Ave, peoples,

This is a somewhat disjointed “poem” I wrote.

(Disclaimer: “Whispers” is not and is unrelated to Ben’s fictional creatures in Hell’s Children Book 1 by the same name; this is completely original work.)

 

 

Whispers.

Whispers… Sweet and soft, harsh and cold; both come from something quietly unbold. Yet one whisper can change the world.

 

Whispers… Whispers from a time past, never to reach again, forgotten and spent

They travel, light wisps of sound

So far they come, to remind and astound

They can save you from the prison, if only you allow

These faint sounds to save you now

 

Left behind something so precious

Spent and behind

Why do you forget those lessons?

Unwillingly bound, initially

But as temptation comes closer, you have to give in

You cannot flee, it won’t leave you be

Chained to something you wanted so badly

Even when you know at heart, what you once cherished has fallen apart

Replaced by another entity, taken the hope of being… truly free

 

Now you are a prisoner evermore

An impossibility made reality

Scared and confused, burning and misused

Yet you love it, what you created

And what you’ve become

 

How could you have supposed

That that which only you could see

Would manifest its own external control

And enact vengeance so deep

Erasing who you were on the outside

And working to overcome the psyche

 

Such dreams, the nightmares consume your sleep

And when you wake, the physical world is cold and cruel

Twisted and deceitful, no one will believe you

Your only shoulder to cry on, is the one that engineered this slow demise

…

~ TEW

Ave, peoples!

Why is G-2 apparently so cute and yet so annoying? Why would you breathe perfluorocarbon? Why does eating foam brownies seem peculiarly choco-fabiry?

Welcome to the second Arbitrary World post, where he who is I offers a peculiar approach to blog-like posting and an odd finesse to sporadic updates.

Today, we will venture into the subjects of an update, “Who the…” and roleplaying!

First off, the rather un-droll update!

So, since Of Light and Metal began, I have posted a Pt.1 and a Pt.2, neither of which seemed nearly as popular or worth-a-read as my other incomplete science fiction story, The Future Spirit; which is fine. As stated in the first Arbitrary World post, Of Light and Metal is (presently) simply a test, something for me to experiment with. Do I plan on continuing it? Do I even have the idea for the final Part? No and yes. Until further notice, I have no plans to complete that short story, but I have the basic idea of how I want it to play out, so perhaps someday I will go back to it. Personally, I didn’t particularly enjoy it, and if my heart isn’t there, then I should move on (if only temporarily) in this case.

Now, it might be queried, “If you’re done with Of Light and Metal” for now, is The Future Spirit being rebooted?” Per say, maybe. I definitely appreciate The Future Spirit more than OLaM, and I have put thought into continuing (and hopefully, finishing) The Future Spirit. Shoot me a comment if you would like TFS to return, it might assist me in making a decision sooner than later. 😉

 

“I have a name and yet I don’t.”

“Paradox!”

*World Explodes*

 

And now onto the “Who the…” part of this Arbitrary World post:

“Who the…” it sounds kind of like “Hula”, so I’ll move right along and explain. (Note: Munchkin cannot dance.)

We are writers. And, to my understanding, most of us are interested in making writing our full-time job in the future. My question is: Who do you want to become like, specifically an author, journalist, etc.? Certain traits, writing style, career status?

And of just you and you alone, who do you want to develop into? Or do you like who you are now, and want to stay that way?

 

AAHHHHH!!! Chairmode ACTIVATED. BOOP!

 

And we’re back!

Finally, today’s final subject: Roleplaying!

Roleplaying is a fun way to play out stories on-the-wing (or planned, depending). Specifically, text chat and/or IM roleplaying is an activity that is fun and simple and can be done through a messaging program between several people at once, wherever they are! I would like to present the idea (if any are interested) to begin, or at least try, P.Y.W.G. roleplaying sessions. What do you think? Leave a comment!

 

And that is all for today! I hope you typically refrain from eating those foam brownies, and if you want the best life-span out of your computer, do not sit on the keyboard! Thanks for reading. 🙂

Ave, peoples!

This is the official, edited and complete, Flash Fiction project I wrote for Injoy’s Flash Fiction Class. It was definitely a new experience for me and the class was excellent. :.)- (That smiley has a goatee!)

I plan on entering “D.R.E.A.M. Unit Helth Leaguer” in the Flash Fiction Contest Injoy is doing October 18, 2013, and I wanted to know what you guys think of it!

Prepare yourselves for something that can be read before you can properly eat a candy bar without choking!

 

 

Helth Leaguer stepped lightly into the small clearing, admiring his illumined surroundings. It elated his spirit to occupy such a place of wonder and beauty.

He was in a landscape of bioluminescent life. The organic flora and fauna that the alien jungle comprised was a cosmic mass of natural life, radiating a variegation of both iridescent and non-iridescent glows produced by the chemical reaction of chemiluminescence.

Helth typically stared impartially at the drab, dull features of his  purlieu. Such a fresh and colorful scene as this brightened his outlook; it was just what he needed to convalesce and continue on.

He brushed aside a plant stalk that had a bulbous luminescent protrusion at its top as he pushed out of the clearing and again plunged into the fray of flora. The terrain wasn’t an impassable obstacle, though Helth had to ensure his movement was planned and deliberate, else he lose his footing and accidently tumble headlong into one of numerous haphazard chemical pits.

There were many dangers here, some lethal, others more decidedly of a foci to inflict pain and tormenting harm rather than simply kill. Beauty often comes with deceitful threats, and this alien jungle shared no immunity against that. A single omission could easily lead to fatality.

An out-of-place noise in the bioluminescent forest’s harmony caught the attention of Helth’s acutely trained ears. A rustling of sorts, a quiet animalistic clicking; the identifiable sound of discreet movement from above in the twisted branches.

Making it seem as though he had heard nothing, the explorer sustained an even gait, while avoiding hazards, for two miles until the noise suddenly adapted into a shrill shriek. It was then that Helth raised his attention to the upper tree branches. With only his naked eyes, he quickly scanned the surrounding vicinity.

He occupied a dense area of vegetation and towering trees—a cliff drop into a deep grotto nearly hidden by overgrown plants was to his right—to his left was the thickest flora, while the front and back were moderately clear. It was not particularly the ideal location for a skirmish.

His attention was drawn to a point behind him, in the overlying branches near where he came. His stalker had abandoned all secrecy. It cautiously lurked from the concealing shadows and revealed itself in the unsettling blue glow of a branch’s bioluminescent foliage.

It was a Nightarch Spider, a forest-dwelling arachnid of considerably larger mass than was typical of its general species classification. The Nightarch Spider belonged primarily to a family of half-shadow, half-solid creatures identified normally as “Nightarchs”. They were enigmatic creatures, and Helth, nor anyone in his line of work, knew very much about them.

Nonetheless, Helth remembered from the uncountable hours he had spent drilling the classifications into his mind that this particular type of Nightarch Spider was a Stalker type.

The Stalker hissed intensely, vehement urgency to overcome and subdue its prey evident. Helth surmised it must have  begun recently suffering from lack of sustenance and was bent on satisfying its ravenous hunger by consuming his flesh.

The explorer drew his weapon—a submachine firearm called a D.E.G. Subgun-AM5—slowly as to not entice the spider’s anxiousness to attack him.

It did not require any inclination. The Stalker fluxed into shadowlike matter and lunged forward, deadly forelimbs extended to enact a felling double stab.

Helth instinctively rolled to the left, avoiding the Nightarch Spider’s attack with a small fraction of space to spare. Upon completing the roll, he turned about, crouched, and pulled his weapon’s trigger. A burst of stunning sapphire light ejected from the Subgun’s barrel-end.

The Stalker, now solid matter again, utilized its own agility and evaded death. Nonetheless, the bolt tore off one of its lethal forward appendages from the second joint. This elicited a ghostly cry from it and the laceration spilled forth unnatural midnight-black blood.

Infuriated, the creature aggressively sprang at Helth with greater vehemence than its previous attack. He initiated three more blasts from the AM5 in an up-to-down straight arch in front of him, forcing the spider to abandon its jump. But to the explorer’s dismay, it immediately leapt sideways onto a tree’s cylinder trunk and taking advantage of the momentum, darted back directly at him.

Unable to react quick enough, Helth was barreled into by the Stalker’s armored head. The impact sent both flying in a fray of sprawling limbs and dark blood until they crashed to a halt at the grotto’s edge.

Helth’s new adversary spared no time in resuming its attack; it thrashed about, using its legs and fearsome mouth of fangs in a continued attempt to kill Helth.

Jarred, injured and covered in a pool of dark blood, Helth shifted and turned beneath his opposition to avoid its myriad of frantic stabs. If his next move didn’t end the skirmish, he would never reach his destination.

He rapidly assessed his situation and realized that his Subgun had remained connected to him even through the jostling. Immediately putting it to use, he roared with a burst of adrenaline; the weapon reacted likewise to his emotion as he pulled the trigger.

A sphere of roseate energy erupted from the weapon, propagating an aura of dazzling, passionate light. The Stalker retreated from atop its prey and the sphere of light flew unguided into the thick flora. It exploded, flames shooting forth like fiery demons released from a cage. The forest was immediately set ablaze. Chemicals reacted; the alien jungle surged a large bellow of thick, unstoppable fire in every direction.

Helth knew what was happening, and he—if for only the smallest moment—pitied the Stalker. Subsequent to the roseate energy sphere, it had involuntarily shifted to shadowlike matter in self-defense. Now, brilliant light illumined the area, and it was obliterated almost instantaneously.

The explorer punched a hole in the foliage covering the grotto and descended on one of its walls, narrowly escaping the torrent of raging flame that engulfed the area he had occupied moments ago.

Ave, peoples!

Why is the “megaton of TNT” a unit of energy equal to 4.184 petajoules? Or why does taping paper to trees seem like morbid cruelty? And why does VORPAL sound so cool and yet so aggravatingly complicated?

I selflessly welcome you to the Arbitrary World (aka: the randomness of my spontaneous updates). What do we (as in “I”) do here? Updates, queries and arbitrariness, peoples! And why not throw in some cake while we’re at it!*

So, what’s on my Sufficiently Long And Perpendicular list today? Hmm. First off is an update concerning the (presently) incomplete short story, Of Light and Metal: The Droplets Fall!

Unfortunately, Part 2 is still in-the-works. I didn’t finish it nearly as fast as I initially wanted to, and thus I haven’t posted it here nearly as fast as I initially wanted to. Rest assured I am trying to complete it ASAP, but lack of ambition, distractions, and real-life happenings has been giving me a run for my money, so to speak (the irony of saying that right now is that I have a twenty dollar bill next to my hand here). When can you expect Part 2? I can’t answer that question with full confidence, because I have no idea; and, as we’ve seen in the past, I’m sadly not very good at sticking to things when I say I’ll continue with them (I’m very sorry about all that). Generally speaking, Of Light and Metal: The Droplets Fall is an  experimental, short-story side project that I decided to put some effort into and post here–to show you guys I’m still alive in the realm of writing and all that. 🙂 We’ll see where it goes from here.

Moldy potato chip break!

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Annndddddd, we’re back!

What’s next on the list… Ah yes! It’s query time, with Professor Pat!

*Ahem* I’ve noticed recently that there is a substantial lack of critique on the site, excluding Munchkin’s comments. The P.Y.W.G. exists as a group of young individuals who came together to share ideas and manuscripts, have writing-based conversations, and offer support and constructive critique to one another. Unfortunately, critique and feedback seem to be neglected. Busy lives and important events may keep the writers from being ever-present and always giving of their time to read over another’s work and then inform them of their thoughts on it, but only a bare minority have actually conversed here in recent posts! I believe the group can do better; don’t you?

That’s all for now from Professor Pat.

Oh dear… someone suffered an irreparable stomach disease from the moldy potato chip break! Moment of silence.

And now I present to you, Strawberry Fishes**:

Thank you for reading the first Arbitrary World post. I hope you like 1598/1599 plays, and have a fantastic day. 🙂

 

*The cake is a lie!

**Strawberry Fishes comic is not original by Munchkin. Source: The Sanctum Facebook Page.

Ave, peoples!

While getting ready for the day this morning, I thought about this file I created several months ago, which contains an unfinished (unofficial) prequel story idea for my series, Kindred Spirits: Formation. So, I thought I would find it and post the story here. I have little confidence it’s anything but perfect (jotted scrap is more like it); still, I’ll let you decide that for yourself.

To the group writers specifically: I did state I wouldn’t be around much for a while, but, as it turns out, I’ve had some technical difficulties with the other project, and I cannot help myself but to write.

One more subject before I head out of here and leave the story to speak for itself. 🙂 I’m probably going to be asked this, so I will explain now: Why first-person for the primary protagonist? The reason for this specific POV I decided on was because I felt it fit, and truthfully, it was really neat to “experience” a slice of the M.C.’s life.

Due to the first-person perspective, I am quite a mite more vague than I typically am when beginning to explore characters and the overall story, and I suppose it’s simply the nature of this writing style (at least for myself as of the present). You get some third-person with the second M.C., so that’s probably where most of the explanation went.

Now, without further ado, Orphan of Love:

 

 

“Anusree,” A familiar female voice says softly as I feel a hand gently shake my shoulder, pulling me out of sleep. “You need to wake up now, Anusree. Everyone else is already downstairs having breakfast.”

I groan softly, rolling over on my side, away from the person trying to get me up.

I snuggle closer to the warm sheets and blankets of my bed, pushing my head deeper into my pillow, wanting to fall back asleep. Wanting to stay in my refuge of warmth.

I don’t want to face the cold, unforgiving world today.

“Come on, Anusree,” The familiar female voice continues to prompt as I hear footsteps walking around to the side of my bed that I’m facing. “You can’t stay in bed all day, no matter how hard you want to.”

I feel the owner of the voice sit down on my bed, next to where my legs would’ve been outstretched, hadn’t I already pulled them close to my body.

Moments pass, and I hear no further movement or talking from the girl trying to get me up. Suddenly, a soft, feminine hand gently brushes across my forehead, pushing away some of my long, dark-brown hair that had been resting on it.

At this, I sit up almost instantly, my eyelids coming open, my legs shooting out from my body. I don’t like to be touched, no matter who’s doing it.

The first thing I see as my eyes come open is the girl who, now, is successful in completely waking me up. She has long, sandy-blond hair, longer than my dark-brown hair, which is an uncombed mess around her shoulders. Her blue eyes and freckle-less face shine in the sunlight coming through the nearby window, her skin seeming to soak in the natural light and radiate it back out. She’s wearing a light-pink nightgown, which drapes down over her tall, lean body until just a little bit above her ankles, and her feet are bare. Even though she’s sitting, I can still tell she’s five-foot-something, and has superior height over myself.

The girl is fourteen year-old Marcy Quinn, my roommate, and only friend.

“I’m sorry about that, Anusree.” Marcy apologizes solemnly; both her hands now back at her sides. “I know you don’t like to be touched, and it was wrong of me to do it anyway.”

I stare at my friend, not saying a word, not moving, once again bewildered on her actions regarding me. Marcy has always been nice to me, a good friend to me, the only person I’ve ever been able to count on. And when she messes up, she has always apologized, taken responsibly, and never just throws out excuses or jokes to avoid the fact of what she did. She is truly the best friend a person like me could have.

We’ve known each other for almost all our lives, she the outgoing, confident, strong one; me the shy, small, weak one. You could say we compliment each other, she being the strong one, me being the weak one, though I don’t know what I have to offer Marcy besides someone to protect.

Yes, sometimes I need protecting. Though I won’t admit it to Marcy or any of the other girls here, especially the ones who I need protecting from. Specifically the sixteen-year-old girl Karyan, who not only leads the mockery against me, but focuses on making sure the majority of the mockery is about how small I am for my age of fourteen years. She has plenty to go off of, unfortunately. I am quite small.

“Marcy, Anusree!” A strong female voice, sounding to belong to someone around the age of forty or so, suddenly says sternly. “You two girls should already be downstairs at the breakfast table!”

Both Marcy and I turn to face where the voice had come from, and find one of the caretakers here, Mrs. Camiline, standing in the doorway to our room. The expression on her face immediately betrays the fact that she isn’t pleased.

“I’m sorry, ma’ am.” Marcy says, getting off my bed and proceeding to walk towards the open door. “We’ll go downstairs now. Come on, Anusree.”

I stay where I am for a moment, sitting up in bed, pondering on whether or not to say anything, and then push the covers of my bed away in a conscious decision to get up. I don’t want to be on the wrong side of Mrs. Camiline, as she is one of the head caretakers here.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed, and slide off. My delicate, bare feet come to rest on the cold, hardwood floor of Marcy and I’s room, making me shiver.

I quickly shrug off the unpleasant cold, and walk over to where Marcy and Mrs. Camiline are waiting in the nearby doorway, the lower-portion my nightgown waving around my legs. (My nightgown is exactly the same as Marcy’s, just smaller to fit my unusually small body.)

Marcy leaves the doorway as I approach, and starts heading towards the large staircase that leads to the downstairs of this big building which I have lived in all my life.

I arrive at the doorway, next to Mrs. Camiline, and go to follow Marcy, but I am stopped by the stern voice of the caretaker.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Anusree?” Mrs. Camaline asks, not moving from her place in the doorway.

“N-No, m-ma’ am.” I stutter in response, bowing my head, not wanting to look into the face of Mrs. Camaline. “I-I’m sorry, m-ma’ am.”

I get no response for a moment. A long, tormenting moment, until Mrs. Camaline finally says something. “You are forgiven, Anusree.” Comes an unexpected reply from the old caretaker. “Now run along, and go follow Marcy down to the breakfast table.”

I slowly raise my head, shocked at the kind reply, and look back at Mrs. Camaline, who I find to have a small smile on her face. It’s very rare that I see any sort smile on her face, and I stare at her, wondering why she would be smiling now.

She seems to read my thoughts, as she says, “It’s not like I don’t ever smile.”

“O-Oh, m-ma’ am, I didn’t—“ I start, thinking that Mrs. Camaline took my silence the wrong way, but am interrupted.

“Anusree, it’s fine, you have nothing to worry about.” Mrs. Camaline says, letting out a short laugh. “Just get downstairs to the breakfast table!”

I can’t help but to sheepishly smile back. It’s not often I smile, given the situation of my life, but Mrs. Camaline’s smile just urged me to, and it actually felt sort of good.

“O-Of course, yes ma’ am.” I stutter, and then quickly head off down the hallway to catch up with Marcy, wondering what else this day will hold for me…

 

* * *

Bill J. Gates, renounced detective for the Secret Service, once a US soldier in Iraq, multi-millionaire, high-level field-agent for the US Defense Force, and personal friend of the President of the United States of America, sat at a meeting (in the White House) between himself and several other high-ranking members of the US government, President Hannen included.

The meeting was primarily about the recent capture of one of the biggest drug and underworld dealers, Casno Hyund, who had been apprehended by Gates (who did quite a bit of field work) exactly one week before.

Thus far, the meeting had just been concerning legal and political items involving the underworld dealer, but that part of the meeting was soon to end.

“Alright, now that the legal items are out of the way, we can be finished here.” One of the senators present at the meeting, Mr. Ebon, announced, placing Casnos file and several other items into a specially designed bulletproof briefcase. “Unless, of course, anyone has something to say?”

“Actually, I do.” Bill said from his place at the large table that the attendants of this meeting where seated at.

“How surprising, Mr. Gates.” The senator said, sarcasm evident in his voice. Bill was known to voice his opinions, and this, especially since he was the one who had brought Casno Hyund to justice, was no exception.

Also, Bill J. Gates was known to offer sarcasm of his own.

“What I find surprising, senator Ebon, is why I don’t yet know where Casno is being held.” Bill said, throwing the senators sarcasm right back in his face. “Through this entire meeting, nothing has been said about the whereabouts of Casno Hyund. I spoke to the President before this meeting, and he doesn’t even know where Casno is being held.”

“The ‘whereabouts’ of Casno Hyund are unimportant at this moment, Mr. Gates, and if you—“

At that, Bill stood up; both his fists going down onto the polished wood table before him, stopping the senator mid-sentence.

“Unimportant?!” Bill yelled, incredulous. “How the heck is his location unimportant?! Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be worried about where he currently is after I saw him last, Mr. Ebon?! Casno Hyund is one of the biggest drug and weapons dealers in the criminal underworld, and you’re saying to me that it doesn’t matter where he is!”

“Gates…” The President warned, moving up in his chair at the head of the long table.

Bill paid little attention to the Presidents warning.

“Give me one good reason, senator. One good reason to why I shouldn’t be at liberty to know where the criminal mastermind I put out of business is.” Bill challenged, staring straight at Ebon.

The senator seemed stunned. He didn’t even make a move for a few moments, just simply staring back at Bill, his composure having lost some of its authority.

Silence fell upon the meeting. Silence that seemed to go on forever.

Gates staring at Ebon, Ebon staring at Gates, the rest of the meetings occupants tensely waiting for the outcome of this short senator-vs.-detective argument.

Gates wasn’t known to get into unnecessary fist fights, though it was unusual of him to slam his fists down as he had done. The reason he had slammed his fists down, was because of how sensitive this subject was for him.

Casno Hyund was, after all, technically his arch-nemesis.

Gates had first encountered Casno on an assignment to the criminal underworld, an assignment in which Gates had later discovered to be more difficult than first thought. The drug and weapons dealer was the person he had been assigned to apprehend, and since that eventful mission, Casno Hyund had become Gates prime enemy.

Casno was a worthy enemy, cunning, shrewd, and had this thing for being strangely good at escaping. He kept Gates on his toes whenever they crossed paths, and he was an extremely hard man to capture.

Gates had put him in prison before, but to avail. Casno had escaped every time.

Now, having recently apprehended him, Gates had to ensure he stayed in prison. But how could he do that, if he didn’t know where Casno was?

Thus this argument with the senator.

“This meeting is adjourned.” The President said, breaking the silence and ending both meeting and argument. “Mr. Gates, I wish to talk to you,” The President added, looking over at Bill. “Privately.”

* * *

I slow my pace has I near the closed door in which leads to the meal area, the large room in which I have eaten all my breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for as long as I can remember.

Marcy, standing next to the door, is waiting for me.

“There you are.” Marcy says as I approach. “Where have you been?”

“I was talking to Mrs. Camaline.” I explain bluntly, stopping next to my friend.

I’m not one to talk much, somewhat due to the fact I have very few people who will actually listen, I don’t really have a great deal to talk about, and my shyness. Though, I also tend to be very curious (which isn’t always a good thing), and have my rare moments of chattering.

“Talking to Mrs. Camaline?” Marcy says, looking surprised. “Was she scolding you?”

“No, she was actually being nice to me.” I reply, still a bit surprised by it myself.

“Maybe she just has pity on you, it’s not like you’re special or anything.” A female voice, not belonging to Marcy, says.

I look over; towards the direction the voice came from, and find my antagonist, Karyan, walking towards Marcy and me.

She’s the girl I need protecting from, the person who has been out to embarrass me since I arrived here.

Karyan is as tall and lean as Marcy, but she’s nothing like my friend. Karyan has long, night-black hair, pale skin, and her eyes are an ominous blue shade. She has a mean personality, and is known around here for bullying, specifically me.

None of the other girls here, except Marcy, will stand up to her.

“You asked you, Karyan?” Marcy rebuttals, automatically defending me.

Karyan stops in front of Marcy, and returns smugly, “You stay out of this. I can talk to Anusree without you’re input.”

Marcy glares back, unyielding. “Not if you’re just going to bully her. You know Anusree won’t defend herself, all this time you’ve known it, and yet you bully her anyway!”

“She deserves it!”

“How?! Just because she’s small doesn’t mean she deserves to be bullied!”

Marcy and Karyan’s argument intensifies, and all the while, I just stand here, off to the side, not knowing what I should do.

Marcy and Karyan have argued before, more times than I can remember, so it’s not that it’s an unusual thing; I’ve just never known how to react; except to stand quietly off to the side.

My fighting spirit was tucked away a long time ago, crushed, but not destroyed, by the prodding doubts and mockery inflected on me over the years. It’s one of the reasons I need protecting; I won’t defend myself. I won’t fight back.

It’s one of my biggest weaknesses, and without Marcy, I would be bullied on an unthinkable level.

Karyan suddenly gives Marcy a shove, startling both her and me. Karyan almost never becomes physical with anyone, even me.

Marcy, after a silent moment, seems to recover from her shock at Karyan’s action, and bolts forward towards Karyan; something in her eyes I rarely see: Anger.

Marcy, her right arm in front of her like a ram, slams into Karyan. Both of them go down, Marcy on top, Karyan pressed against the hard, marble floor.

Marcy, before Karyan can fight back, begins a fury of attacks with her fists; landing blows on her face, arms, and chest area.

Utterly shocked, I stare wide-eyed at my friend attack Karyan, bruising her features and even making her bleed in some places.

Marcy never attacks anyone like this, especially with the obvious anger she has now.

Karyan suddenly roars, and pushes Marcy off of her, sending my friend sprawling onto the floor. Then, before Marcy can get up, Karyan jumps on her, and begins to attack her as she had done.

Marcy tries to escape Karyan’s ferocious attacks, but the sixteen-year-old girl is on top of her, and Marcy can’t break free. She’s trapped, and Karyan is beating her.

This is too much for me; I can’t just stand here and watch my best friend be beaten like this. I have to do something, but what?

By the time I find a caretaker, Marcy will be a beaten mess; it will take too long. There’s only one other thing I can do…

I suddenly rush towards the brawl, barely thinking, just knowing I have to save my friend no matter what.

I collide into Karyan with all the strength I can muster, instantly throwing her off Marcy and into a wall. Karyan slumps face-first to the ground, her head having made hard contact with the wall moments ago.

I quickly go to my friends’ side, and rest her bruised head in my lap, trying to make it more comfortable for her. I begin to cry as I see what Karyan did to her, and pray that she’s alright.

“Marcy? Marcy, are you okay?” I ask through an emotion-cracked voice, tears beginning to stream down my face. “Y-You’ve got to be okay….”

Marcy doesn’t respond, her eyes remain closed. Her breathing is faint, and when I check her pulse, I can barely feel anything.

Karyan nearly killed her, and if I don’t find help soon…

Suddenly, I feel someone’s body make contact with mine, and I am thrown away from my dying friend by the force, colliding back-first with the wall opposite the one Karyan had collided with.

Dazed by the impact, my vision is blurred, and when it returns, I only have a small glimpse of Karyan standing over me before I am thrown across the floor.

This time, I crash into a small nearby table, and feel my back slam into the hard wood, knocking the air out of me and sending terrible pain through my body.

“I’m going to end you here and now, you stupid little Anlorian!” Karyan screams at me, and through my distorted vision, I see her strolling towards me, apparently intent on more than just giving me a few bruises.

A nasty gash is present on her forehead, blood oozing down from it and creating a stream of the red liquid horizontally down her face.

Why did she refer to me as an, ‘Anlorian’? I’ve never heard the word before.

Karyan is about to reach me, her face contorted and filled with hatred, when a familiar voice rings out through the hall. The voice of Mrs. Camaline.

“Stop this right now, Karyan!” Mrs. Camaline screams, walking in a restrained jog towards the area of our brawl.

Two more caretakers follow along behind Mrs. Camaline, and one goes to Marcy, well the other walks over to Karyan to try and calm her down.

Mrs. Camaline heads straight for me, her eyes clouded with worry.

I, having recovered from the air being knocked out of me, try to move just before Mrs. Camaline bents down next to me.

I have to go to Marcy; I have to see if she’s alright.

Mrs. Camaline gently moves me away from the now damaged table, setting me down softly on the floor next to it and resting my head down on her lap.

I try to move again, to get up, but she tenderly stops me.

“Don’t move, Anusree,” Mrs. Camaline says softly, one hand resting on my shoulder. “You need to lie still.”

“But… Marcy…” I say weakly, slowly looking over towards the direction of my friend.

I notice that paramedics have arrived, along with a few police officers, and Marcy is being carefully loaded onto a stretcher.

On the other side of the hallway, another stretcher is stationed next to the far wall; and two police officers, each having one of Karyan’s arms as she struggles and screams to escape their grasp, hold her; while a paramedic, carrying a small syringe, approaches. The paramedic injects Karyan with whatever was in the syringe, and after a few moments, she stops struggling and falls limp in the officers’ arms, unconscious.

“Marcy is going to be okay, Anusree,” Mrs. Camaline reassures as my friend is wheeled out of the hallway on the stretcher she was placed on by two paramedics. “And I know she wants you to be okay yourself, so please lie still until another stretcher arrives.”

I yield, somewhat reassured by the fact that my friend is on her way to the hospital, and lay still.

Soon, Karyan is also wheeled out of the hallway on a stretcher, one of the policemen escorting her out with a paramedic.

As police officers, and someone who looks like a detective, roam about the hallway, and a single paramedic is walking over towards Mrs. Camaline and me, I begin to feel pain that I hadn’t noticed before.

I groan as it intensifies, squirming a little, the impacts that were inflected on me catching up.

“Lay still, Anusree. I know it hurts, but you have to remain still.” Mrs. Camaline says softly, as the paramedic bends down next to me and produces two pills from his shirt pocket.

“If you’re feeling any pain, you can take these.” The paramedic informs, speaking to me as he places the pills in Mrs. Camaline’s hand. Then he turns to Mrs. Camaline and says, “The stretcher will arrive soon.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Camaline says to the paramedic, taking one of the pills and holding it near my mouth.

I know that she wants me to take them, so I obey and open up.

Soon, I’ve taken both pills, which make me feel drowsy, and the stretcher arrives.

The paramedic who supplied the pills, and another who came in with the stretcher, place me on it carefully, and then we begin to exit the hallway.

Whatever was in the pills soon overtakes me, and I fall asleep before we can even get outside, the fright and unanswered questions of what had happened swirling around in my mind….

 

* * *

“Gates, I understand your worry and dedication for making certain Casno is in prison, but what you did out there was completely unnecessary,” The President said, mustering his will to remain calm with Bill J. Gates. “You looked like you were angry enough to attack senator Ebon, and how do you think that made him and all the others present think of you?”

Bill, far too frustrated and stressed that he still didn’t know where his arch-nemesis was, was standing by a window in the President’s office while he spoke.

“It doesn’t matter what they think right now, Mr. President, and I would repeat that meeting over again to get answers if so necessary.” Bill replied, his voice stained with frustration.

“You’re impossible, Bill,” The President said, sighing; though his sigh quickly turned into a short chuckle. “You wonder why I adopted you.”

Bill turned from the window, and walked over to the President’s desk, which the leader of the US government was seated behind.

“Well, only you would know that.” Bill returned, a smirk on his own face as he sat down across from the President; though his frustration was most-definitely not gone, and his exasperation could be heard in the tone he used.

“I think a lot about it now, Bill; how far we’ve come since that first day.” The President said, his eyes and voice distant. “To think, I was just an average man, and you just a boy…”

“I know, sir, and I don’t want to talk about it. The past is the past, and in my case, it’s better not to think about it.” Gates said, looking uncomfortable and troubled, and not just because of the outcome of the recent meeting. “I owe you a lot, and I really appreciate what you did for me, but I don’t want to think about what happened.”

Bill turned back to the window, unable to control the rush of memories that suddenly came back to the surface from deep within; memories of his distant past.

It started when he was merely six years old, about thirty years ago; Gates now being thirty-six.

It was just another normal, innocent afternoon. Or it had been, until the accident happened. Bill was waiting at the school he attended in Washington D.C., close to where he lived with his two loving parents.

One of the teachers had told him his parents where on the way, which probably meant they were driving. Unfortunately, Bills assumption was correct; they had been driving.

Bill waited by the parking lot for much longer than it should have taken his parents to arrive, and as he had started to become impatient, a teacher had emerged from the nearby school building and hesitantly informed him of what had delayed them.

Bills parents were… dead. Instantly killed in a terrible car accident.

This was, at first, hard for him to understand, but as he had realized that his parents were actually dead, it shattered his world.

Everything he knew suddenly had changed. He was taken out of the D.C. school he had attended, placed in an orphanage in Warrenton, Virginia, and none other of his still-living relatives wanted him. The life he had known had disappeared, never to be the same again.

Years later, when Bill was about ten, a fire of unknown source had engulfed the orphanage, destroying the building.

During the burning of the building, several children and a few caretakers were killed; including Bills best friend, who he had met and become friends with at the orphanage, and also Bills personal caretaker, who he had viewed as a sort of mother to him.

This added ever more so to his hurt. He had lost everything twice, and his thoughts had turned to whether or not there was any point in living.

Gladly, someone had helped to change his mind about the prospect of suicide; the person who would help define who he would become.

That person, was twenty-one year old Carter Hannen, who would later take up the job he worked at now: Being the President of the United States of America.

He adopted Bill at the post-fire adoption that had been quickly setup by the person in charge of the orphanage. They had to find a home for as many children as possible, otherwise drastic measures would have had to be taken, or the orphans would’ve had to have slept in the streets.

So, Carter had adopted Gates, and he became the would-be Presidents son. Then, Carter had been a simple police officer.

There was a lot of pain in Bills past, from the events that occurred in his shattered life, but Carter coming in and adopting him had shown a bright light on his bleak and seemingly hopeless situation.

Since then, things had improved for Bill J. Gates, and he was now the adopted son of the President and a  multi-billionaire.

Not only these things, but he had picked up some very useful skills.

“I understand, Bill. We don’t have to talk about it.” Carter said, bringing Bill out of thought.

“Thank you, sir.” Bill returned, then an awkward silence followed. Gates, not particularly comfortable with this silence, rose out of his chair after it had been present for quite a few moments, and said, “Well, I must be going.”

“Of course.” Carter said, rising out of his own chair. He held out his hand for Gates to shake.

Gates took it, then released his grip and stepped away. “Have a nice day, Mr. President.” He said.

“You also, Bill.” The President replied.

Then Gates exited the President’s office.

…

After making his way through The White House, Gates exited through a front door, and began walking down towards the sport-class Ferrari that was awaiting him.

BUG, his small drone friend and assistant, greeted him as he climbed into the very expensive vehicle.

“Hello, sir.” BUG said in its computerized voice, hovering near Bill’s shoulder.

BUG, black with some chrome trimmings, was quite small, especially for its capabilities, and at most was only two or three inches in height. Normally, the tiny machine will hover around on two micro repulsers fitted into its two small wings, but can also land and instead utilize very small tracks that are embedded into its wings outfacing sides; these tracks are amazingly durable for their size, can be retracted into the wings and concealed when not in use.

The wings can also serve with the universal port plug-in that can be put out and retracted; each wing carries a single one of these. These port plug-ins allow BUG to hookup to nearly all known computer ports and consoles. He also carries a powerful onboard wireless system, making it so he can connect to devices and networks without the need of ports.

BUG’s computer brain is a specially designed Nanotech system, and is stored within the two panels—which are relatively as thick as its wings—that are positioned on either side of its strong, well-structured body that holds its entirety together. The computer brain is also partly located in this body, and connects the two panels so that they may communicate with ease. The processing power and memory space that are available via this computer brain give BUG incredibly high capabilities concerning the quality and speed of the operations and tasks he can perform. Generally speaking, he has the combined power of several supercomputers.

This Nanotech computer brain also makes BUG an advanced artificial intelligence drone, and, as Gates would say, ‘he has a personality of his own’.

The panels also have micro holographic projectors in them, which allow BUG to create 1D, 2D, and 3D holographic projections; the maximum size of hologram BUG can create is exactly one hundred inches by one hundred inches.

BUG’s two photo-processors (eyes)—which are relatively tiny, but still allow for excellent sight—are positioned in the front of his body, and feature a Heads Up Display (HUD), night vision, infra-red, and x-ray.

BUG’s power source is a partly self-sustaining core battery unit, positioned in his body and mostly comprised of energy-generating Nanotech. This core battery—on full charge—will averagely give BUG an entire day of usage, and will continually recharge itself, allowing for even multiple days of usage without having to plug-up and recharge manually. However, not recharging after a full day of use can prove to slow some of BUG’s systems, if strained without recharge for extended periods of time.

BUG’s outer shell is comprised of a very durable material, and he is designed to be able to survive shocks and impact without damage or harm to his systems.

BUG has other accessories and such available to it, but they are not exactly as notable, nor are used often.

“Hey, buddy,” Bill greeted back, starting up his Ferrari.

“Did your meeting go well, sir?” BUG asked.

Bill pulled the Ferrari out of The White House driveway, and began the drive home.

Gates sighed; not at BUG, but at the thought of the recent meeting. “Unfortunately, no. I still have no clue where Casno is.”

“That is unfortunate.” BUG said, the disappointment evident in its computerized voice. “I have been attempting to locate him via my connection to the world’s satellites, but I have also been unsuccessful.”

BUG has always been Gates faithful companion, and its loyalty is undivided. It has assisted him almost from the beginning of his career as a detective; and BUG is an invaluable ally in Gates line of work. They have experienced many adventures together, and BUG has saved Gates life more than once.

Along with the President, BUG is one of Gates greatest friends.

“It’s okay, BUG. We’ll find him eventually, we always have.” Bill reassured.

“Indeed.” Agreed the tiny AI drone. “How will we precede, sir?”

“I’m trying to weight my options right now, so we’ll head home and figure out what to do next from there.” Answered Gates, speeding down the road before them.

“Should I inform Sirloom to prepare anything, sir?”

“Yes. Inform him that I’ll be having dinner in my office tonight, and after that, he has the rest of the evening off.”

“Are we going to be hacking tonight, sir?”

Bill chuckled. “You know me too well, BUG.”

 

* * *

Her beaten features, crippled body, bleeding face. The shallow breathing, the weak pulse.

“Marcy? Marcy, are you okay? Y-You’ve got to be okay….”

So close to death. So far from hope.

“I’m going to end you here and now, you stupid little Anlorian!”

The merciless attacks. The unforgiving beating.

The pain…. The distress…. The anger…..

All because of me…

…

I awake with a start, jolting into a sitting position and gasping for breath.

My eyes dart around the room, searching for my friend. Searching for Marcy.

But all I find around me is my room. The two dressers, both with mirrors above them; a closet, my bed (which I’m on), Marcy’s bed, the single window between the two beds on the wall, the bedside table below the window with a light on it, and the light fixture on the ceiling.

The door to the room is shut, and I am the only one here.

I recall that they were taking Marcy to the hospital, and I thought they were taking me along with her, but I guess they decided I didn’t need hospital-level care for the minimum wounds I sustained from the fight. So Mrs. Camaline must’ve taken me back to my room. That’s how I got here.

I push the covers off slowly, and climb out of bed.

I have to find Mrs. Camaline to ask her how Marcy’s doing.

I notice the throbbing bruises and pain as my feet touch the floor, but ignore them. I have to know about Marcy, and a little pain will not stop me.

As I’m making my way towards the door, something catches my eye to the right of me. My reflection.

There’s a big mirror on one of the doors to the closet, and my reflection is staring back at me in it.

I’m small, having far less height than I should for a fourteen year-old teenager, and could quite easily pass for someone many years younger than I actually am; I’m just under three feet tall. Puberty never seemed to kick in with me, though at this point I’m starting to believe that that isn’t the problem.

Dark-brown hair—that isn’t so long, but still goes down to my shoulder blades—sits in a mess around my shoulder blades and back. Freckles are present all over my face, adding moreso to my ‘little girl’ appearance. Brown eyes stare back at me. I have fair skin, freckles dotting my body all over. My body is slender and well-formed, though my muscles give me little strength.

“Oh, Anusree, you’re awake!”

I turn away from my reflection, and discover Mrs. Camaline in the doorway to mine and Marcy’s room.

She comes in, walks over to me, and bends down to my level.

“How are you feeling?” She asks.

“Is Marcy okay?” I ask, not worried about how I’m doing.

Mrs. Camaline’s composure drops suddenly at this question. Her face drops to the floor with an uncertain look. After a moment, she slowly looks back to me.

“You don’t have to worry about Marcy right now, Anusree, you need—”

I know something’s wrong. I can read it on Mrs. Camaline’s face. In her voice. And it makes me worried.

“Is Marcy okay?” I ask again, not allowing my question to be put off. I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t go on not knowing what happened to her after I saw her last.

“Anusree—”

“Please, ma’ am, I need to know…” I continue to prompt, tears building up. “It—it’s my fault; I can’t go on not knowing….”

“Anusree, it’s not your fault,” Mrs. Camaline says kindly, gently putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, trying to reassure me. “Karyan was the one who hurt Marcy, not you.”

“But it would’ve never started if it wasn’t for me!” I retort, emotions coming to the surface, tears beginning to fall down my cheeks. “It w-would’ve never started…”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself. Things happen.”

“Y-you don’t understand!” I say through my sobbing, my voice slightly raised. “This is m-my fault! Marcy and Karyan would’ve n-never fought if I didn’t exist!”

“Oh, Anusree,” The caretaker says, reaching to hold me in a comforting embrace.

I step back, not allowing her to.

“N-no! You don’t u-understand!” I blurt through the tears. “It’s my f-fault!….”

I rush past her and out of the room, running down the hall as fast as I can.

She calls my name behind me, but I don’t stop.

Emotions and tears spilling out, I don’t stop.

 

…

 

Curled up in a dark corner in one of the stairway storage closets under a rear staircase, I sit crying in trembling sobs, head in my hands. Tears stain my face and I know my eyes must be red from the crying by now. But I can’t stop. Mrs. Camaline’s face told the whole story, even if she didn’t mean it to: Marcy died. She died, sticking out for me.

“Why? Why?”

My friend, my only friend, is gone. Gone because of a disagreement over me. It’s my fault.

“W—Why?!” I blurt into the darkness. “Why did she h-have to die?….”

My sentence trails off and is drowned out by a new round of sobbing.

After it feels like I’ve been in here for an eternity, crying, wondering helplessly why Marcy is gone, light pours into the storage space. I lift my head out of my hands and look up.

A teenage girl is crouching in the storage space’s open doorway, a surprised and worried look on her face. I realize the girl is Theta, a sixteen-year-old with a younger sister named Lalita.

“Anusree?” Theta says. “Anusree? Is that you?”

I can’t reply. My throat is too choked up and the crying hiccups make it hard to even try. The sobs continue.

Theta crawls into the space and pulls me close to her. “Shhh, Anusree. It’s okay.” She hushes, rocking me back and forth with her arms. “Shhh, little child. I’m here now.”

I don’t recoil or pull away. I don’t care anymore. It’s all sadness, an impenetrable feeling of loss. Loss, and the feeling of ill-fated responsibly for my friend’s death.

With these feelings dominating me, exhaustion and Theta’s rocking lull me to sleep.

After waking up again and going back to my room, I slept fitfully for the rest of the day, voluntarily confined to my bed.

 

* * *

Gates Castle, Heart Island, Alexandria Bay, NY

Bill J. Gates sat in his office, behind his polished-wood desk.

His office, a regal room, was comprised of three different styles: Medieval, Victorian, and modern era, all combined into one harmonious layout. It was on the fifth floor of his house, Gates Castle; the former Boldt Castle of Heart Island in the Thousand Islands. Bill purchased the ‘castle’, the island, and every other structure on it a few years back from the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority for a substantial sum, under the condition that the basis of the original design and all structures would be kept intact. Bill agreed, and as a further gesture, he promised to keep the name for the island, Heart Island, that George Boldt had given it.

After purchasing it, Gates did touch up work, finished every room in the ‘castle’, and added some modern innovations and the third style to occupy the building, modern. The island and ‘castle’ were already beautiful, and he didn’t change much of anything on the outside. He did, however, do work under the island. Bill had several ‘basement’ levels built under Heart Island, which the first level of served as a garage and personal repair area for Gates’s expensive vehicles. These basement levels also served as the entrance from the underwater car tunnel that he had had constructed from the mainland, along the bay floor, and then to the basements, where a car elevator would take a vehicle up to the garage. A person elevator in the center of the room could then take you up into Gates Castle.

Bill enjoyed living on Heart Island. It was beautiful, off the mainland living that offered privacy and his own chuck of free-standing land.

BUG was resting on the desk next to the keyboard, plugged into the computer via a custom port by its universal plug-in.

“Commencing worldwide satellite connection.” BUG announced.

The computer’s screen switched from standard desktop to a satellite-fed view of planet Earth as a 3-dimensional model. A number of satellites, orbiters, and communication towers were identified around the world and showed up on the screen.

Bill accessed a satellite over California, and had it pinpoint a compound on the outskirts of L.A. The compound was an underworld dealer’s pickup spot, where merchandise would be exchanged between drug suppliers and their benefactors. Black market transactions were from time to time conducted there as well, with a variation of illegal arms and tech. The compound was technically neutral and served only as a discreet location to make trade-offs and finish deals.

All this was irrelevant now, to the annoyance of many underworld families. Bill J. Gates and an L.A. S.W.A.T. team had stormed the compound during a drug transaction concerning Casno Hyund, the supplier, and the benefactor, a man who went by Goral Pate. The siege went less smoothly than Gates or the S.W.A.T. team had hoped. Goral Pate had successfully killed an S.W.A.T. member before being impaled by a volley of semi-automatic fire, and there was a short skirmish amongst the remaining S.W.A.T., Goral’s men, and Casno’s people, with a few further casualties to the criminal side. Casno was apprehended in the end, with several others who had managed not to get killed.

After the scene was all sorted out, the offenders were taken away by prison van. Bill hadn’t seen Casno Hyund since. And because some certain people were strangely reluctant to divulge his arch-nemeses’ whereabouts, Gates decided he would take the matter into his own hands.

Bill had begun the hobby of computer hacking at a young age in the Warrenton orphanage, as something to occupy himself and keep away the nagging sorrows of his loneliness. Once, using the orphanage’s desktop computer, eight-year-old Bill had wirelessly hacked security at a local Warrenton bank without anyone detecting his presence. It was exhilarating accomplishment for him. However, the orphanage caretakers weren’t so pleased with his ‘accomplishment’, and he was restricted from computer use for the better portion of a month afterward.

Since then, Bill had become a dedicated hacker. He used his skill not for criminal activities, but for good, and occasionally when he needed (or wanted) to know something that was classified or people simply wouldn’t inform him of.

“Sync with the satellites memory base and retrieve feed from the compound site, twenty-three-hundred hours.” Bill instructed.

This particular satellite was fitted with a long-range precision optics camera—one that could take video feed of things on the ground with relatively good quality, depending of course on weather conditions and cloud cover. Fortunately for Gates, the night of the compound siege had been a decently clear one.

BUG replied by following the command. A vid-feed from about twenty-three-hundred hours the night of the siege appeared on the screen. Police and S.W.A.T. had by then swarmed the building and bordered-off the area. L.A. Police cruisers spotted the perimeter, and a prison van was being loaded up with the reprobates.

“Put a tracking blip on the prison van.” Bill said. “I want to know where it went to.”

A red, computer-generated, pulsing blip appeared on the van and stuck to the vehicle as it drove away from the compound and headed for the L.A. Police station. Bill had been preoccupied with something back at the compound, and had not overseen the prisoner transport. He regretted it now. The van arrived at the station, dropped off the prisoners…

“Hold it.” Bill said, suspicions arisen. “The group of prisoners who entered the building, none of them were Casno.”

“That is correct, sir. I ran a quick identification scan, and none of those men could possibly be Casno Hyund.”

“Resume the feed. Continue following the van. I want to know where Casno was and where they took him.”

The situation with the unknown whereabouts of the underworld dealer to both the detective (Bill) and the President of the United States himself were unsettling and unusual. The government seemed to know the location of Casno, but were evidently closed to divulging the information. Was someone trying to hide him? What scenario could be so sensitive that the President was kept in the dark?

‘Whatever the reason, I’m starting to get a sense this isn’t going to be a regular ‘search and fine’ type thing. Everything always has to be complicated. What’s next? I’ll start a family?’

He would’ve chuckled to himself, but he wasn’t in the mood to laugh pointlessly at his own jokes.

The feed continued, zooming out gradually as the vehicle-in-question went farther and farther away from the cameras center point (which Gates had set as the compound before the siege that night) and headed in the general direction of a corporate park. Nonetheless, the blip kept the van identified and Gates did not lose it.

It arrived at the corporate park and stopped at a company building called “Sid’s Processing Service”. Unfortunately, the camera could not get feed from up-close, so Bill could not clearly see the activity going on there. It was obvious that a man had been dragged from the van and into the building, but the feed quality was blurry and only general shapes and colors could be made out from this range. The reason he even knew the name of the company building was because BUG had put it on the screen.

The van backtracked to the police station and parked in one of garages, and that was all.

“I want to know everything about ‘Sid’s Processing Service’, BUG. And although with the way the feed is it might not be possible, I want you to run an ID scan on the man that was dragged inside. If that was Casno, than Sid’s is the focus of our investigation.”

“Right away, sir.”

“I’m going to get into some government files. See if Casno Hyund’s most recent capture was even logged in the system.” Bill said, hands beginning to fly across the keyboard.

‘If it wasn’t Casno who was mysteriously missing, I would actually enjoy this tonight… No matter. There will be plenty more opportunities to hack under much less stressing situations. And finding Casno is far more important than enjoyment, wherever he is.’

 

Hey, peoples!

This is (as the title implies) the Concept Intro to one idea in a collection of story ideas I’m currently referring to as “Project Psyche”. Constructive critique and your opinions on this short piece (and if I should progress it into a full-length tale) are appreciated. 🙂

 

The Black Inanimentum—a void of encompassing shadow in the dream world—a place where many waylaid souls are cursed to reside in a perdition of nothingness. No time, no stimuli, no companionship.

Most perish in grief and insanity before long, succumbing to the abyss, willfully allowing themselves to be embraced and consumed to forever sate their longing for acquittal. The majority barely survive a mere few days.

The Inanimentum has that effect on the unfortunate persons condemned to call it their penal residence. Fear. Hopelessness. Melancholy. Seclusion.

Even those who fight it do so in futility, and pass away eventually as do all others—like wisps of smoke in the wind, none last long enough to make a lasting impression—or, for that matter, escape to witness and revel in light’s warmth.

So, how then, do we outside the Inanimentum know of this black tarnation?

Because one rarely noted person survived. He, with other accounts from legends and research, has created a plausible theory that the Black Inanimentum exists, and is not simply the workings of distraught subconscious minds.

Dr. Leayel, with Arcane Research and Exploration (A.R.E.), documented the single survivor’s recollection of his experience in the Inanimentum and presently assists Dr. Craig Williams (Head Director of “Project Psyche”) in further research.

The fallacy of the Black Inanimentum and the survivor’s experience still remains probable, though everyday it seems to lessen, and the story seems to become progressively more viable as reality…

Introduction: This is the strange and hilarious story of Bob, his friends, an evil enemy, and of course, PIE. It was written by what could have only been the mysterious whims of fate, a single friend, and the strange side of my mind.

So please enjoy this odd and random tale of Bob Loves PIE.

 

 

EPISODE 1

Bob Loves PIE. He does. And PIE Loves Bob. Yay.

Bob agrees with me. Did I mention Bob is an idiot?

Stevenson ate PIE.

Now Bob is mad. He will animate a cartoon to save his PIE. How will this help? I have absolutely no idea.

Bob finished his thingy. It is terrible. Bob should NEVER go into the movie making business.

Stevenson is happy, because PIE is in his stomach.

Bob, however, is very ery ery mad.

He donates Stevenson’s house to Robert. Robert loves houses.

Stevenson beats up Bob.

Bob took a trip to the hospital.

Bob vows revenge.

THE END

To be continued—when Bob feels better.

 

EPISODE 2

Stevenson is eating more PIE. Bob is stuck WITHOUT PIE in the hospital, but he is almost better. Then he will plot against Stevenson and do something.

Bob gets back home. He prepares for something. Bob is lost in his own home.

Poor Bob.

Bob, deprived of PIE, goes on a rampage through his house, and gets un-lost.

He calls his Grandma, who tells him she can’t hear him.

Bob gives up on that idea.

Bob sings a song for no reason.

He then goes to Clive’s house, where he finds Robert, who was kicked out from his house (which is actually Stevenson’s house) and now is with Clive.

They all prepare to plot against Stevenson.

Poor Stevenson.

But, after hours of eating frosting cake, they could not come up with any ideas.

THE END

To be continued after Bob and his friends go to Starbucks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EPISODE 3

After going to Starbuck’s and all getting XXXL mocha lattes, Bob and his friends passed out on Clive’s living room floor.

After they woke up, with MAJOR headaches, they all finished their XXXL mocha lattes, then passed out again.

After they woke up again, Bob and his friends decided NEVER to drink XXXL mocha lattes again.

Then they ate cookies for an hour while trying still to plot against Stevenson.

But, little did Bob know, that the existence of PIE was at risk.

THE END
To be continued, after Bob goes to the bathroom for many hours.

 

 

EPISODE 4

PIE is threatened.

Deep in the holes in the ground lied, over a game of cards, about their evil plots to conquer PIE. They are hungry.

Big and hairy, with eyes, these creatures are mammoths.

They want PIE.

Meanwhile, Bob and Robert are smelling flagpoles on Main Street. They smell like fish.

Robert is sickened by them.

Bob, however, doesn’t care about poles, and is instead looking for PIE.

Sadly, no PIE is to be found.

Bob is sad.

Where is all the PIE?

Bob decides to jump into a lake, searching for what appears to be floating PIE’s. Sadly, Bob has been WITHOUT PIE for so long; he is beginning to have mirages. PIE, it seems, has ceased to exist.

Bob cries out in terror.

Robert comes and tries to cheer Bob up, but Bob cannot be cheered up.

PIE is gone.

THE END

To be continued—once Bob is finished screaming in mortal terror.

 

 

 

 

 

 

EPISODE 5

When all PIE is gone.

Bob rushes back to Clive’s house, getting hit by a moving vehicle on the way, and upon arriving at Clive’s house, Robert behind him, he screams in mortal terror.

Clive rushes out, wondering what is wrong with Bob.

Bob tells him all PIE is gone.

Clive, Robert and Bob all scream in mortal terror.

What are they going to do?!

Just then, a big mammoth popped out of the ground, and yelled that the mammoths had taken all the worlds PIE. Then the mammoth disappeared back into the ground. The mammoth left a huge hole in the ground.

Bob declared that they must save PIE.

Robert and Clive agree.

Then Bob remembers they have no way of going deep into the ground.

Bob Clive and Robert eat more frosting cake, trying to figure out how to get underground.

They cannot figure out a way to get underground.

Is PIE doomed?

THE END

To be continued—when Bob, Robert, and Clive notice the obvious.

 

 

EPISODE 6

To save PIE!

Eventually, Bob, Robert and Clive notice the giant hole in the ground.

Bob calls a landscaper named Freddy to fix the hole.

Suddenly, just after calling Freddy, Bob realizes that the hole wrecked his garden.
Bob screams.

Then Bob realizes something else.

The big hole is the way to get deep underground to save PIE!

He calls Clive, Robert, and Freddy— who arrived moments ago.

Bob declares again that they will save PIE!

Robert, Clive, and Freddy—who has no idea what is going on—all ask how.

Bob points to the giant hole.

They all realize the garden is destroyed.

Bob faceplams.

He points to the hole again.

Robert and Clive gasp has they realize the hole is the way to get deep underground. Freddy, however, still doesn’t get it.

To save PIE! Yells Bob.

THE END

To be continued—after Bob’s garden is fixed.

 

 

EPISODE 7

Going deep.

Bob, armed with a SUPER SOAKER, and a powerful electric plunger, prepares to jump into the deep hole.

Robert, armed with a fishing pole, Clive, armed with a metal baseball bat, and Freddy, armed with two sharp shovels, prepare to jump in behind him.

For PIE! Bob screams, jumping head first into the hole.

His friends quickly follow behind.

A squirrel, as Bob passes by it while still falling, warns him that there are big pointy spikes at the bottom of the hole.

Bob screams.

Everyone screams.

What are they going to do?!

THE END

To be continued—when Robert goes fishing for dirt.

 

 

EPISODE 8

When Bob and friends fall.

Robert suddenly gets and idea!

Everyone thinks Robert is crazy.

He is going to go fishing for dirt!

Robert tells everyone to grab onto each other.

They all grab onto each other.

Robert flings his fishing pole at one of the dirt walls, and it bounces off, falling all the way to the bottom and getting destroyed by the spikes.

Well, that didn’t work.

Freddy has shovels.

Freddy throws shovels to everybody.

They grab them.

What do they do with the shovels?

They are getting closer to the spikes.

Freddy faceplams.

Bob sings to the shovel.

Freddy faceplams.

Robert cries.

Freddy faceplams.

Clive understands.

Clive digs his shovels into one of the dirt walls. He stops.

Robert does the same.

So does Bob.

Then Freddy.

Now they will not be mashed up into mangled bodies. Yay.
THE END

To be continued—

 

 

EPISODE 9

When Bob screamed.

Bob, Robert, Clive, and Freddy, all found themselves dangling from shovels, still at the risk of falling and being impaled by the big pointy spikes below.
They suddenly hear an evil chuckle, partly muffled by the fact that the owner of the evil chuckle has a face full of PIE.

It is Stevenson, evil leader of the hairy mammoths.

Bob, noticing Stevenson’s face full of PIE, screams the most terrible scream anyone has ever heard.

Prior to Bob’s scream of terror, the spikes shuck into the ground, allowing Bob and his friends to drop down.

They all let go, and let themselves free fall—which proved their stupidity.
They all hit the ground hard, and it hurt. A lot. Ouch.

THE END

To be continued, after Bob and his friends recover from their painful fall.

 

 

EPISODE 10

Following the Fall

Stevenson laughed manically at their plight, subsequently choking on his mouth full of PIE. Then he doubled over and waited for it to subside while the hairy mammoths surrounded Bob and his disoriented friends.

Bob and his friends got up, surrounded by hairy mammoths. The evil creatures that stole all the PIE.

Stevenson, now recovered, welcomed Bob and the others to the place under the dirt. Of course, he said it in the nicest/evilest way possible.

He held out some PIE in his hand to the group. Bob lunged to grab it, but the hairy mammoths stopped him.

Stevenson laughed.

Bob threw his wig and shoes at Stevenson. Bob is bald?

The evil PIE stealer screeched in horror as the shoes and wig hit him. He fell down to the ground, temporarily defeated.

Some mammoths carried him away to the place under the dirt’s infirmary.

Bob and his friends were led to a cell, still carrying their weapons. I thought elephants were smart?

THE END

To be continued—when mammoths like crayons.

 

 

EPISODE 11

The Colors of Dirt

Mammoth’s payment for stealing PIE was crayons, which they used to color the place under the dirt’s dirt. Stevenson, obviously, supplied the crayons, which are stolen, from the Washington Crayon Reserve.

Mammoths like crayons for whatever weird reason.

Bob and his friends were hating crayons right then, though. Brown-colored dirt surrounded their net-covered cells. How horrid.

Freddy, the landscaper said he hated brown-colored dirt while Bob frantically ran around the cell like a madman.

Robert was playing a tune on the solid dirt bars.

Clive was thinking he needed to replace his living room rug back at his house.

Hope was like jello, and they couldn’t eat it to save themselves.

Meanwhile, Stevenson was recovered and prepared to meet Bob again, this time not eating an obscene amount of PIE.

Mammoths, coloring dirt walls along the way with their crayons, accompanied him as they headed for the net-covered cell.

Stevenson carried a high-powered electric plunger, courtesy of stealing it from Bob.

Will he use it for evil, or to destroy Bob? Or is an electric toilet clogged up somewhere?

Will Bob and his friends escape the place under the dirt alive and at the same time save PIE?

Or will an electric toilet be fixed at no charge?

Who knows.

THE END

To be continued—when Minecraft Methodology comes in handy.

 

EPISODE 12

Hands can break just about anything; it might just take a while…

MINECRAFT METHODOLOGY—put to the test.

Robert learned something very important when he was playing music on the solid dirt bars: They began to slowly break very time he tapped on them.

This led to their imminent escape, eventually.

Presently, Bob had FINALLY calmed down, and he, Clive, and Freddy were talking around a pile of dirt shaped to appear like fire. In truth, it was fire colored like dirt. Fireproof crayon, genius.

Then Robert yelled that they could escape!

They all asked how.

Robert said by playing music on dirt.

They all looked at him weirdly.

Robert sighed.

Bob, Clive and Freddy went back to their talking, ignoring Robert’s proposed escape tactic.

Playing music on dirt? Had Robert lost his mind with the fishing pole?

A few minutes passed as Robert began a one-person opera on the bars like a radical musician. It was a strange sound, the opera on dirt, and it managed to catch the others attention away from their crayon-colored fire.

The bars broke into little pieces one by one as Robert continued his myriad of hits onto their brown surfaces.

Soon, the bars had vanished into a pile of discarded earthen remains.

Bob, Clive and Freddy were astonished. Their mouths hung all the way to the floor as they stared in disbelief at Robert’s accomplishment.

Then Robert snapped them out of it and Freddy—who hadn’t even received an explanation about this adventure—set to work cutting the net so they could escape once and for all! Oh, and save PIE, of course.

Bob, with new confidence, held his SUPER SOAKER in one hand and the other he held air, since Stevenson had stolen his electric plunger. When the net was cut into spider-shaped ribbons—Freddy liked art as well as landscaping—Bob led his intrepid group into the hall beyond.

They were free once more, and Bob had a score to settle with the evil Stevenson…

If he could ever find him in the maze of tunnels in the place under the dirt…

THE END

To be continued—when the landscaper helps them find a big iron room with an intimidating sign

 

EPISODE 13

Lost and then Arrows

Lost. The adjective lost was the term for the present condition of Bob and his friends. With an insinuating “Utterly” added at the beginning for emphasis, no less.

You see, Bob’s full name is Bob George Bakerpeople, of the greatest line of bakery-shop owners, the Bakerpeople Family. They owned more bakeries around the whole wide wide wide, wide wide wide world than any other family line ever and baked some of the most delicious pies generation after generation.

However good they were about owning bakeries and making pies, though, the Bakerpeople Family had abandoned their sense of direction a long time ago.

And Bob, being a Bakerpeople himself and leading the group, shared the trait of directional obliviousness.

And thus, they were completely, and utterly lost with Bob as their directionally unwitty guide.

Freddy was the first to raise a query on their aimless journey through the tunnels.

Bob said he was trying his best. Which turned out to be pretty bad.

Freddy looked at the crayon-colored walls as they continued on. He noticed that some of the scribbles were drawings—signs. Arrows with little captions in them.

One read “Main Secret Vault” and pointed straight down a tunnel to the right way.

Freddy directed the others to it and they decided to follow the sign’s direction. Perhaps the “Main Secret Vault” held PIE.

Soon, they came upon an empty, really high ceilinged cavern with a ceiling of iron and lead, and walls that were likewise. On the far end was a massive vault door of the same materials, with an intimidating sign that read: “Trespassers will be eaten by cupcakes. Survivors shall be eaten again, with extra frosting.”

The group trembled at the sign and looked nervously for nearby cupcakes. There were none, so Bob declared they must investigate the vault door!

And on they went…

THE END

To be continued—when we ask the rhyming question: “Who knew Clive was so cool?!”

EPISODE 14

Cupcake Combat

The intrepid group walked carefully through the big metal room/cavern, wary for the arrival of man-eating cupcakes. Stevenson was evil after all, and enjoyed treats—why wouldn’t there be hunger-mad cupcakes?

They reached the vault door without incident. The group “Whewed” before regaining themselves and looking upon the door. It was as tall as the ceiling and surprisingly shiny. At the average man’s height were two doorknobs right next to each other.

Bob grabbed onto both and twisted.

And the metal cavern screamed a metallic scream. Bob, Clive, Robert and Freddy all covered their ears it was so loud. The sound reverberated through the room with horrid amplification. It was a true wonder why the group didn’t go deaf.

Following the scream, the walls seemed to sustain pock holes that grew large, and released a spawn of angry-mad cupcakes. The mini-cake-monsters had wrathful vermilion eyes, paper cups with “EVIL, EVIL, EVIL” all over them, and a variety of frostings and sprinkles. They screamed in spongy voices, “Vos manducare! Vos manducare! Vos manducare!” And you can guess what that meant.

The malicious mini-cake-monsters converged quickly on Bob and his companions, intent on eating them dead or alive.

As their doom seemed outright obvious, and the evil cupcakes about to devour them, Clive literally jumped into action.

He snatched the SUPER SOAKER from Bob (still fully loaded, it may be noted) and catapulted himself into the fray of cakes, blasting away with the powerful water weapon.

The water soaked into the wicked cupcakes, turning them into piles of wet mush. The water was a deadly means of ammunition against them, and fired by the SUPER SOAKER, it was an unstoppable strafe of H₂O. Clive laughed hysterically, his onslaught of liquid ammo obliterating the mutant confections wherever his sight directed.

The battle was quickly decided in the favor of Clive, who would later be given the nickname “Water Wielder’ for his epic newfound skills with SUPER SOAKERS.

He stood victorious above the mushy remains of his flavorful foe. He blew on the tip of the water rifle and a small cloud of mist rose from it.

The evil mutant cupcakes were defeated. And not too soon, for Clive was out of ammunition.

So ended the Clive verses Malformed Cupcakes battle. And the question is asked, “Who knew Clive was so cool?! (And why didn’t they tell us before?!)”

THE END

To be continued—right after Clive updates his blog

 

EPISODE 15

Iron and Lead Shan’t Fall on Your Head…

Bob, Robert and Freddy were very grateful to Clive for his service in protecting the group, and as they were expressing their thanks, the metal cavern screamed again.
I’m guessing it was mad at Clive for killing its mutant cupcakes.

The cavern began to fall apart, like brittle pasta sheets dropped by an oven with anger management issues, metal and lead dropped in pieces about the self-destroying room.

Bob tried twisting the doorknobs again, but it was no use. The vault wouldn’t open.

Robert shouted that he saw an opening nearby with a sign that read “Iron and Lead Shan’t Fall on Your Head”.

The group ran to it, avoiding the falling metals as the cavern crumbled around them.

At last, they reached it and dived in. They didn’t have time to see what was inside.

Rubble covered the hole behind them, sealing the cavern off.

Freddy was so relieved that they were alive, he yelled, “Yay for weed cutters!”

Everyone else ignored him. It made no sense anyway.

Then Bob looked around and saw they were in a place called “Security Center”. Seven Security Mammoths were in there too, with lots of screens and cameras. Their weapons were high-powered hot glue and stapler guns.

Uh oh.

THE END

To be continued—uh…

 

 

EPISODE 16

To The Final Square (Aka: The Longest Bob Loves PIE Episode Ever)

The Security Mammoths noticed the intrepid group and, as quick as mammoths can, surrounded them with weapons drawn.

The mammoths told them to put their feet up, and so, they did. Robert did it a little roughly, though, and kicked the mammoth in front of him so hard it knocked the beast over.

It was unintentional, but nonetheless, it served as the distraction needed to catch the mammoths unawares.

Clive sprang into action, darting through the hole Robert had made in the wall of creatures. Once outside the mammoth ring, he quickly searched for something to use as weaponry. Clive saw a stack of glass plates on the security table and grabbed them. Then he began dishing out the hurt, disorienting the mammoths with plates to the head.

Freddy was the next to take action. He snatched a hot glue gun from one of the fallen mammoths and sprayed steaming glue across the seven Security Mammoths, immobilizing them.

Bob said “Good work!” and then that they needed to move fast, before more of the hairy creatures arrived.

Clive armed himself with a pair of stapler guns; Freddy abandoned the glue gun and took a weed whacker from the Security Center’s utility closet; Robert adopted the use of a glue rifle, and Bob chose a decorative pellet-launcher. They donned cardboard armor with pipe-cleaner masks—all reinforced, of course—that they found in an armor closet. The armor didn’t fit perfectly, but they made it work. It was better than no armor at all.

As the intrepid group searched and raided the Security Center, Bob found a bigger-than-normal door that read “Vault Entrance – Security”.

He called his friends over and, newly equipped with the mammoth’s weaponry and armor, opened the door and stepped into… an elevator.

Once they were all inside, the door shut and the elevator began to descend.

Elevator music played from an overhead speaker as they went down in otherwise silence.

Finally, the elevator stopped and the door opened. The group stepped out into a small room, then the elevator door shut behind them and, following a brief moment, a door in front of them opened with a hiss.

It was an awe moment for Bob as the several miles long and wide vault filled with thousands upon thousands of PIEs was revealed—the entire world’s supply.

(The vault was climate controlled, btw.)

Bob fell to his cardboard-armored knees as the awesome awesomeness of the awe-inspiring scene blasted him in the face like an overcharged hairdryer.

For a full minute of artificial sunshine (they were underground, after all) Bob sat on his knees and stared, not just with his eyes, but his stomach, at the vault’s contents.

When he finally moved again, the scene was forever embedded in a part of his retinas.

Then he yelled in great exuberance, “PIE!” and started to run to the precious bakery food as if two seconds away from being reunited with his best long lost friend.

A long lost friend who was suddenly barred off from him.

Iron bars fell from an exposed slot in the ceiling that ran the whole length of the vault and crashed down to form a bar-rier separating Bob from the beautiful PIEs. Similar bar-riers came down on either side and behind, blocking all ways to the PIE.

An alarm sounded and Security Mammoths rushed in from hidden doors.

An evil laugh, this time not muffled by a mouthful of delicious PIE, resounded through the vault.

The Evil Stevenson had found them once more.

Will Stevenson and his subterranean mammoths overcome Bob and his loyal friends once and for all?

Will the world above ground be doomed never to see another PIE?

Will dirt-colored fire ever become a nationally sold merchandise?!

Will we ever know?!

The END

…