Choosing Between Worse and Worse

A stomachache or an ache to the head? Which would you chose? Ah, it doesn't matter what you choose because I'd take them both for you and you'll never have to pick, because, honey, dinner's on me, and it's only fair I spare you any trouble. You're my guest, after all. Oh, don't look at me like that, darling, of course I'm sure. Ha ha! I'll be fine! You're only ever so delicate and soft, and you're in a military uniform, heck, who in the world like that can handle the menu? Ha ha! Don't make fun of me! Why, dearest, why would you want to leave? You're my prisoner, after all, in this mansion. You can't leave. I need you to bring the dogs home for me, you're the only one who's good at it, and I'm terrible with animals. Oh yes. Ha ha! Me, mad, no! But that aside, would you rather then have a heartbreak or a heartache? Oh really? You can't stomach that? Figures. I'd very much rather get the dogs in, and they can eat much more than you can. You're weak. It makes me wish you'd stop yelling at your mother at home. Huh? Yeah, yeah I've seen it all darling. She's old, and she loves you, but you hit her once or twice in the face because she told you not to go so and so with so and so. Figures, you're crazy. Ha ha! Oh no, no I'm not making fun of you! Quite the contrary. But now's not the time for that, your mother wished for me to teach you discipline, and you will learn those lessons. Penny, call the dogs in, we'll give him a taste of him own yellin', that's for sure. Brace yourself, it's gonna be loud. Whoo! Ha ha! Yes, yes I'm crazy, me! Sorry kiddo, but you should have picked the headache from the start, because then you wouldn't be in this mess.

Self-Control

We believe in keeping ourselves to ourselves
And our thoughts to ourselves
And our feelings to ourselves
And our love of ourselves and our hate to ourselves
And if we feel pain or spite
We keep ourselves to ourselves because we are soldiers
And soldiers never ever complain and cry and bawl
We don't have to
Honestly nobody cares and we don't care ourselves
It's a nice thing to be selfish, though it's a sin 
A sin and ten sins, but we are still soldiers
Mostly people cry for attention
so much so that you'd wish they'd shut up
It isn't right, and we will never be caught in that mistake
We believe in keeping ourselves to ourselves after all
Self control is almost non-existent in the digital world
The simple solution is to destroy it all 
Because we believe in keeping ourselves to ourselves, see?
Nah, they're blind.
Scormy, follow in there with your unit Son, we ain't got no time!

Miss, Sir

She stood near a soldier at the train station, and while they were waiting for the train, they talked. For one the station wasn't particularly busy, and there weren't too many people, and the train they were boarding in particular had a stop to her street, and a stop to his barracks. So they talked.
"Windy day, isn't it, madam?" he grasped the hem of his cap.
"Yes, sir, that it is." she held onto the edge of her sun hat.
"I like windy days. They're usually quiet and the bullets miss your cheek."
"Maybe. I like them too. It looks nice when leaves fall down the road. You like autumn, don't you sir?"
"That I do, madam, miss."
"Sir, mister, monsieur." she bowed.
"Ma'am, mademoiselle, miss." he bowed.
"Nice meeting you, man."
"Likewise, woman."
"Tsk tsk, that's miss to you."
"And that's sir to you, I serve your country."
"And I, sir, grow your food."
"Farmer's daughter, are you?"
"Mhm."
"Well," he said as the train approached, "Thank you for keeping us alive, miss."
"And thank you too for keeping us alive, sir."
They both boarded and left the station, while orange and red autumn leaves rustled in the wind, lonely at the platform.

Insane Buddies - Black and White

It was one lone chair and one lone man. Beams of sunlight gently dotted his cheeks and he blinked his dull brown eyes. Why can't you listen to me? I sat in the other chair, the one across from him, in the dark corner. Why can't you listen to me, I wanted to ask. But he never listened. Just the intense staring. Why can't you listen to me, and you can't even speak for yourself! You don't know, you have your little green blackboard up and your chalks up and your own life up there hanging on that ceiling, somewhere. What a crazy man, why can't you listen to me? I know what's best, and after all, I really do. You just tape things to the ceiling mindlessly and then smear them with fingerpaint. Like a child. Man, why don't you just listen to me? We both stood up. We had to keep our heads, and I started taping things to the ceiling too. I taped myself and my hair and my nose. The man taped himself up along next to me and we waited. Footsteps, but there was no door. They couldn't possibly barge in on us, we had no door and the floor was red and blue, gray and yellow and green with paint. He painted a sunflower and I painted a cop car with a siren. I painted a raven and he painted a robin. I painted a fire and he painted a heaven. I painted black guns and he painted the face of my depression. I painted a raincloud and he painted the shape of my sins forgiven. Right. I'd known that. Yet he never listened to me. His little green blackboard and chalks. His little paints and doors and windows. It made me laugh, maybe. It made me cry. The footsteps finally came and the door finally opened and they finally took him away from the asylum and I was left alone with myself and myself and myself. Maybe it made me laugh, and maybe, maybe it made me cry. They always took the bright ones away; and he never listened to me.

The Poisoning of the Memories

He cocked his head slightly towards the noise. It wasn't really far as he could tell, but he couldn't see anything, even though he tried to look over the masses of heads. The ringing of bells was always in the background, as was the drums and the beat-music, booming from every vendor's pushcart. And every cart was selling something different, and it was midnight, all the sights and smells in the carnival were enough to create hallucinations or make you sick at this time of night. "Darling," the woman at his elbow said, nuzzling into his forearm, "Darling what are you thinking about?"
Her husband hadn't heard. He was captured by the noise, trying to listen. It was getting fainter. He strained his ears. "Darling?" the woman looked up at him, "Is anything wrong?"
There was a tight frown on the man's face, and colors flashed all over his face because of the fire, the changing disco lights, the balloons, the dizzying hues...
"Honey?" She shook his arm.
"Yes?"
"Is anything wrong?"
"No... I'm..." He walked with her at his elbow to a gap between two circus tents. He peered into the darkness. The grass was blueish and faded into black as the colors blurred further away from the heat of the carnival. He debated with himself whether or not to go through the gap. It was off-limits, sure, but the sound? The sound was coming from through there, and if he did not catch up to it, it would disappear completely and he would never know why it captivated him so deeply. His heart cried, tears coating his ribs.
"I've heard this before," he said to his wife, almost sadly, "I'm sure I've heard it before somewhere, but I can't remember for the life of me."
The woman frowned. She twisted her long blonde hair with her left hand, while still hanging on to her partner with her right, red lipstick crooked. She scowled. "Oh honey, I'm sure it's nothing. It's probably just Kyle - look there he is!" she turned her husband's head towards the singer on the stage, singing some cheesy love song. The man shook his head. "No... it's, it's something else, I'm sure! It's through there," he pointed through the gap. "I need to go see it."
"You can't," said his wife, "Can't you read the no trespassing sign? The circus people said we can't go there. Hey, let's go get a coke or something, aren't you thirsty after all that walking?"
The man pulled his arm away from his wife and stepped into the gap, almost being squeezed by the tents because they were too close. There was a small dim blue light far into the darkness beyond the canvases, and the tents seemed to never end. But he had to get to that sound!
"Honey!" The woman exclaimed, "Get back here this minute! Right now!"
He was halfway there, going in sideways so the tents won't squeeze him, and he heard it. He heard a sentence, but he could not recall what it was the second after it faded from his ears. What was it that voice said? A small blue glowing tiger swiped at his face, going through it, and a small blue woman screamed, her robes ruffling in imaginary wind as she reached for her little blue son, who was snatched by another woman, but this one was yellow. The little yellow woman ran with the child and put him on a couch, lowering to one knee and embracing the little boy, and he turned yellow too.
The man's eyes widened at the illusions before him, and he could almost repeat the sentence he had heard. "Don't let her drown you in--"
Suddenly, he was pulled out of the dark little hole, and back into the light.
"Are you alright darling?" His wife asked, her hand on his shoulders and he was on the ground, "You passed out."
The man blinked twice, surprised. Then, with the help of his wife, he stood up.
"What happened?" she asked, touching his face, worried. He held his head. It hurt and it throbbed really bad. He felt nauseous, he felt like he was going to throw up, he felt like he was going to faint again. "What happened?" he echoed after his wife.
There they were in the middle of the carnival, with the changing lights, the music, the drums, the beats, Kyle's cheesy love song. It was all still there. He looked towards the tents and they have closed, too tight for anyone to fit and there was no gap between them anymore. Wasn't it just...?
"Honey, you seem ill," the woman said, tugging on his arm, "let's go home, let's go. I'll drive you home. Goodness, you look sick!"
The husband didn't protest, he allowed himself to be led to the parking lot, all the while something rang in his pounding head. Wasn't there something he'd forgotten...? Wasn't there...
That thought, too, disappeared and his mind was totally blank. The woman settled him into the passenger seat and took the wheel of their little yellow car. She started the engine, with a stern troubled look all the while. She looked to her husband. He had fainted again. "Why those--!" She stopped talking before she allowed herself to become too angry. The woman breathed deeply and closed her eyes for a second, then pulled out of the parking lot. She looked towards the man in the passenger seat, out cold. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked towards the road. Well she had this much trouble getting him, no way was she ever going to let them take him back! "It seems that the poison didn't kill all your memories, darling," she put her hand on his chilly one and took the ramp to the highway.

The Boot

The candlelights were dim and I slammed my hands on the table. He looked up from his drink. There was a tense moment of silence as I glared into his eyes. He, of course, would think that I was amusing. He didn't know me, and I was only sent here by word. He could not even be the man I was looking for.
The entire inn went silent and stared. Even the walls and the glasses and the plates stared. People wore such crazy looks, I would have laughed if the matter wasn't so serious.
"You're the mountain guide?" I said simply.
The man cocked an eyebrow and held up his drink. "Mountain guide? Whatever do you mean?" His face was scarred and scruffy and he looked like he's been to a lot places. He took a swig. There were a few scattered chuckles as the inn slowly lost interest and resumed its chatter. The man leaned back and put his boots on the table rudely. "Move your hands and get your own table. Go on now."
I scowled and pulled off one of his boots, startling him. "No. You are the mountain guide! They told me you had such a crude sense of humor. It must be you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," He lowered his legs and threatened to stand up. "You give me back my boot, or I'll kick you with the other one."
"With your socks?" I said with a scoff. "No thanks, they looks stinky. I'd rather we come to a deal instead. I'll give you your boot if you talk to me."
He narrowed his eyes. "So that's how it is, eh?" The man set down his mug and stood up. "Over here."
We stepped outside away from the lights and the music and rounded the wall to end up behind the inn. It was a particularly dark night, and there was a powerful breeze. I wasn't afraid of the man, however. Although maybe I should have been. Strands of hair blew into his face as he faced me. "Now, please, the boot." By that time my eyes had adjusted and I smirked. "No. Business first, then I'll give you that boot."
"You do realize I came here with one foot in socks, right? C'mon. Give me a break."
"Well, you seemed to be having a break all week, drinking away your earnings."
"It's how I go. Don't judge me. I'm sure we all have places to be and things to do right now."
"Fair enough." I concluded and scratched the tip of my nose. "So, you are the mountain guide, are you not?"
"That depends on your definition of the mountain guide." He said simply.
"I need to get up into the mountains. My sister was taken by bandits and I must find her. I hear there are ogres in the alps."
"Sure, sure. Many ogres in the alps. How much are you willing to pay?"
"As much as necessary. My sister is... priceless to me."
The man chuckled. "And here I am abandoning my own family years ago. I like you, kid. Very noble."
"So you'll help me?"
"Aye. They don't call me the thug of the mountains for nothing. I'll need a down payment though."
I reached into my cloak and pulled out a sack of gold. They were new, polished, and even gleamed in the darkness.
"Ah!" The man was clearly interested. "This much... yes, I could do with this much." He put out his hand.
"Not so fast," I said. "tomorrow we set out, I'll pay you then. I don't want you spending perfectly good money on your drinks."
"Ah. That's how it is then... Alright, fair enough kiddo. I'll be spending it on drinks later anyway, but just to please my new employer, alright."
"So we're settled?"
"We're settled." He starts to head back around the building, but I stopped him by tugging on his sleeve and smiling.
"Your boot."

Adam and Eve (excerpt test)

Ava slumped on her bed. The storm outside was raging, and the crew were working hard to keep the ship steady and on course. She was soaked and definitely a mess, but she was also tired from pulling on the ropes and shouting orders and helping her men and bailing water from the ship almost all at the same time. Yes, she was exhausted. Ava closed her eyes and let out a sigh, leaning as far back into her pillow as possible. Suddenly, she felt something shocking cold at her throat and her eyelids flew open. There was a man standing right over her, the tip of his knife focused on her throat and his expression angry. The prisoner! How did he escape the lower levels? At his sight Ava sat up. He kept the knife fixed and followed her movement, without a word. "Oh, it's you." she smiled, "I wonder why you came here."
"I'm getting revenge." he simply said, "You tried to drown me!"
"Do you blame me for feeling accomplished when I dip my prisoners into the sea for a few minutes?" Ava asked coolly, sinking her head back into the pillow again. "Sure, kill me. What good will it do to you? The crew will find you, and they don't care about me, for your information. It's every boy for himself."
At that the man grinded his teeth. She was getting on his nerves. He stung her throat harder. "As long as I take revenge on you, I don't care what happens to me. You made me feel the lowest I ever had, and you almost drowned me."
"Alright. That's nice. Nice story." Ava said with a bored tone. "I told you, if you kill me it won't help. Do it, but be quick. I've got an important meeting once we reach shore, and we're almost there."
Before the man could think about what to do next, Ava attacked his arm and kicked him hard in the stomach at the same time. This threw him off balance, and she was over him within seconds, pinning both his hands together. "You call yourself a Navy Captain?" she said with a scoff. "You're unbelievably weak!"
"Rrgh!" The man tried to struggle, but she had him in an iron grip. Ava shook her head mockingly, pressing the back of the prisoner's head into the floor, hard. "Son, let me tell you the story of Adam and Eve."
He didn't know how that story would relate to this situation, nor why she was mentioning it at all other than to mock him, but he knew he couldn't just sit there. If she wasn't too clever, he might have used brute strength. But she had all his vital points in check. Too bad for him. Ava smiled.
"It all began when God created the first man, Adam."
What followed was a heavy crash and Ava stood up afterwards, her favorite vase broken and her prisoner's head bleeding. He wasn't moving.
She scowled and whispered: "And then Adam died because he blamed Eve for what the devil did."

Dream-Inspired writing scrap 1

The overgrown wolf was gaining on me, and my shoulder was aching from the weight of my younger sister's body. She was a good thirty pounds and three years old, but Lord, I had been going for at least half an hour. And I wasn't that agile. The wolf wasn't alone. He had at least two other friends smaller than him by his side, yipping and chasing through the lit hallways of the mansion. I couldn't find our host. I'd climbed countless stairways and trampled through several gardens in the variety of settings of this never-ending estate. All with the canines at my heels, barking for my sister's flesh. They wanted her. They were so close I could feel their breath at my calves and their jaws snapping at my ankles. Right now, anything that would slow them down would be very appreciated. Ignoring the hot air gnawing at my throat, I took for the grand stairs, clambering over the steps and heaving for breath. My sister hadn't moved from my shoulder at all. She only clung harder and watched the wolves behind me. They were trying to figure out the steps, but were making progress. It only gave me a few spare seconds. Nothing to complain about. By now I had reached the top of the staircase and was frantically looking for a room. Any room. As long as there was a door and I could put a barrier between us. Potted plants decorated the hallways and the lights were bright and warm and welcoming and yellow. But with savages behind me, welcoming was the last emotion I'd feel. There were rooms on this floor, and I tried to open the doors. Two of the ones I tried didn't open, which spent the extra seconds earned on the stairs. They were back at my heels. I only prayed the third door would work. I couldn't afford to waste anymore time, not if I valued my legs and my life. And my sister's, so to speak. The third door didn't open but surprisingly, the overgrown wolf tripped instead. This gave me an extra one and a half second until he got his balance back. The fourth door opened abruptly and my young host stepped out in his fancy tailcoat. The scurrying of the animals' paws behind me stopped and I heard them whimper. I also stopped, so very out of breath.
"Ah, Miss?" he asked, amused. Not surprised, amused. I became angry, but didn't have the lungs to speak.
"Who let the dogs out of the fence?" he asked, peering over my shoulder from where he stood. "My dear lady! Are you alright? Are you hurt? Ah! Is the child hurt?"
"N-no," I huffed, not feeling quite safe to let my sister down yet. "But they chased us through the whole estate and there wasn't another person in sight. Where were you?!"
"Sorry love,"  he said while passing me down and bending down to pat the overgrown wolf, "Injuries on the estate are to be reported to the maids on the first floor. You are on floor three. Not much I can help you and the child with."
I growled, switching my sister to my other shoulder, the one that wasn't aching as bad. "Kake, get 'er." he hissed. But before I could wait for the wolves to strike, I stepped into the room, closed the door, locked it, and barricaded it with my body while gasping for breath.
"You can't stay in there forever Darling," the host's voice purred from behind the walls. "When you come out, we'll be waiting. It's been some time since they've had young tender steak and frankly, I'm hungry too."

Hanging Fish

She awoke in a dark room with greenish-grey walls. The rusty metal blinds were pulled down, blocking any small rays of light from creeping through and disturbing the dullness. That was the first thing she noticed as soon as her mind could function again. The young woman moaned quietly at the pain in her head. Did somebody drug her earlier? Was it in the juice? In the water? Yes? Earlier she had been at her sister's wedding. Or was it yesterday? Two hours ago? The blinds were too thick to allow her to know. If there had been some light at least, she could have figured out what time it was. It felt like ages had passed since the wedding. She'd been clapping and smiling at her sister and brother-in-law alongside the rest of the guests. They seemed like a happy couple, her sister and her husband. They looked like they'd be happy together. She suddenly heard a crash and her sister screaming. The brother-in-law yelled angrily and there was a slapping sound and a cry of pain. The young woman turned her head with a little gasp. She was in a chair. There were ropes cutting into the flesh of her wrists and ankles. She was still in her ball gown. She tried to move, but discovered there was a thick chain around her torso. She didn't even notice it until now. She honestly began to wonder what had happened. Was it a dream? The young woman turned her head to the ceiling. There were dead fish hanging above her head. Not one fish, no! But thousands and thousands. All gleaming silver with red circles around their tails and hung with wires by their fins. Their gaping eyes stared at her. Thousands of pairs of eyes. All staring, all sharp. The young woman screamed. She tried to struggle and get her wrists free. There were fishing spears leaning on the wall. Her chair shook with her motion and made her remember something. The children! She had adopted two infants her twentieth year. They were still waiting at the apartment for her! A boy and a girl. What would they say? Who would take care of them? A single mother who had gone to her sister's wedding one Sunday evening and never returned. What would the children think? Would they be worried? Will they starve? Would they miss her? She never thought to give them direction. She never thought she could be abducted. The young woman gritted her teeth and strained harder on the knots, which only succeeded in getting her wrists raw and red. They were tied in such a way that she couldn't even move them an inch away from the chair. She swore, something she hadn't done in a long time. Without her, without her work, her children would starve. She had to get free and find out who did this and bring them to justice. Why her? She wasn't important. She had a simple job. It wasn't like she was rich or anything.  She wasn't that pretty, if people still kidnapped for that sort of thing. She was just a woman. An average woman with dreams and ambitions she would never be able to chase. She lived in Apartment 101C, with two bedrooms and a full bathroom. It was in the heart of the city, where it was most crowded and dusty and unbearable and dirty. Her building was so high up in the sky because of the cramped spaces. Cardboard and scrap metal. Yes, her apartment hadn't been anything fancy. She'd like to think it was below average quality, but it wasn't alright to complain. She wondered, was it a fisherman? She looked up again at the wall of eyes above her head. Their mouths were all that same shape, that same wailing expression. She breathed heavily, trying again with the ropes on her ankles. Abruptly, there were footsteps just outside the door, which suddenly flunged open. The woman gasped and turned her head around as far back as it goes. There was a figure draped in black. From the build, she guessed it was a man. Short, bone thin. He wore a gas mask and held a sharp knife in his right hand. The woman froze. She didn't know what to do. Why hadn't the university taught her anything about what to do in this situation?! Why hadn't her mother taught her? Why hadn't anyone? Was it because they didn't expect it? Never expected it? "Give me back my children." He said in a broken voice, sprinting up to the chained woman and pointing his knife at her. The young woman didn't respond, just stared with widened eyes. "Give them back!" He cried again. "You stole my children!"
"T-that's not true." She said quietly. "I adopted them legally -- papers and everything. Are they your children?"
"Give them back, give them back!" The man exclaimed. He stuck the knife in the woman's knee, to which she howled out in agony. "I went to jail because of you," He hissed, the gas mask making his voice terrifying. "all I wanted was to have my children back and you stole them!" He worked with the knife, popping the woman's knee from the socket. She screamed again. "Please stop!" She sobbed. "I didn't--" she bit her lip and rocked in her chair, as much as the chain would let her. The pain was too fierce and she couldn't feel her knee. So this was about the children themselves. Who was this man? Yes. Now she remembered. There was a short man at the wedding too... he even sat at the same table as she did. The woman hadn't really paid attention, but she could feel the man watching her at times. Even though she did remember him passing her the jug of water with a smile. She hadn't even known him, and now she was sure her sister and brother-in-law also didn't. But if this was going to be an argument about her children... well. She wasn't going to give them up to this madman with a gas mask and she wasn't going to give them up to the staring wailing fish. With a wet face, she angrily lunged forward with the chair in all her might, toppling over the insane man and crushing him under her weight. It wasn't that she was heavy, but because that he was so scrawny. "I'm not giving up my world." She hissed, heaving up against the chains and slamming back down again, on his face. A quick fight commenced while the fish only stared, blubbering with unblinking eyes.

Liar

Small piece I wrote around half a year ago for a story idea.

Liar. Liar, liar, liar. They said. Their eyes sunken and low. Their fake voices deafening. Long ago. Before, they began by pounding his chest in frail protest. But somehow, now, they were beating him with sticks until he bled. Liar, liar! They never gave him a chance to speak. He owned a tongue, yet he was afraid to use it. Liar. He had a pen he couldn't grasp. Fingers intertwined together in an impossible knot. Liar. They took advantage, of course. With him silenced, they began roaring louder, chanting, repeating their lies over and over and over. Their dark words seeping through ears and embedding into skulls, cut and clean. And yet they still claim him the liar... Went on waving their sticks, went on swinging down. A river of blood and they were proud. Just look to the other side, he wanted to say, just look to the other side! Liar. Mind your own greediness. No. They didn't care about the other side. In an argument, there are two sides. In war, there are two sides. Here, there was only one side. Their side. What of the other? Bomb it and cleanse it. Shut it up. Repeat your lies until you believe them yourself. Your propaganda. Force them down the world's throat, steady and patient. Keep it up a decade at least. A century. He turned shriveled and weak, like a pale old fish. Liar. Support the strong side, crush the weaker one. The unfortunate lives didn't matter. Insects. No, but their side did. And they were willing to destroy and burn for their own lies. He couldn't move now, broken bones and broken heart. Liar. They offered him a chance, if he would only join them in their winning battle, if he would only join the stronger side. Under one condition, he still is the liar. He plays that game. Liar, liar. They announced afterwards he was the devil. Tore out his tongue after he died sprawled under their shotgun. And of course, still the liar, liar, liar. Liar to the grave, liar to hell, liar for forever and always. Liar stamped for eternity. Always was, always has been.

Flame-Thrower (sample)

"I'll be here if you need me." He said. He had said. She scoffed at it now whenever the statement played in her head. Was life all fun and games? Was it all comfort? Was it all solved by faith? Locked and loaded? Can anyone answer that? Anyone? He never told her the answer, and she wanted to know. But then he wasn't the type to comfort -- confront her - and he was a complicated one. He never cared for anyone, he seldom talked, he seldom blinked, dark eyes sunken. He never fell in love. Or if he did, he wouldn't care to remember it. Nor would he have mentioned it. "I'll be here if you need me." That was all. Leaning on the door-frame, smoking. That was all. And yet he wasn't there. Whenever she looked at that door-frame, with green chipped paint, she'd see nothing. But maybe if she tried hard enough, she could imagine him standing there in the afternoon, chewing tobacco under his teeth and arms folded over his chest, waiting for his turn. Waiting for his end. We were all waiting for our ends, weren't we? We just try to find something to do while waiting. That was it, a simple truth. So what was this sickness? This cancer in his bones? This plague that ate him inside out. She'd remember. he looked like a walking skeleton at the end of his days. Tell me, was this the fate of a killer? Was it the fate of he who fired at the innocent with not so much as a second glance? Couldn't care to remember their faces? Couldn't bear it? Even still, they all came around again, chasing him, screaming at him, it was as if she could hear it all in her head. All those young innocent souls he smothered, she could sometimes hear them. She didn't know why they were sputtering angry words at her, she hadn't done anything. No, but maybe... Maybe she had given comfort to him... was that why? Maybe she deserved it. Why would she be telling him it was okay when she should be pleading with him to stop? Yes, maybe she deserved it. Long before his condition worsened, she should have stopped him. Her brother. Sure she loved him, sure she didn't want to get in his way, but why didn't she do something?  Was life just a joke? Was it no coincidence that this was the type of death he had to have? He'd lay there on the stretcher, moaning and face sunken and dark, unshaven. She hadn't said a thing then. All the way, he just kept losing his health and losing it. Thinner and thinner. Darker and darker. And she was the only one at the funeral. Her, and all those little souls he burned. But of course, they followed him into the grave. Whether they tortured him there or not, she never knew. She had laughed then, in her black dress, and she never laughed since. And if he had one, may God have mercy on his soul. They later told me she disappeared and nobody ever saw her again.

Torches and Spooks (sample)

The setting sun fell below the mountains, casting eerie shadows on the entire village. Little torches had been mounted on the door-frames by the villagers, glowing but also creating quite an amount of smoke. Mud caked the floor and puddles had collected on the curb and on the dirt-paved roads. The little girl sat huddled on the lone bench, shivering in her brown blanket. She watched the Officer's white horse shift its weight on its back legs repeatedly, flicking its ears and snorting. Apparently the animal was nervous. The Officer held the reins. He was busy speaking to a woman, who was explaining something about seeing the criminal escape to the mountains. The little girl sniffled, cupping her cold nose in her hands and exhaling. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders tighter. The Officer scraped his pen across his notepad, thanked the woman, and led his uneasy horse back towards the girl. "Seems like he ran off."
The girl nodded, not looking up at him. A raindrop plopped on her head. The Officer looked to the heavens. A light drizzle began, and it was clear a storm would follow. Chilly wind started battering against the wooden huts of the villages. The white horse neighed and shook its head, trying to convince its master to flee before the weather got any worse.
The Officer only sent a sharp tug at the bit and sighed. "Doesn't look like there's much I can do. It's out of my hands now kid. Sorry."
The girl nodded again, her dark brown hair in a messy mop over her head. The Officer strapped on his hat and mounted his horse, who trotted immediately but stopped as the bit dug deep into its mouth. From the way the Officer handled the reins, it was clear he was just as nervous. "Y-you're staying here?"
It was then the girl looked up, an apathetic look on her face. She was about six or seven, with piercing brown eyes and a tear-streaked face. She was done crying over the murder of her family. She didn't say anything, only glared at the young officer, causing him to look away. The wind picked up and the sun's final glare completely disappeared. The torches were anything but warm, however. It wasn't uncommon - the senseless killing of the villagers. The Officer secretly wished for the people to move away and leave this village a ghost town. It was not safe to be out in the street so late, and the torches were meant to scare away any evil spirits. The little girl stood up solemnly, further startling the Officer's horse. "I will go sleep next to mom and dad's graves."
"God have mercy," The young man huffed under his breath, tipping the visor of his hat. This child was mad! "Be sure to get out of the rain, kid. You'd best get indoors quick. I have a long way to get back and much as I want to, I can't babysit you." He turned his horse around, about ready to spur it on. Usually hard, the animal was more than eager to leave today. Of course, it had to be the wind and the storm. The anxious neighbors peeking from behind their curtains. The empty village and the dull torches left the Officer shaky as well. He clucked his horse onward, just hoping that whatever was in the mountains wouldn't decide to come down tonight.
_________________
The girl stood in the rain, shivering. A smirk spread across her tender lips as she watched the Officer gallop away. The villagers say they never saw her again. The Officer was found dead in the middle of the road, a-ways from the carcass of his steed. As for the horse, well, they found it cut up and skinned several miles from the village, with a horrific expression on its mostly deformed face. It was said lightning struck and spooked the animal, which bucked off and accidentally stepped on its rider before being attacked by a local wolf pack. That was the easy way to explain it, at least.

Bland Color

Vesko was never left alone. Not for one second. Not ever since they found him crying in a dumpster as an infant. Not ever since they took him in. Not ever since they poisoned him. Not ever since they shoved all their lies down his throat, claiming it to be truth. Not ever since he was Colonel. Not ever since... He sat on a lone chair in a bare white room, clutching his head. The walls were high, and white, white, white. His black hair and sunken brown eyes seemed to be the only hints of color in the place. They were going to whisper again. They were going to shove empty words down his throat again. He'd always cough blood because of it. To be a Colonel, they said, you have to go through this. You have to be able to kill. You have to be able to lie. To keep your mouth shut. Security cameras hung from every corner, from every wall. Left, right, back, forth, under his feet, over his head, in front of his eyes, behind his head. He couldn't hide. He couldn't cry. He couldn't move. Twelve hours of torture until he returned on duty. Why? Because he had to keep his head. They had to monitor him. They had to cleanse him. Because they couldn't let the lies of the outside world get into the heart of their child. No, only their lies. A false child. A parent-less child. Vesko wasn't anybody special. Nobody cared about him. Why, he didn't even care about himself. Bone thin and cold. Pale and dark-eyed. The cameras zoomed in. They came from every direction, stealing his warmth. Vesko shivered uncontrollably. Here comes the spoon to feed him. Here comes the words, the lies. He would only be able to repeat what they told him. He had no voice of his own. Be grateful, child, be grateful. You were in a dumpster, trash. Nobody wanted you. Nobody wants you still. Why, you don't even want yourself. He couldn't hide. He couldn't cry. He couldn't move. Twelve hours. It would only be twelve hours... He could take it. He's been doing it for thirty years. He could take it.
~~
The room was white and bare. A single empty chair was in the center of the room. Security cameras were perched on every wall, every corner. They stared and listened. Listened and stared. A thick trail of smeared blood was the only hint of color in the place. Cause of death unknown. Oh well. Nothing major. Happens every week. Spoon simply must have gone too far down again.

Messenger

His feet were nimble and paced. A heavy canopy spread out for miles over his head as he took off under the trees. It seemed as if the thicket would never end. He had to hurry, despite that. He had to relay the dreadful news to his queen at once. The empty scabbard at his hip clinked with every impact and blood dripped along the leaves as he pushed on, ever deeper. The pain in his flank didn't hurt much. At least, he couldn't feel it. No, he made an effort not to feel it. To ignore it, even if it was bad for him. Treatment will be sought after he delivers the message. The Shaman will see to him. Still, it would've been easier to push the nag of the stinging away if it weren't for the strange creature right behind him, armed with a muzzle roar-stick thing. His sword hadn't stood a chance. And the creature wasn't even large, half his size actually. To be honest. But this weapon, this roar-stick thing, it was powerful. There was a hole of his flank now because of it. But he couldn't stop, the queen had to know! She had to prepare them all... he couldn't rest. Just a little more. If only he gave it more thought, maybe this wouldn't have happened. If he didn't lead the creature right to the tribe, maybe they'd been alive right now. But then, life works in strange ways, and hasty decisions can be disastrous. Maybe Her Majesty would have forgiven him. If she'd still lived. Maybe... The campfire was bright, and he pushed that thought away. No. He wasn't going to remember what happened then. If he was branded the traitor, so be it. So what if his tribe were dead? So what if it was his fault? Huh. Let them rot in hell for all he cared. Nobody had cared about him anyway. He rolled over under the covers, a tight frown on his slightly tanned face. Heh. The middle son of twenty three children. Yes, nobody cared. So what if those foreigners bought unworldly weapons into this land? He stared at the teenage female across the fire from him. So what if they spilt blood across this holy ground? He was on their side now. If he was the traitor, so be it, so be it! He'd learn to use those roar-stick things and fire them and kill. Swords didn't matter anymore. It was all muzzles and slaughter slaughter slaughter. For all he cared. As long as he was alive, it would be alright. Even if the foreigner creatures had him point out the other tribes and lead the raids and deceive everybody he once knew. But then those were burned years, years he chose to forget a long time ago. They came back every while to haunt his sleep. He was never able to be at peace for a one-shot. Every night was long, boring, and quiet. He'd wait it out. Voices would scream at him from the darkness: "Liar! Traitor! DEMON!!" He narrowed his eyes and stared at the fire. His fifteen brothers and seven sisters all sat there, in the flames, staring back at him with a blank gaze and bloody faces. Yes, it had been him. Their faces were skinned, they were melting. He rolled over again and turned to the dark forest. Shadows danced on the thickets from the flames like devils, beckoning him. Screaming at him oh God, the screaming! He could never shut it out. He envied anyone who could sleep soundly, including his female companion. He was to show her the depth of the forest, which he knew well. They had come looking for rare herbs, and he had been in the business the last ten years. Eleven actually, if not twelve. No, thirteen. Yes, that was how much it was, thirteen. They pay well. As long as he tried to blend in with them, nobody treated him differently. Or maybe they just didn't care. Or maybe they liked that he considered himself one of them and stripped himself of his previous title as the primitive tribe's messenger. Won't Majesty be tossing and turning in her grave now? She would be cursing him. The entire tribe would be cursing him. His family were always cursing him. Good. Now where to go? Where to hide? If he was killed, he'd head over to join the deceased, and he definitely wouldn't like that. They'll just kill him all over again. But maybe if he went to a different world... yes. Back with the strange foreigner creatures. He'd be spared this torture. He'd do it. He'd ask his companion in the morning if he could accompany her back to her motherland. She wouldn't understand if he told her the truth, but he sure as the sun can lie. They are the only ones who can set him free now. He can turn to them for salvation. He's already lost himself once, why not do it again? Anything to stop his dead tribe and his relatives from terrorizing him. After all, it wasn't intentional. He never meant to start the war, but he did. Nothing could be done. And he's joined the "enemy." Well good riddance. He was done here. With a sharp huff, he turned towards the fire again and shut his eyes to sleep.