimportant, but I will.” Knowing the conversation will go no further, the others usually walk away confused, but already once again engrossed in their own problems. So, as before he walks, from east to west, in search of the end, always alone because nobody else has ever shown interest in the same end. Nobody else has the same desire because his goal is his own, just as each other has their own. For he only walks from east to west in his own mind. When compared to the others he sees himself as natural, east to west. But to others he strays north, he strays south, and to others still he does not move at all. And each other, in their own mind, in reference to each individual other is walking from east to west in natural harmony; from right to left in search for their own end.

The Service

He woke up early Saturday as both alarms set the previous night screamed their morning shriek. Knowing his mind would be less then functional after such a negligible amount of sleep, all of the morning steps had been prepared. Breakfast was arranged, coffee was ready to be made with the push of a little blue button, and the clothes for the day were thrown over the chair near next to the closet. An obligation set this early would usually be ignored, but this particular gathering held a good bit of importance in his mind. Mechanically, he made his way through the pre-set motions. Eating, drinking, showering. The finishing touch to the set of preparations was the clothing. Brown shoes capped off a pair of ironed khaki slacks. Atop this was placed a collared black shirt and dark tie which stuck out through the folds of a knee length raincoat. With his tie straightened and shirt tucked in he walked out the door. “It’s never good when I dress like this.”

Turning into the church about fifteen minutes before the designated time, the parking lot was still rather sparse. Once the car was situated in one of the first open parking spots, he sat staring at the old discolored steering wheel before him. After almost deciding to leave and abandon the whole situation, he opened the car door and planted his left foot into the slushy mess which covered sections of the pavement. While walking towards the entrance, a few others passed, none of them known. The crowd was larger then expected when he first entered the main doorway. As soon as he walked in, as he waited to sign his unknown name into the registry, he noticed what he assumed was the mother. She was standing at the entrance of the main room, eyes red, with her remaining son standing next to her blank faced. He had never actually met Luke’s parents. They had been friends in school, him and Luke, but he had been private that way. Luke didn’t like inviting people to his house. He never really knew why. The line of people in front was slowly walking past a display meant to honor. A television repeated a slide show of images, showing scenes from early childhood to early adulthood. He watched the screen for some time, his eyes constantly looking at the floor, and eventually making their way to her, standing there, wiping her red eyes. Following this was a large array of images. Pictures from every scenario imaginable and in the center Luke’s face looked out at the crowd. He had dealt with the news reasonably, but for some reason he couldn’t look at Luke’s face. The eyes in the images were what made his necktie too tight, his clothing too warm. Luke’s eyes were what agitated his own. And all the while his eyes constantly found their way to the floor, and to the woman standing across the room. The woman he was slowly making his way towards. As he reached the end of the display he slowed and pretended to look intently at the pictures in front of him, allowing others to keep moving ahead. Soon he had to move, and slowly he made his was with the rest towards the doorway into the chapel, past the woman. Within a few steps it was his turn to talk, his turn to say something. From his blank mind came, “You don’t know me, but I knew Luke.” He stood there looking at her face, and she said nothing in response. Instead she leaned forward, put her arms around his torso and hugged him. This physical contact was the catalyst. Seeing the face which had known nothing but grief for eight days followed by a simple act of comfort caused a shining wetness to form in his eyes. When the brief contact ended, he bit his lip and made his way to a seat near the back. He didn’t pay attention to much of the service. This time was spent lost in his own thoughts, with an occasional tear sliding from his now red eyes.

Break

The blue mist continually swirls around my body, flowing from the source in my palm. The smoke from the fire I have the power to control. I hold the burning embers to my face, allowing the stinging blue into my nose as it makes its way skyward. Shards are carefully picked off from the core and thrown to the ground by the cold evening wind. Shards of pure white heat freed from their slow torture. The wind makes the heart glow. It makes the center of the flame shine a bright orange and urges it along as it feeds on the rations provided. My eyes are then drawn to the others; the one’s standing around me. People, each one with the same power I have, each with their own similar flames in hand. One brings the flame close to his face towards his lips, dry from the winter weather. He breaths deep, drawing the force of the flame inside himself. He allows the painful blue smoke into his body, closes his eyes, and slowly releases the mist which finds itself merging with the blowing wind. It is at this time I take my own fire and draw it close. Doing as the fellow before me, I kiss the flame and breathe in the blue mist. I allow it to wind its way into my lounges, flowing freely in a mass of stinging potency. My throat newly scratched and ground by the moving heat craves water but is only greeted by the winter air which follows. And as quickly as it entered, I breathe out, releasing the smoldering blue heat now somehow different; different then before. Part of my inner sides leave in the swirling mass now dissipating in the dry moving air. With this last puff I throw my cigarette to the ground and proceed on my way.

Internal Dialogue

The more I read the next piece, the more I don't like it. I think it comes off as being somewhat pretentious, and the dialogue doesn't fit as well as I wanted it to. Anyway, here it is.

In the late afternoon of an average summer day, two figures walked. These two figures, outlines against the sky, made their way to the rocky edge of a cliff overlooking a pristine body of water; a lake with no turbulence or activity, a perfectly still glass surface. When the two finally reached the edge, a slight breeze wound itself between the now motionless figures. With the winds first contact, the right figures mouth began to move.

“Our political leaders are no longer voices of the many, concentrated into a single throat. Never-ending wars are waged in countries for personal gain. We claim to help, and yes we give, but our gifts bring no comfort. Soldiers die, civilians die, humans die as storms of metal blast through shields of flesh. We must bring change.”

By this time the wind was no longer present, and in this stillness clouds crept on the horizon. With the change going unnoticed, the mouth kept moving, while the other figure remained silent.

“We must bring change. But how can the right candidate be chosen with only two political parties? Such a binary solution to everything, conservative and liberal, left and right, right and wrong, you must belong to one. We see black and white when only grey exists. But more options would not change the control media has on the result. They choose who to cover, what to talk about, they choose whether to cover Brittany or Bush. We watch, and we listen.”

The clouds were now overhead. The sun no longer visible, a slight crack of thunder made its presence known in the distance. At this time, the left figures eyes made their way to the water below, its mouth still mute. The words kept coming.

“We watch and we listen. We do not wake up every morning to constant gunfire. We have no fear of exploding cars and pedestrians with AK’s as we get the morning paper, grumbling about the weather. We don’t fear the starvation of our children. We don’t have to worry about these things, yet we are not grateful. Appreciation for the constant supply of everyday needs is nowhere to be found. We have bad days while countries die.”

A slight drizzle began, as the light from the day was quickly fading. The wind, having picked up again, now whipped around the figures. Slowly, ever so slowly, a storm was constructing itself. The water below displayed no sign of movement as lightning flashed and newly wetted lips continued.

“We have bad days while countries die. We allow our rulers to take whatever actions will raise their revenue. Shirts are bought as children sweat. Diamonds are given in sync with a man’s dying groan. Every day we support the degradation of our fellow humans simply because we cannot see them. And even if one knows this, there is no response.”

By this time the rain became a downfall of torrential stature. All light from the day was gone, as the wind whipped the grass below the two figures feet. There was a constant swirling around the two, a constant attack from the outside towards the in. Rain. Wind. Thunder. Lightning. The sound continued.

“And even if one knows this, there is no response. No bad taste forms in the mouth; no possible regret for this action, the only response we know is lethargy. Our comfort is never threatened; we are never put into danger. Or even worse, one may feign compassion. There are those who acknowledge the situations and pout, if only to make themselves feel less sadistic. Self, self, a thousand times self.”

All vision was now gone. The storm reached its peak as the two figures still stood on the cliff, overlooking the lake. Within the din of the storm, with all senses obstructed, the second figure prepared a response. With a quick step, and a leap, the second figure cheered as it jumped off the ledge and dove down into the still motionless water below.

Breakfast

This one's a bit short, but it's still very new.

In the distance I can hear a bubbling. The sound of water heating, mixed with the steam which is making its way through the nearby door are signs that the concoction is complete. I can hear them inside, pouring the mixture into the designated containers, each destined to find its way to the assigned participant. The workers come out in waves carrying the liquid, dressed in identical uniforms. White on black, no color, that’s against regulation. And then it arrives. The first thing I notice is the smell. It has a surprisingly enjoyable smell, almost welcoming. This feeling is soon lost. Once it is laid before me, I can see its color; a solid, deep black through which nothing can be seen. Looking back I can see my reflection on the surface and next to this sits the mirrored face of the one who delivered the substance. She’s waiting to make sure I do it. She’s waiting to make sure I do what I agreed to do. At this time the ceramic basin is brought to my face. I can feel the heat pouring off of the liquid, covering my face in a wave of steam. It is then brought to my lips, and very slowly poured down my throat. The initial sensation is that of a stinging burn, a wave of heat which envelops my entire tongue. I’m lucky because this initial burn quickly makes my taste buds numb to the harsh bitter flavor it gives off. This burning then makes its way through my body into my stomach where it becomes a boiling addition to my acidic insides. After being given a moments rest following this initial exposure, the cup is once again brought to my mouth, the black substance a little less hot. It’s not as bad this time around. The server then leans down and tells me, “Careful now, the coffees fresh.”

So I guess I should actually start this thing. I'm not actually going to write my personal reactions concerning any specific topic; rather I'm going to post bits of writing. Each post will be the beginning of a short story, idea, or some kind of similar creative writing, with each piece hopefully being around one to two pages. My goal is to get feedback on the various pieces. And hopefully, along with this feedback you'll give me recommendations for change. The topics for each entry will be varied, some will be more abstract then others, but for each post I'm just looking for what you people like and dislike.