The Dark

Jared’s new ship, the venarian swept through space at breakneck speeds, moving from one colony to the next. He was a spare part merchant scavenging for materials on dead planets long abandoned selling parts to whoever would buy. Times were tough, and those brave enough to traverse the dead rocks filled with various native beasts were lucky enough to enjoy the spoils.

Jared stared out the Grand front window of the cockpit, where his son snuck up behind, wondering what was in their view.

“Daddy, what’s that?” His son Michael asked. He was the age of eight, barely four feet tall with hair fire red as Jared’s was. His point led to a massive circle of total darkness, with a bright fire swirling around it’s side, seeping into the middle.

“That’s a black hole, son. It’s sucked a star into it’s pull.” Black holes were eerily beautiful, total black nothingness, crushing all that came within its grasp.

“Why does it do that? It looks like nothing’s even there.” Michael said curiously.

“That’s because it’s centre is so dense, it pulls everything toward it, using it’s gravity. Isn’t that neat?” Jared looked back to see his son confused. “What I mean is, it’s something so heavy that nothing exists around it.” Michael’s head tilted.

The space around it seemed warped, bent and twisted. Relativity rang true near it, time passing years by the minute. He loved gazing into them, it was fascinating, he wished to get slightly closer. He stared into the dark, hypnotized by it’s allure. The bright star swinging round slowly, moving into it’s mighty centre, disappearing. The space bent so wildly that it dragged around it it seemed. Jared couldn’t look away.

Abyss, grand sphere of a single point, a singularity. Bending all to it’s will, time, space, energy, the wills of men. Many have flown into it and disappeared, theorized to have been crushed, or ascended to a higher dimension. Where gravity travels, where time has no meaning, all there is are gods and energies. The essence of gods sat within, Jared knew it. He was set into a trance, unable to move his hands, his limbs, his eyes. All he could see now was the black. Muffled yells and tugging on his shirt came from the periphery, Michael could be heard but not seen, only one thing could be viewed by Jared forever more, as the venarian passed beyond the horizon into the truth beyond.

           The dark.

Off the Walls

You sit in your seat, bouncing off the walls. “How is that possible?”, one would ask.

You sit, or you would seem to, yet you bounce all over room, shaking, maneuvering, bouncing. You can’t calm down, you can’t come to. Anxiety grips you.

You shake, you clatter and clank.

Why is it all worth it, you ask? The secret lies between the lines. It’s worth it because you want it.

To write, to live, to love.

You wish to feel safe, yet safety comes in numbers.

One. The clothes in which you wear.

Draped over you like a cloak, a shield. Warming you from the colds of the world, the frigid fear that grips you day-by-day.

Two. In the door you close.

You close the door to the room, drowning out the sounds of the world, barring others from entering, from speaking, from badgering you with any word you wish not to hear.

Three. In the music you seek.

Phones set to your ears, echoing sounds with soothe whether they are harsh, calm, mellow, or rugged. Not only do they alone soothe the mind, but to drown out the sounds of the outside, the world, the workplace, the schoolyard. These are the most vital of your count, the most important of your guard. They enable you to delve into another world, formed within your imagination, through the images, people, voices you create from the tones transported from speaker to eardrum.

In all, you feel safer. The shaking stops, your mind calmed, your soul refilled.

You slip into dreams, of fire, of gods, of kings, so the next day you may awake, to brave the world once more.

To bounce once more, off the walls.

The Body and Mind

Harold slashed and stabbed at the mighty beasts within his dream. He had been a hero in many, defeating all forms of villains and mythical beasts. He had been a sheriff shooting up outlaws, a superhero defeating criminals and supervillains, and a kid coming back at his bullies.

This time, he was a wondrous knight, armor of bright steel , sword and shield in hand, slaying hundreds of goblins, orcs, ravenous wolves and beasts that were unleashed. He fought his way to the castle to save the princess. Through the brambles and harsh terrain to the tower, he encountered the mightiest of enemies, the dragon king, Hazras.

“You cannot defeat me, foolish Harold! Fight me, and die!” Hazras yelled, scorching the land around him, brambles, trees and all as he evaded the flame breath. I must not give up, I must save the princess! He played along, knowing it was simply a dream. He dodged and slashed, slicing the dragon’s heels and belly, guarding against his meat hook-like claws. Hazras’ fire blackened Harold’s shield, but did not melt it. Harold ran in for the final blow. I must save the princess, anything for her! He thought, running to strike the final blow to the dragon’s chest. He thrusted his sword deep beneath the beast’s scales. Hazras roared in pain, falling dead to the ground, causing Harold to jump out of the way.

With Hazras’ body as silent as the night, Harold stood victorious. He walked closer, attempting to stand upon the beast, to raise his sword to victory. In the corner of his eye, he saw a black-robed figure in the distance, walking closer. He carried a scythe, seven feet tall, arms as long as could be. His hands were absent of flesh. His hood was pitch black within, face unseen. Who is that? He had heard stories of death, the one robed in black who carried a scythe.

“Are you death?”

“Yes, child.” The figure replied, in a hallowed voice.
    “Why are you here?”

The figure stood still.

Harold looked back to the beast, roaring of victory over it in his dream. The beast came alive once more, throwing Harold off. Harold was too slow to react, as the beast’s maw overtook him, biting into his flesh. He writhed in pain more than ever before, he had never felt pain in a dream like this, never suffered nor died.

Harold awoke in his small bed at home, seven years old once more. Heart racing, breathing quickly. “Phew,” he said. He got out of bed, feeling a little groggy, and cold, so cold. He shivered, looking to the corner of his room by the window. The hooded, skeletal figure stood with his scythe in hand.

“Why are you here?” Harold asked.

“I am here for you, child.” Death replied.

“But I was dreaming, I am not dead.” Harold poised, he was muddled at the thought.

“Dreams are more real than one would think.”

“But It was a dream. My body is fine.” Harold glanced back to his bed, seeing his body laying still, unmoving. What is this? He thought. How could this happen?

“The body cannot live without the mind.”