Shannon's Beach

Shannon sat on the gleaming golden sands of the south beach of her own private island. She was outstretched on a folding bed chair, book on her flat stomach, hands folded on top with her margarita beside. She wore her large ultra dark blue-and-white rim sunglasses, fading out the intense sun above. The cool air passed over from the ocean before her, the smooth sound of low tides swept past.

Shannon felt as though she awoke from a long restful night, all the cares in the world faded with each passing moment. It was just her and her beach, the waters, her book of sappy romance and her margarita. She reached for it, leaning up to take another sip. “Mmm.” She mumbled, letting out a relaxed sigh. Her sunscreen caused her body to glisten in the sun’s rays. Her hair was a gorgeous mix of red, auburn and amber, eyes a sapphire blue. A few freckles danced across her face, appearing with the sun.

Whenever she was on the beach of her island, everything changed. Everything was different. Everything was simply...better. The book she read didn’t matter, the chair she brought, the drink she sat with, none mattered. Although, the sun was always bright, the wind was always soothing, the sand was always nice and hot, and the water was always the perfect temperature.

Sometimes she would stroll along the beach, grab some coconuts from the palm trees that ran all along the edge of the land. Shannon would see all sorts of critters that lived there, none would bother her, all were independent as she was. The monkey swinging from the trees inland, the crab crawling along the sands, or the hermit crab searching for a new shell. Sometimes Shannon would find a nice shell, and place it beside him, giving the hermit crab a new home.

She walked and walked, the sun spilling all along her beach, warming her skin and her life. The smooth breeze and waters calmed her nerves, soothed her mind so that she may finally return to the grind beyond her paradise.

“Shannon?”

She heard the call. That upsetting, disturbing call from beyond.

“Shannon!” Her boss yelled.

She woke to her computer, which went to sleep as she daydreamed about her island again. Frederick stared down at her with his greasy mustache and thick rimmed glasses, furrowing his brow. “You shouldn’t day dream at your desk. Back to work.” He growled as he walked away. Shannon looked around her, to her plain desk, her coffee, her mousey hair. Is this how I want to live? She thought. There must be more. She wished she could do more art on the side, which she hadn’t gotten a bite for in quite awhile.

RING RING

           It was her cell phone. “Hello?” She asked in a brittle tone. it was Callidan Forsythe, the head of Lore international. He saw her freelance work she had been working on for a couple of companies on the side for graphic design, and wanted to offer a full-time position when he saw her application. She completely forgot about that! She looked down the office lane to Frederick, knowing her path. “Yes, I will accept.” She said calmly, attempting to keep her excitement in check. Goodbye, customer service, she thought, Hello, my Island!

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.”

Villainy Thrives

Holden Treli stood with his revolvers smoking at each side. Four men of the marshals laid on the sun-scorched gravel covered in crimson pools, expanding evermore. marshal Callidan Stood across, his pistol emptied. “Seems you’re empty, marshal.” Treli laughed, showing his crooked, yellowed smile. His beige, brown and white clothes were all dirtied, stained with sweat. He smelled of booze, blood and gunpowder.

The marshal wore a fine black jacket, with his badge fastened nicely on the heart. He wore disty leather boots and gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat to block the sun, which he threw aside, knowing what came next. “I counted twelve bullets, Treli,” The marshal didn’t smile, stone faced as could be. “Looks like you’re out, too.” Callidan holstered his pistol, Treli did the same. They slowly circled each other, the searing sun bearing down on them. Sweat soaked their clothes and trickled down their foreheads. Circle by circle, they stayed within four meters of the other. Treli had an impressive record, robbing over 50 banks in the country. Killing hundreds, including the rest of Callidan’s team. The marshal couldn’t let this stand, they had never come this close.The wind of the west blew softly, gently moving the gravel upon the ground. Their fingers sparked with anticipation.

“Careful, marshal, don’t hurt your back!” He ran at Callidan, throwing his fists fiercely at his face. Callidan dodged swiftly, pummeling Treli in the stomach. He coughed loudly, laughing as he grabbed Callidan’s arm in response. He kicked the back of the marshal’s knee, bringing him to the ground with a second shove of a foot.

Callidan responded quickly, kipping up in no time to surprise Treli. He knocked him directly across the chin, causing Treli to stagger back. With two swift strikes to his face, Treli fell to the ground. His ears were ringing, blood dripping from his nose. Without pause, he kicked his feet up, expecting the marshal’s advance. Treli’s heels dug straight under Callidan’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

Coughing, unable to breathe, Callidan was stunned. Treli scrambled to his feet, running in to chop his enemy in the throat. He barely evaded the strike, hitting Treli below the belt, and then hitting him in the throat as he bent over in pain.

“Ych!” Treli yelped, jumping and running back. “Marshal, you fight cheap. What kind of law man are you?”

“One who wins!” Callidan yelled, charging. Treli was gasping for air, but adrenaline kicked in as he found his breath. He knew the marshal would leave himself open if he acted hurt, still. Before Callidan could strike, he gave a mighty uppercut to his chin, causing his teeth to crack from a mighty clack of the jaw. The marshal fell over in pain. Treli saw no reason for mercy. He killed before, and this was no different. He grabbed Callidan’s leg, jumping onto his knee with full force while bending his shin up.

CRACK

Callidan screamed in pain as his leg snapped under Treli’s force. He couldn’t get up, no bullets, no weapons.

Treli stood back, laughing. “Looks like you have a problem here, marshal.” He pulled a single bullet out of his jacket pocket, loading it into his right revolver. “I knew I brought this lucky bullet for a reason.”

“What? Why did you keep it and not use it you bastard?” Callidan roared.

“‘cause I like me a fight, marshal, that’s why.” Treli laughed in his guttural tone. The marshal eyes widened as the barrel of hell faced him. “You know what they say, marshal,” He giggled like a young man. “Innocence dies,” he cocked his gun, readied to play the final death note. “While villainy thrives.”

Room of Darkness

Thomas awoke as he felt strong pulses from the world around him. He felt the pain of his connected one. Is it my fault? He thought. At least, he thought he was male. He had heard knocks on his room walls echoing a name, “Thomas”. He assumed it was his, as it was repeated many times, correlated with the knock. He was imprisoned in this room, he knew not for how long.

His I.V. gave him energy, unable to disconnect himself as he knew no other way to eat. What laid outside his room? It was dark, but he knew the surrounding area. He lived for what seemed like an eternity, dragging his hands and feet against each wall, each crevice, attempting to find a way out. He just knew of the I.V. he was connected to helped him live. What was out there? He wondered. The voices outside his walls talked of food, nature, water, countries, trinkets, all forms of things Thomas did not recognize, did not know. He only knew his room of darkness, his thoughts which gave him comfort, his thoughts that proved he was alive.

He felt he existed for a purpose. His purpose was to escape. He knew a way out, but could not get through; he was too weak. What am I supposed to do? Thomas thought.

Any time, I think, the female voice outside his walls said.

The female voice spoke of places, foods, extravagant things. Detailed descriptions would calm him, he could almost picture them in his head. He knew of texture, but not colour; they spoke of yellows, blues, greens, and reds, sometimes even violets and oranges. They intrigued him, he wondered what they would be. He only knew darkness, feelings, textures, and sounds. He dreamed of the outside world, wondering when his home would free him, when he could become a person of the outside as the voices were. Who were they? Where did they come from? Are they god? Thomas would think. He could feel their caress of the wall, he felt their feelings even in the darkness.
    It’s happening! The female yelled.

What was happening? His walls slowly closed in on him, slowly but surely. Then rapidly. He felt pain, squeezed by the walls of his prison. Is this the end? He thought. Surely, it was over. Only his imagination comforted him now, as he felt the room of darkness betrayed him. The exit he predicted showed an opening, he was drawn to it. He ran to it, barely escaping. His eyes opened, barely able to handle what came next. Intense white came after the blackness of night, a light he saw more powerful than anything he had ever experienced; the light of day, colours flew through his eyes, now in agony. He escaped his prison of darkness to view the colours of the world. Whites, greens, greys, blues and yellows and oranges and more. He could not breathe; a swift smack upon his back caused him to split up his breath, breathing air now, not liquid.
    “Congratulations, Mrs. Lown. It’s a boy!”

Thomas wondered what his new purpose would be, now that he had escaped his prison.