My completed entry/prologue story.

…

Space. A wondrous light-speckled expanse of dark vacuity, yet filled with life and energy.

When Jocose was first brought into training at FIRE Academe, her instructor—Captain Dreg—told her that space wasn’t the only mysterious expanse, that “space isn’t the last frontier”. Most FIRE Academe students went into their high-level classes unknowingly to the intense and mad truth about FIRE. And no one outside of the Academe knew what it stood for:

Faery Interdimensional Research (and) Exploration.

They were students of space and time and everything in-between. Pioneers into worlds in the folds of worlds and dimensions stacked on dimensions; trained to research and explore the infinite frontiers of the multiverse and beyond.

Her instructor told his students time after time how at a glance and by the enchanting descriptions bestowed it, the task of FIRE personnel seemed a whimsical journey of the fondest likes. Then, he said, “If that’s what you’re here to experience—what you expect to experience—you are unfortunately mistaken. And unless you can rectify that thinking, I recommend you leave… now.”

This startled most of them when he first announced this at the introduction meeting, and as Captain Dreg had continued, some actually did leave.

“… Ours is a journey of hard-pressed insanity through experiences many don’t return from intact, whether physically, mentally… or both. No, ours is a journey of interdimensionally-induced psychosis through paths formerly untraveled, and those treaded by things only the most cognizant can fathom, and that which the weaker in mind and spirit are broken by. The primary reason the public is kept out of the loop about our workings, is because they can’t take it… But by the time we’re done here, I will have done everything in my capacity to ensure you are.”

Though Academe students had been warned before how difficult their term would prove to be, Jocose and her fellow learners were astonished at the sheer weight and complexity of knowledge and training drilled into their everyday lives from that point: Rift research, advanced quantum science, artificial limbo and stasis exercises, factors of atomic deconstruction, how to navigate while traveling through unstable wormholes, etc. If they hadn’t already been advanced-level students, the term’s tasks would’ve been impossible to achieve; even so, it stretched their mental aptitude to the very limits.

Only half of Jocose’s class had the capability and ambition to “survive” the first tenure of four years under the intensive regimen, herself included. Those who were successful moved on, and personally, Jocose had decided to attend the next four year term. If she came out of Academe with an eight-year degree, she could operate in almost any task classification FIRE had.

Midway through her fifth year, a crisis within the organization occurred. Personnel and four-year-successful-and-up-students of FIRE were notified of a catastrophic malfunction with a massive array of Universal Paradigm Influencer machines. UPI machines were the backbone of FIRE travel, devices which allowed their time and dimensional exploration vessels and other modes of transport craft to do just that: Time and space travel. UPI’s could also be utilized to send objects, people, etc. throughout the multiverse, and bring them back.

In the case of the malfunction, hundreds of UPI’s had backfired on themselves, resulting in the creation of tears in the Fabric of reality—rifts—that obliterated the FIRE facilities and ships that had them, and also threatened to expand and cause further damage. FIRE scientists even theorized that if the tears were not repaired in quick fashion, their collective destabilization affect could begin to unravel the Fabric. And it was plain to everyone what that meant: The death of the multiverse, the death of everything in existence.

FIRE had immediately put into effect a cleanup plan—codenamed “Clampdown”—to repair the multitude of rifts. Thankfully, though many were gone, the organization remained with a formidable fleet of space-and-time-ready vessels. But they had lost a great many craft and personnel nonetheless, and due to this, every able four-year-successful-and-up student was assigned tasks to assist in Clampdown. Academe itself was transformed into a command center for the cleanup effort, which corresponded with FIRE HQ and other temporary centers across the known expanse.

Jocose had been assigned as a field unit aboard the Inter-Dimensional Operations Station (IDOS) Regent VII. Her primary job was as a Spacewalker, one of thee most dangerous tasks field personnel could have…

Oct.31, Rift Site Near the Colonization of Effervesce

Space. A wondrous light-speckled expanse of dark vacuity, yet filled with life and energy.

Jocose hadn’t thought her first field missions would involve spacewalking to accomplish rift-repair, but since the malfunction, all her plans in life had undergone detours. Mainly, the fact she was unable to complete her second term, which frustrated her greatly. Regardless of her wishes, here she was, soon to perform an extremely dangerous yet seemingly simple task in deep space, only inches from coming into contact with a tear in reality. It would’ve almost proved at least somewhat amusing, if she wasn’t privy to what direct contact with rifts could do to her—protective gear or not.

Before her was the rift itself—an uneven-looking streak of shifting color, as though some divine being or other had taken a sword and slashed a cut in the universe, and the universe was bleeding. In fact, metaphor aside, it was bleeding. The tear was radiating rift energy that pulsated out from it in sporadic expulsion waves, creating streams and clouds of energy that appeared like gases suspended in the quiet vacuum of space. It was serene, vividly beautiful and foreboding altogether.

Jocose glanced behind her as she was nearly to the rift. There, proudly basking in the rift’s light, was the FIRE starvessel Regent VII, which she was connected to via the invisible tether the space and dimensional anchor system generated. It and her pack thrusters dictated her movement accordingly and served as necessary precaution against possible incident.

Beyond the Regent, in the not-so-far distance, was the Effervesce Dyson Shell, a megastructure completely encompassing a young star which name had been lost long ago. Effervesce constantly harvested energy from this star, providing infinite power to the colonies residing there, and also to the home planet very far away, which received a share of the power output through a colossal spacebridge spanning the voluminous, otherwise empty void between the two bodies.

The Dyson Shell, spacebridge, and the species whom built them were not of Faerykind. Rather, an intelligent and prosperous alien race. Albeit, despite their strong intellect, it was highly unlikely anyone living on (and in) Effervesce knew of Regent VII’s presence. The rift was in obvious view, but FIRE had ensured that no one would interfere with the rift-repair operation.

Seeing the alien achievement of incredible architecture and knowing there were millions upon millions of sentient, living creatures who called it “home” reaffirmed her perspective on the present and reminded her that what she was about to do could mean life or death for all those residing there. It also made her feel sick. All those lives in her hands… she would’ve never asked to hold such a responsibility—but now was not the time to complain, and it was certainly not the time to form regrets by screwing this up.

“Stopping you… here,” Her ‘Tether Master’, Ren, announced through the two-way communications link, using the anchors and tether thereof to halt her in front of the rift. Jocose recognized its true enormity, now being right up to it. The tear could have swallowed Regent VII a dozen times over with its size. “… Be safe, stella calcator.”

‘Stella calcator’ meant “star treader’ in their native dialect, which was often substituted for English when speaking. He had told her that twice now—once at the first rift site and now here—but she didn’t really take anything by it. As far as she knew, it was simply a phrase used by Tether Masters to their Spacewalkers.

Steeling herself, Jocose activated the one-way filters on her gauntlets. These allowed magic flow from her hands to access the space outside her suit and still prevent the vacuum and dangerous rift aura from getting in. When she did this, she trusted the advanced exploration suit with her life, really. Direct contact and unprotected exposure to rift aura was extremely dangerous, if not fatal. Generally speaking, it could unpredictably affect her entire molecular structure. And if she physically touched the rift itself, it was likely to disintegrate her and spew the scattered atoms across several different plains of reality, or possibly drag her into wherever lie on the other side of the tear, if anything at all. She didn’t plan on testing any of those outcomes by breaching protocol. FIRE had discovered these facts about rifts because of past personnel mistakes, one’s she did not plan on repeating.

The green ‘clear to proceed’ signal lit up in the upper left-hand corner of Jocose’s Head’s Up Display. “You may begin rift-repair phase one.” Confirmed Ren.

Jocose flexed her fingers inside the gauntlets, beginning to feel the on-so-familiar tingle of active magic flowing towards them through her body as she focused. You’ve done this a thousand times in training with a 96% average success and once without incident in the field. You. Can. Do. This. They chose her as a Spacewalker for Regent VII’s missions because of how focused, unfaltering and steady-handed she was; and, also, for her impressive magical strength and stamina. All of her work, training and discipline shown through these attributes (albeit her magical capability was a natural gift honed over her years).

Jocose raised both her hands, now teeming with energy from within her, and released two separate bursts of magic which consolidated as they touched the rift, then spread across it. Those were to create a buffer of sorts that was there to help prevent what she was about to do next from unintentionally splitting it open further.

She subsequently brought both hands together at the level of her sternum and the underside of the gauntlets touched before she shot a stable beam into the rift’s epicenter. This generated a ripple effect athwart its surface, much like when a stick is poked into a pond, except far more brilliant. Jocose felt the power gradually siphoning from her body as the beam poured into the tear, but she could hold it, at least until the task was complete.

Rifts were typically created when something or someone tore holes in the fabric of time and space, like crashing through walls instead of using the door. And every time you broke down a wall, the structure’s integrity became more unstable, until finally it came falling down. In a sense, it was the same with the rifts in the multiverse: Create too many and it would collapse.

Repairing the “broken walls” was a tedious errand, but wholly possible. Pouring specifically-toned magical mass into the rift caused a reaction which diverted the forces that were expanding it to have the reverse effect: Closing in on itself and ultimately mending the tear. It was a strenuous task that required the ‘mender’ to remain solidly focused on generating the correct mass-tone while steadily providing the magic itself. What Jocose was doing only constituted as phase one rift-repair, which was the hardest of the three to four required phases because she was establishing the stalwart reversal, fighting against the expansion pull.

Perspiration began forming on her forehead, both due to the strain and the increasing emission of heat produced by the reactions of beam-meeting-rift. Her suit’s internal climate control systems kicked into full-drive, trying to keep her cool. Through her visor, Jocose noticed the glowing of external hardlight shielding projecting from her armor, all over it, like fluxing illuminated outerwear. Her HUD notified her that the hardlight was inhibiting a good deal of the burning emission from reaching her substantial armored suit. Her bio-readings were doing alright as well, though it was obvious her body did not appreciate being in such close proximity to the intense temperature.

She gritted her teeth. Keep it together, Jocose.

She expected Ren to speak up about now, with some useless modicum of encouragement or petty comment. But it seemed he knew better, from the last time, when his interruption had quite nearly made her overcharge that rift when he had startled her. But that was in the past, and the rift was mended despite the incident. Still, she had wondered why they allowed him to remain as her Tether Master. The assigned Captain of Regent VII was Dreg, after all, and most of the crew consisted of former students of his. They all knew how unkindly he treated failure and protocol breaches. But Jocose also knew he gave second chances to those he saw greatness in. She had experienced it for herself, once and maybe more…

A beep, not so much as to deter her complete attention from the task, notified her of an issue. A small red blip flashed in the lower right-hand corner. She blinked twice, rapidly, at it and a notification appeared: Regent VII’s scanners have identified an increasing number of unusual activity spikes coming from the rift. Caution is advised. Please be notified th—

Suddenly, her suit’s warning sensors flared to life, cutting off the message. The hardlight shielding buckled under a particularly strong burst of emission waves, briefly jarring her. She struggled to retain the beam in that brief moment of abrupt movement, but it held. Dammit! What was that?

As if in response, another notification appeared without her actually bidding it. New notification: Rift is showing signs of intermediary transference occurring. Aka: Something was trying to come through from the other side, and that was causing the tear’s structure to fluctuate atypically.

“Jocose, the site is becoming notably dangerous! Readings have spiked to the point where standard protocol says I must take you back in.”

Protocol… “No!” She hissed through clenched teeth. “Keep me where I am!” He had done the stupid thing of startling her once; he could do the stupid thing by letting her proceed.

Whatever was attempting to travel through the rift, it didn’t belong on the side Jocose found herself trying to seal it from. How it was coming through was a puzzle in and of itself. Only high-end Excursion craft had the capability to survive rift travel, to the extent of her knowledge, in any case. Even so, most Excursion craft were never seen again after entering universal tears. You had to be mad, one hell of a good pilot and have access to rare and well-guarded FIRE tech to even consider pulling such an impossible stunt—and coming out alive to tell the tale, for that matter.

What Jocose knew for certain is that it didn’t belong, and she had to expend herself further than she had ever tried before. It had to be mended now. Something crashing through it from the opposite end had the theoretical potential to critically destabilize and obliterate everything in this sector of space with the immense energy discharge. Regent VII and all those lives on Effervesce… She was accepting a high-risk chance with variable outcomes, but she didn’t see any favor in the option of backing-off. She ignored the constant warnings from her suit sensors. There won’t be safety for anyone if the rift goes discharge-nova.

“Jocose…”

She really had no time to banter with Ren at the moment. Most of her magical mass reserves were already gone and she was gradually falling to the clutches of fatigue, focus failing…

“… The emergency stimulants!” He exclaimed.

It took her a second to process what that meant. Then it dawned on her.

The stims! Every Spacewalker suit was equipped with built-in emergency stimulant injectors that shot magic-infused drugs into the wearer’s bloodstream in case of dire need. Jocose turned her eyes towards the HUD icon for the emergency-functions menu and quickly opened it, which brought up a list. She scrolled through it with more eye movements and located the ‘Stimulant Injection’ option. With three blinks she selected it.

Are you certain you wish to proceed?

She wanted to scream “Yes!” at it in irritation, but it was futile anyway, and her helmet was purposely not set up with voice-control and recognition features. She blinked at the ‘Yes’ icon, which generated another window, the last in the series, which asked what level of dosage she wanted. This was consuming time, and she knew it.

Regardless, she hesitated, for just a moment. In order to pass a certain class, she had been required to have an average dosage (judged by her weight) of stims. They offered a very substantial stamina boost, but typically left the user in a fairly disheveled state after the effects wore off, especially if they were new to the drugs—their body unprepared and untrained to handle them. That wasn’t Jocose’s problem now, though.

What she realized was that a standard dose wouldn’t be enough. It generally took three to four fully-rested faeries to mend a rift over three to four different consecutive phases. An average amount of stims for her wouldn’t cut it. I have to take all of it. She surmised. The dosage might ultimately kill her, but she was probably going to die anyway, if whatever it was in the rift made it through. If I survive this, I think I’m going to really hate myself afterwards.

She selected ‘Full Injection’.

Small stabs of pain directed at key vein and artery areas across her body signaled the initial release of the magic-infused meds into her bloodstream. Then nothing, for a few moments when she wondered whether or not they were working.

The boost suddenly ignited like a fire of vitality inside her.

She took authority over her newfound energy, surging it up her arms and out her hands to reinforce the faltering beam. It brightened with the fresh power Jocose was feeling. She pressed harder. Instead of a stalemate that wasn’t going her way, the radiant tear reluctantly surrendered its expanding force, and then gradually began shrinking with increasing speed.

She was so preoccupied that she almost missed the yelling coming through her helmet speakers. It was Captain Dreg. “… Listen to me, unit! Cease your beam now!” He must’ve understood what was happening and had seized the anchor control booth from Ren.

Jocose was sorry for ignoring protocol and now disobeying his direct commands; even so, she had to do this. And it was almost done, so close to being mended. Finding her voice, she managed, “It’s closing time, Sir… and I’m locking the door.”

The gauntlets were barely holding up, not designed to undergo the extreme strain for the duration Jocose needed to complete the rift-repair by herself. She desperately hoped the filters could endure it a bit longer. The temperature was rising to a shocking degree. The hardlight and internal compensators were on the brink of failing. Just a little more time. FIRE built some of the best equipment, and now she was relying on it to keep her alive, just a little bit longer.

“Unit! Jocose!” Dreg was still attempting to dissuade her from the task. She knew—despite his gruff-and-rough demeanor—that the Captain cared about his personnel. She had to disregard his command, and it stung. She held deep respect for him.

The rift was degraded to more than half its former size now, close to being more a sliver than streak… a sliver with a blemish of a dark spot on it.

Jocose squinted at the speedily approaching blackish, indefinite form. It must just be the stimulant overdose messing with my perception… She thought absently; albeit she had never heard of stims producing hallucinogenic affects. Whatever, it was—figment or not—her proximity sensors were failing to pick it up. Maybe the extreme heat had finally scrambled them, rendering the scanning technology useless. She couldn’t tell.

The suit’s system warnings were still quite active, though. Hardlight shielding, respiration mechanisms, internal climate control, gauntlet filters… All fading. The realization came that if she had gone out in an Mk.7-type Spacewalker suit, none of these warnings would be flashing across her HUD. But no one had expected this circumstance would present itself, especially not her, so she wasn’t fully—properly—equipped for it.

The suit wasn’t the only function failing. Her vision clarity was deteriorating and the heat building inside the confines of the Spacewalker gear were making it difficult to breathe. Drops of sweat gathered and fell into her mouth and drenched her hair.

She was aware that the dark form had progressed further. If it wasn’t a trick of the mind, then perhaps it was the “thing” traveling through the rift. Then it won’t come through. Jocose rallied the vestiges of her foci, determined to succeed in what she now considered a race of sort.

Her helmet speakers only spat static at this point. She was alone. And Regent VII couldn’t pull her back in unless she ceased her beam. If that factor weren’t present, she’d already have returned onboard against her will. She checked the distorted HUD for confirmation that the anchors tether was still online. It was. Of course it was. Without it, Jocose was likely to have been sucked-in by the tear and disintegrated in a moment.

The rift was near to fully succumbing. The radiance it shown was in far lesser glory than it had once been, like the final rays of sunlight peeking forth from the horizon at the end of eventide.

The blackish shape seemed to have noticed and put its forward effort into full drive.

Jocose hadn’t stopped to think about what would happen to it if and when the rift closed before it came through to her side? Would the form be trapped in the rift pocket between worlds? Was she damning it to an inescapable prison of constantly shifting vortex in the sealed veins of the universe? What if “it”, was actually a “he”, “her” or even “them”?

No, she couldn’t ponder of those questions. She was saving her people, not looking out for the welfare of unidentified travelers who were either ignorant to the impending harm they could cause, or were intentionally planning to trigger a discharge-nova. Pangs of guilt still struck her. It was a part of her faery nature, that which—in the modern times of their society—was struggling to survive. Many of her species had intrinsic morality about how to live, as if possessing enhanced consciences. Nonetheless, many were devious and had no issue dealing in such ways that contradicted those previously mentioned. Types torn by beliefs and inherent truths. Their state of affairs wasn’t unlike any other society Jocose had ever seen or learned about, unfortunately.

Suddenly, amongst the cacophony of warnings, one stood out from the others: Rear Hardlight Shielding Down!

Jocose was abruptly aware of a weight pressing on her back that hadn’t been there before, accompanied by a feeling that something was… tearing at her armor? She referenced the HUD suit external layer readout. Something was trying to breach her Spacewalker gear, but she couldn’t see it, and couldn’t move to stop it, either. The dark form had yet to exit the rift—so what was attacking her?

Pangs of guilt were replaced with immediate fear.

She quickly remembered the helmet’s rear cameras and brought up the feed from one of them. It was barely discernible from the grainy image she was receiving, but there—attempting to burrow into the upper-back area of her suit—was a moving, dark cloud, not much different in appearance from the blackish form.

Her rapidity of breath increased, which was not favorable for what happened next. Suit Breach! The HUD exclaimed. Integrity Compromised! She felt the vacuum of space forcefully enter the suit confines, ravenously choking every ounce of oxygen it could reach. The sensation only endured a moment, before auxiliary protective systems automatically kicked-in. A secondary respirator came over the lower half of her face, covering her mouth and nose to avert suffocation; a visor sealed around her eyes to guard them. She wore a full bodysuit underneath the Spacewalker outfit. So as long as it didn’t get “opened up” too much, she could survive. The HUD indicated that only a very small incision had been made. What disturbed her the most was that the “cloud” had vanished.

Then another, drastically different sensation occurred. From the place of the incision, Jocose felt something, as though a substance—both light and thick—was seeping into the suit, running between it and her bodysuit like a semi-insubstantial liquid. It began permeating the entire suit interior. She shivered involuntarily, despite the still-present hot emissions.

The cloud.

It wormed its way up and into her helmet—a dark, fume-like entity—blocking out her vision. This was her first real, in-field encounter with a hostile, or seemingly hostile, thing. No controlled environment. No on off switch. No mentors to help her through.

And she was genuinely scared.

Her sight was now nil. She couldn’t see the readouts or the rift. Just the blackness of the sentient cloud.

Something was exerting force onto her arms now, tugging at them. No! She realized its purpose. It was to stop her from continuing the beam and ultimately mending the universal tear. Then why didn’t the thing simply kill her?

She fought against it, using what strength she wasn’t pouring into the stabilization beam to keep her limbs up. The cloud was stunningly strong, though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Jocose, had she been in a less disorientated state.

It did not take kindly to her resistance and became more forceful. It beat against her body from inside the suit and even hammered at the respiration mask. Jocose could hardly discern which way was up judging by her original position, whether she was still in her original position at the rift or not. Thinking intelligible thoughts became a laborious task. Everything was the relentless maltreatment she was receiving from the malicious sentient cloud and her muddled maelstrom of emotion.

The respirator cracked and immediately what assurance of breath she had began leaking out from it. The cruel fume-like thing did not cease its abuse. Her energy was on the brink of total exhaustion, her body weak and worn. Darkness ebbed at the corners of her vision, not that of the cloud.

With one final burst of magical power from her hands, Jocose succumbed to the blackness, embracing the numb retreat of unconsciousness.

Prologue

            A bone-chilling scream pierced the air as I snapped awake from my sleep.  Where am I?  My blurry vision started to clear a little as I shook my head.  A warm tickling feeling ran down my throat as I coughed to relieve it.  Specks of red flew from my lips.  Blood.  The crimson fluid dripped down my chin.  Fear crept into my body as my heart beat faster and my raspy breathing became heard.  I scanned the room.  Cement walls encased me in a grim like prison.  One single bulb illuminated the area.  I was seated under the dim light, hands tied behind my back in a rude fashion.  My shirt was stained in spots of blood and my cargo pants torn.  Where was I?  Struggling with my bonds my wrists became raw and sore.  I looked around the room once again and chanced upon a small, open piece of paper near my feet.

Small print was scratched upon it.  I bent over slowly, the pain in my back ever increasing.  The words, though faint as they were, seemed to scream out that me.

“Greg Frazier, you are probably wondering why u are here and in due time you will find out.  But first three lessons must be learned.  Lessons of pain.  The scream you heard at your awakening was none other than your lovely wife.  Don’t be alarmed, she’s not dead, yet.  Martha is just one of the many tools that will be used to break you.  Greg, the only way for you to be rebuilt is to be broken, severed, torn in two.  Not only literally, but also emotionally.  You have a son that we know of, yet he seems to keep avoiding our grasp.  Not to worry though, we will soon find him. 

            Now you have twenty minutes to exit the room.  To your right is a small knife.  Cut free and the exit will be open on your left.  Follow the sound of your wife’s screams.  You have thirty minutes in total.  Good luck,

Your Executioner.”

Panic seized my heart as it raced out of control.  I groped around, reaching with my free fingers.  A sharp pain shot up one them as a slow tingling drifted down into the tips.  I had found the blade of the knife.  With the other hand I grabbed the soft, wooden handle and pulled it away from my wounded fingers.  Gripping the end, I drew the sharp edge of the tool through my bonds.  Stiffly I stood and limped to my left.  A grinding sound resounded as part of the seemingly solid wall pulled away.  Without thinking of the traps that might lay behind it I painfully strode forward.

Each step drew a gasp from my mouth.  Dried blood pasted my face as fresh crimson painted my cut hand.  They had my wife.  Who ever they were.  The opening in the wall gave way to a dark hallway.  Cold air breezed out from it.  I tripped as my elbow landed with a dull thud.  Seemingly out of nowhere a small cry reached my ears.

“Greg!  Greg please he’s here!  Please I.. I…”

I staggered upward and rushed forward towards the sound.  As I moved deeper and deeper into the tunnel I could make out stains running along the hard flooring.  They were the marks of a bloodied body being dragged across the cold surface.  The crimson trail ended as the tunnel veered of into two separate paths.  A blood-curdling moan echoed to the right as I stumbled to follow the sound of agony.

There she sat, at the end of the hall, propped up by the darkness behind her.  Her slumped over form looked battered and bruised as her blood matted hair covered her facial features.  The red trail ended where she sat, disappearing under her once white dress.  Tendrils of saliva dribbled down her chin as she gasped at the sight of me

“Oh God,” I exclaimed.  The sight of my wife in such a disheveled and broken state horrified me.

“Martha, what did they do to you?,” her throat pronounced no sounds as she rolled her head to look at me.  Tears brimmed over my eye lids and with much trembling I kneeled next to her.

“Greg?” she mumbled.

“Yes honey its me, I’m here,” I reached my blood covered arms around her.  To feel her frailness tore my heart to pieces.  Anger filled my soul and drove me to my feet.  Yet as I reached to lift my stooped wife I noticed something around her waist.  It was dark, almost shadowy.  It grew and grew, slowly taking shape as a drawing takes form on paper.  It was a spindly hand, with long pointed nails.  It gripped her hard as she screamed in terror.  I reached as fast as I could for her hand, her shoulder, anything that would stop this monster from taking her, but to no avail.  She was suddenly dragged into the darkness behind her, her voice piercing the very walls it resounded off of.

“No!” I chased after her, yet as fast as I ran her frantic calling for help became more and more faint.  Then it vanished altogether.

“Martha!” I called.  Nothing, not a sound.  It was as if hell itself had swallowed her up.  Despair washed over me.  My body was struggling against me, intent on not obeying my commands.  Sluggishly I staggered forward straining with my eyes to catch the slightest glimpse of my taken love.  My gaze fell to the floor as my impaired vision came upon a crumpled form.  The body was huddled on the cold ground in a fetal position, blood seeping from its center.

“No…” My heart was in disbelief, yet my eyes did not deceive me.  The almost folded being was Martha.  Martha!  My sweet love, my life, my very soul here desecrated, bloodied, and scared.  Weak with a pain more deep than any external wound I fell to my knees as anguish overtook me.  Sobs of deep sorrow rang from my dry lungs.  Stretching out my hand I smoothed her once golden locks.

Lifting her gently I managed to pull her limp neck onto my lap.  Methodically I began to stroke her forehead as if she were still here, sleeping silently on my bloodied legs.  Tears came streaming from my eyes like tiny rivers.  They trailed through the dirt that layered over my face.

Then I awoke with a loud scream tunneling down my throat.  My sheets were soaked with sweat as chills ravaged my body.  It was only a dream.  I sat up slowly, trying to take in what just happened.  Was it really only a dream?  I could only hope it was.  I shivered as the recent images flooded my mind as three realities came from them.  One, I had never married.  Two, because of that first statement I had no son.  And lastly, my name was not Greg.

My name was Timothy.

Greetings, oi, ave and whatever other forms of salutation you might think of,

I’m back again for another Arbitrary World Post, to put an odd and ridiculous spin on otherwise simplistic update and info posting!

Today we’re going to visit the topics of a writer and story update, “The Poems” which will touch on the subject of my cryptic poetic writing pieces, and finally, the future of Arbitrary World Posts.

To begin, we’ll take a break!

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis is the longest English word ever! Go figure! Now try to pronounce it. >:)

And now our unorthodox-ly scheduled update:

I am aggravated to admit, again, that things aren’t going well with TFS. Much as come up since I posted the WiP Chapter. In short, different aspects of life have been and are getting busy and/or complex. TFS is just not a priority because of all this; I cannot confidently continue, and I am sorry. :/ Maybe when things tone down some I can try. (Not as though it seems many pay attention anyway, but nonetheless.)

Right on to the next topic:

The Poems.

I was treading along a particularly difficult time, and the poems were my outlet for expressing it. I’m fairing better now than I was then, thank God.

I’ve decided to leave them up despite what they’re about, and the conflict therein. Most of their content wasn’t of significant value as written words (in my opinion), but I still feel that I should leave those posts where they are.

And now, the most ridiculous song you’ve ever read, without actually hearing it:

Don’t trust the feathers,

In your closet

Because they will come back to tickle you!

Don’t trust those messed up feathers,

That would like nothing better

Than to eat your fluffy mattress

And make your pillow

Scream in your ear at night

Don’t trust those feathers!

This song,

Sounds very cheesy

But it’s okay,

Because I had cheese for Lunncchhhh

Yeeaahh

– End. (These lyrics are not affiliated with anything resembling tolerable musical work – The Eardrum and Eye Protection Agency [EEPA], @ 2013. No rights reserved.)

And finally we come to the final topic of today’s post:

The future of Arbitrary World.

I have one or two (or three, or four; LOL. Indecisiveness!) ideas about what could be engineered for the future of AW. The only really solid idea I have is an original comic strip series that would be posted with AW Posts, and that–in general–this is easy enough to continue doing from time-to-time without interrupting other things or becoming troublesome.

And so here ends Arbitrary World Post No.3. If thee might find the comment’s box, I pray thee leaveth a message of sort for thy to ponder over. In any case, I bid thee well! :-]

~ TEW

Hey all,
Please do not think I have abandoned you as far as posts go. I’m currently plowing to finish the final installment of my trilogy, which is to be released October 31st. Its title is All Vile Beasts, and I’m very excited to see what you all think of it.

Do not dismay! I have not left!

-Nathanael S., Writer, Devout Christian, Music Enthusiast, and Eagle Scout

Ave, peoples,

I haven’t much to say; the poem will speak for itself today.

Dithers progressed from uselessness

To something’s haunting

Splinters lodged in the world

Attempting to remind you

With subtle hints and focus-shattering tidbits

Pictures and personas split

Crossing over, these things you were meant to forget

Or, at least, that’s what she told you

In the library, they left a clue

In a book, something they drew

A granite picture, of someone you knew

And it scares you

Planting things you recall

From a time and place beyond these walls

In the twisted place,

Speaking without audible sound

The Dithers know,

Travelers between the haze and labyrinthine maze

Where you are from and why you are here

The damage done and the saltwater tears

…

~ TEW

This was to be my contest entry. Now it’s just a short story. 😛 Read and enjoy!

There are probably grammar and spelling hiccups, I’ve been over it twice but something always manages to slip through. Anyways, don’t forget to comment!

“The Timeless Sands”

Sheriff Justice Law squinted against the glare of the setting sun. His steel-gray eyes swept back and forth across the featureless sands of the desert, and found nothing but stout cacti and sun bleached rocks. A breath of wind stirred the arid plains, and Law blinked against the fine dust, pulling his hat down to shield his face.

“Sandstorm’s coming. If not tonight, then tomorrow morning.”

His words were addressed to a gold-colored chameleon that sat upon a flat sandstone slab to his left, soaking up the last rays of the day. Its previous owner had named it “Nav”, perhaps short for “Navigator”, or some unpronounceable Iroquois word. Law had renamed it “Nug”, short for “Nugget”. The odd critter had accompanied him on his last four journeys, and always seemed to fare better than its master. This, the last of the long missions, was no exception.

“You look right comfortable there, lazy fella. Guess you deserve it, you work harder than I do.”

Nugget didn’t even bother opening its eyes.

The Sheriff sighed, leaning forward to stir the metal pot in front of him. The last of the dried meat had gone into that soup, as well as a day’s worth of water. Under normal conditions, he would have felt guilty about wasting so much on a single meal, but that was before. Now, it really didn’t matter. This night would be the end, one way or the other.

His eyes went again to the desert, and again saw nothing. His quarry had not yet arrived. Unusual. On previous occasions, Law had been the late one. Never too late, thank God, but still…

His mind strayed momentarily to preparation. His enemy would come armed. There was no strategic advantage here on the flat, dead plains. The distant mountains seemed tiny against the edge of the sky, sharp teeth of black upon a backdrop of blue.

“Wonder if we missed him, Nug. Perhaps he has been and gone, and here we are in the desert, waiting for nothing.”

The lizard moved from its perch, crawling through the sand and up Law’s pant-leg. Law barely twitched as the tiny claws nipped at his skin, offering his hand to the small chameleon.

“Maybe Meta’s smarter than both of us. Maybe he knows we’re waiting for him. The doctor didn’t tell us much at all. Well, he might have told you, friend. What are the odds we missed our mark?”

Nugget curled itself in his palm, lifting its head to look him in the eye.

“Odds are less than one percent. Jump was precisely timed and calculated based on over four million factors,” it said. “Meta must arrive at this point within the next twenty-four hours, otherwise his objective will be nullified.”

Law blinked at the chameleon, then moved his hand up, allowing Nugget to crawl over onto his shoulder. “Never will get used to hearing you speak. How on earth did the doctor do it?”

The lizard spoke again, its voice an odd, gender-neutral hash of tones. “I could answer, but it would take me forty-nine minutes to state the requested data in a form you would understand.”

Law shook his head. “No sense in that, my friend. So… we shall finally meet the enemy, face to face. Enough of this hide and seek.”

The sun was below the horizon now, it last frail glimmering turning the western clouds to fire. The dunes still radiated heat, but already Law could feel the creeping chill of the desert night. He reached forward, giving the soup another swish of the ladle. It was beginning to bubble, the tiny fire beneath finally bringing the water to simmering temperature.

“Don’t suppose you want some broth?”

Nugget did not reply.

The Sheriff sat back, reaching into the saddlebag beside him for a bowl. The horse the bag belonged to, Marie, had remained behind. Nug could only move a certain number of living objects, and Marie was one too many. Law had left her, just as he had left his wife, and family, and town, and…

A jolt of pain shattered his thoughts. His ankle had begun to ache again. Meta’s last “surprise” had broken it, or at the very least badly sprained it. Nugget had coughed up the materials for a splint, but even the lizard’s miraculous abilities had limitations.

A brilliant flash lit the distant mountains, and Law was instantly alert. Lightning from an otherwise clear night, in the middle of the desert. Unnatural and out of place.

Meta.

The Sheriff squinted into the darkness, drawing a Smith & Wesson six-shot revolver from the folds of his jacket. Six bullets, no spares. Back home, he had something of a reputation as a marksman, and even had a small silver medal from a shooting competition he had won at the fair, but the darkness was on Meta’s side. The sands ate up all sound, leaving a dead silence that set Law’s hair on end.

“Will you shoot me, cowboy?”

The voice was male, oddly accented, like nothing he had heard before. The speaker seemed to struggle with words, pronouncing cowboy as “co boay”.

Law drew back the hammer on his revolver, keeping his voice even as he replied. “I don’t shoot my friends, only my enemies. Which are you, stranger?”

The man laughed, stepping from the gloom into the ring of light cast by the fire. “I am… friend indeed, friend. My name Masakatsu Ishida. Good to meet you.”

Law followed Ishida with the gun barrel as the oriental man took a seat across from him. Ishida was dressed for cooler climates, his clothing thick and decorative. Red-colored wooden plates, presumably some form of armor, covered his chest and arms, clacking together as he moved. Two swords, both of foreign design, hung in ornate scabbards at his side.

Ishida saw him eying the weapons. “Do not need to worry, Mr…?”

“Law. Justice Law. I was… am the county sheriff where I come from.”

“Ah, lawman. Good cowboy. No need worry for my swords. Both are blessed by monk, never can cut good person.”

The sheriff coughed out a laugh. “A bunch of hokey, that. Met an Indian once, said he had enchanted feathers in his headband. Supposed to protected him from everything. Ended up dying of an infected cut, from his own knife no less. Superstition will not serve you, my friend.”

Ishida smiled. “Yet you here, talking to lizard, waiting for man who can kill you with shining magic from another land.”

Law blinked. “Different matter there. My gun would likely seem like death magic to those from another time. Meta’s got gadgets and gizmos from the future, but they’re still just machines someone designed and built. More to em than you can see, is all.”

The samurai shrugged. “Maybe more to your Indian friend’s feathers, too. Would you let have food?”

“Oh, of course, sorry. Have all you want. I’ve had plenty, and Nug won’t eat the rest.”

“Nug?”

“The doctor’s lizard. He’s around here somewhere. Must’ve run off when you showed up.”

Ishida nodded, accepting the bowl and ladle the sheriff offered him. For a short time, the only sound was the samurai’s eating and the occasional crackle of the fire.

Eventually, Law broke the silence. “Well, I’ve got a thousand questions for you, mister Masakatsu. Let’s start with how exactly you ended up here. It’s not exactly an easy spot to find.”

“I get here same as you. Little lizard show me the way.”

He gestured, and for the first time, Law saw the red chameleon resting on Ishida’s shoulder. Its color matched the armor perfectly, blending in with the carvings of dragons and serpents. The firelight shone in its eyes, black orbs that watched the sheriff, unblinking.

“I used to be Samurai. Brave captain, many victories. Then fighting stop, and I became wanderer. No place for warrior in time of quiet. I find odd jobs, walk many miles. Was at peace, though. Then Naz came to me, with note from… doc-tor.”

Ishida drew a paper from a side pouch, holding it for the Sheriff to see. A quick inspection showed that the note was written in Masakatsu’s language, unreadable to the English-educated.

“What’s it say?”

“It say, ‘Lizard name is Naz. It take you to good man who need help. Broken leg, stop him from doing what he need do’. Naz also translate for us, lets us speak. It learn as we talk. Getting better, yes?”

“What, at speaking? I guess, sure.”

“So, now we wait for… May-tah.”

“Meta, yes.”

“You fight him before?”

The Sheriff sighed, moving the soup pot from the fire to the cool sand. “No. Not yet. I always miss him. Nav… Nug can’t track him properly. We always arrived late… except this time.”

“This time, you first.”

“Yes. Nugget says it’ll be any time now.”

“And what you do when he get here?”

Law’s forehead wrinkled briefly in a frown. “I’ll put a bullet in the bastard’s skull.”

Ishida nodded solemnly, scraping the last of the food into his mouth. Then, setting the bowl aside, he undid the tethers holding the swords at his side, setting them across his lap.

“And you sure that Met-ta needs, ah, bullet in skull?”

Law lifted an eyebrow. “Dr. Marigold did not explain it to you?”

The samurai shrugged. “I know what doctor say. I want know what you think.”

“You think Marigold lied to us about Meta? I’ve seen the bombs. I’ve seen what they’re made of. I’ve seen what Nav can do, what he’s capable of, and he’s just a tiny bit of nothing where he comes from. If I make a mistake, if even one of the explosives makes it through, everything will be gone. Everything.”

“But not for you, yes?”

“Not for me, no. I’ll be sleeping in my grave before Meta’s contraptions go off. But those thousands of lives will be on me. Every one of them.”

Ishida considered for a moment, partially unsheathing one sword. The blade glittered in the firelight, reflecting the rapidly-emerging stars in its mirror-smooth surface.

“Meta’s bombs, they kill people in the future. Hundred, thousand year after you die. But what if people bad? Did you ever think that maybe bombs good thing?”

The sheriff scowled. “I’m starting to think you’re a pal of this Meta fella. That’s not a good way to be, friend.”

Ishida laughed carelessly. “I am on only one side, and that mine. I come because you hurt and need help. That is all. However, I do not like it when a man acts without thinking first. That is all. Two thoughts. Maybe Meta like you, a lawman. Maybe he want good, not bad. Bullet to bad man’s skull, but not bullet this time, just… bomb.”

Law leaned forward, his gun still in his hand. “Alright, out with it. You didn’t get all this yourself. Who have you been talking to?”

“Asked Naz. Asked to see future, see where he come from. He show me. Maybe you ask Nug. Then you see.”

After an uncomfortable pause, the Sheriff turned to Nug.

“Nugget, can you do that?”

“Explaining the events occurring between now and the year of my origin will take approximately three million sixty-”

“No, don’t explain. Show. Just a small piece, right before you came to me. Can you show me?”

Nug’s head ticked a notch to one side. “Yes. Estimated time of transfer, two minutes.”

“Then… do it.”

The last thing Law saw was Ishida’s face, curling into a small smile… and the world broke apart as memories of the future were force-written into his brain.

Had Nug not paralyzed his motor functions, he most likely would have injured both himself and Ishida with his sudden flailing. As it was, his struggle was only in his mind. Surges of knowledge pulsed blue through his neural pathways, sometimes pictures, sometimes sounds, sometimes just a knowing that came of reasoning and not direct stimulus.

Light, of all spectrum, visible and invisible.

A great room of shining metal that Dr. Marigold occupied; his “laboratory”.

“Time travel, at least through the past, is simple enough. Just look at these equations…”

Four Navigators, living time machines, ate pellets from a jar and conversed with the men that made them.

The passage of time, not long, but days at least.

Meta was there. Law jerked at the memory, seeing his adversary for the first time, knowing what was to come, powerless to stop it. Meta had no form, a great living blackness that sprang from the shadows, consuming Dr. Marigold.

More time, longer.

Meta was in Marigold, and Meta was Marigold.

The bombs were made, designed by Marigold, but made for the shapeless monster within.

The Navigators were finished, Nav, Naz, and Nal. Nax, the fourth Navigator, died. Its master shed a tear, even as Meta forced him on.

The time came. Meta prepared his strike. In that faraway land, man had built such defenses that explosives would be defused and stopped before they could do damage. Detonating from within the city was impossible. But if the bomb was planted in the past… if it were to go off in the city’s foundations… from the bedrock underneath, where no man would think to look…

A random thought wave, Meta’s. An image of the city in ashes, all life silenced under a black cloud of death.

The monster was discovered! Meta panicked. Marigold took command, wrestled free.

A note, scrawled to a man Marigold would never meet, tied to Nav with wire.

“Find someone to give this to. Choose a time, choose a place far away. Stop me, Nav. Stop Meta!”

The sound of time folding as he, the Navigator, began to move.

The wheels of space made a bridge, pulling Nav to the man he had picked; Sheriff Justice Wite, also known as “Law”. One of the most honest men history had record of. A clear, logical choice.

And for a brief second, as Nav slipped through a crack in time, Law looked back and saw the City. Saw into it, saw what it was.

The shock shattered the transfer; he was back in the desert.

“How was it?” smirked Ishida.

Sheriff Law rose to his feet, barely noticing the pain in his leg, and vomited into the sand. His breathing came in ragged gasps, his entire body shaking.

“That city… heaven help us, that city…”

Ishida’s customary smile faded. “Yes. That is what we become. Evil, good sheriff. The only word for it is evil. You struggle to save the great cesspool of injustice that is our very future. I have said before, I care only for myself. You, on the other hand… you consider yourself fair. Do we not deserve this end? Does Meta not bring a fitting sentence to it all? Who knows; perhaps from the ruin, new life shall flow.”

Law returned to his seat upon the sandstone slab, digging weakly in his pack for a water pouch. Finding it, he took a deep drink, taking care not to choke in the process. Then, setting it aside, he sat back, staring up into the stars.

His words were slow in coming, slower still in delivery. He spoke his thoughts to the samurai out of time, to the lizard that was a machine in disguise, to the blackness of space and the great wasteland that was that prehistoric desert.

“Do we deserve it? That is what you ask. If one were to look at that… monstrosity we become, they would say a right proper yes without hesitation. But to end them all? To sentence the few for the darkness of the many? Any other man you ask, they would see the City and say yes. But I say this. As long as a single light shines in the night, another light may grow from it, till the light is again greater than the dark. I do not fight for the City. I fight for the Choice. The choice of Man. The freedom to chose, till their dying day, to live in black or in white.

“They choose to be evil, or they choose to be good, but either way, they choose. Meta takes away that choice. It wants to force its way upon us, to make us slaves to what it decides is right. That makes him just as bad as the others.

“The men of that time follow the laws of their time. Sick, twisted laws, but laws they made. Justice they chose. Nav has brought me here, to a land before man, to make a choice as well. I have made it three times before, even at some cost to myself. Here, I reckon I am the law, and I say this. Until they fall to their own wickedness or until they find the error of their ways, until they run their course and the final judgment is upon them, let nothing take from them their choice. And that means I have to do this. I have to win. Good or bad, I choose to save them.”

And he took another drink from the canteen.

Ishida was silent for a good while, his gaze following Law’s to the heavens above. The sand around them shifted, rolling in the wind-swept night. The dwindling fire shuddered, but in the end persevered, snapping a spent log in two with a feeble crackle.

“You have clear judgment, cowboy.”

“Where I come from, I have to. Very often, my word is life or death for those accused of breaking the law. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to confirm a suspicion of mine… Nugget, what is the true identity of the man before me?”

“Identifying. Masakatsu Ishida, born 1587, Kanto region, Japan. Occupation: Samurai and bodyguard to local Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu.”

Ishida raised an eyebrow. “What did you think, cowboy? I do not-”

“Further: Ishida is also currently host to a parasitic non-entity currently termed ‘Meta’. No existing data on parasite, aside from the extreme danger he represents. Caution is advised.”

“Thank you. And now, Mr. Masakatsu, or should I say, Mr. Meta,” Law brought the gun up, pointing it squarely between Ishida’s eyes, “If you’ll kindly put your hands where I can see them, and move away from the swords.”

The samurai laughed, more from amazement than amusement. “By heaven, Sheriff. You should have done that to begin with. It would have saved you a great deal of time.”

“Oh, I had a good idea it was you all along, even without Nug to confirm it. What did you do with Dr. Marigold?”

“He fought me from the start. I would not have hurt him, but he took control while I was placing the second bomb in 1586, and threw us off a ravine. I had no choice but to seek out a new host. Masakatsu was the first I came to. A surprisingly good choice; he is much more willing to assist me.”

The fire was beginning to dim, more ember than flame. Law squinted in the growing darkness, his gun never wavering. Ishida hadn’t moved since Nug had revealed his identity, neither lifting his hands in compliance to the Sheriff nor making a move to strike.

“What are you?”

“No man shall know. I was here before time, set as a watcher to guard this world. Some say I am a stranger from a distant planet. I am not. Some say I am a spirit, a demon cursed to wander this earth. I am not. I am he who keeps order. I am he who keeps mankind from extinction. I watch, I ponder, and if I must, I act.”

Ishida’s body had grown hazy; the inhuman revealing itself through the human. Meta was blacker than the night, a silky shadow cast on a dimensional plane outside the bounds of reality, a thing beyond Law’s comprehension.

“I am tasked to preserve humanity, but there came a time when I asked myself, ‘How can I protect them when they kill each other? How can I keep them safe when the they are their own worst enemy?’ So I said to myself, ‘I will destroy all but a few.’ And so I began.”

The phantom sighed through its borrowed mouth.

“I made a mistake. I did not anticipate that they would have grown to posses the ability to detect me. Clumsy from many millennia of inactivity, I tried to end them with their own weapons. I was stopped, but I made use of my host’s knowledge to dive through time. Setting the bombs in the past seemed logical. They would not think to look there, remaining unaware until such a time as I returned to trigger the explosion. The city would fall, taking with it the blackest third of humanity. But… something drew at my mind. Was borderline extinction really the best solution? It was the only one I knew, but… I needed more options.”

The truth slowly dawned on Law. “You chose me. To made the decision for you.”

“Yes. Marigold wrote the letter. I sent it. I knew Nav would be able to track me as I set the bombs, so I moved quickly. I take it you have disarmed them?”

Law shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly hard. They weren’t complex, really. An, ah, rather advanced on-off switch, but still simple with Nav’s help. The fail-safe on the last one knocked me off a cliff, but that was my own darn fault.”

“I am sorry about that. I could not remove it from Marigold’s design.”

“So… he made the bombs?”

Meta nodded. “For a war that would have… will destroy half the planet. That was what prompted me to act.”

Law still kept his gun up.“So… do you agree with me?”

“I do.”

Meta rose from his seat, his feudal clothing flaring in the intensifying wind. Sand stung Law’s face as he, too, stood as best he could.

The storm was coming.

“I will go. This man longs for his time once more, as I am sure you do. Nav will carry you back to your home, but it must return to its place as well.”

Law released the gun’s hammer with his thumb, tucking the weapon back inside his jacket. Nugget curled itself on his shoulder, its tiny lizard eyes closing. Law knew from experience that it was preparing for the jump through time, conserving the necessary energy.

“The last bomb, Meta. Where is it?”

Meta held out his hand. Something like shattered porcelain fell from his fingers, turning to dust as it fell, joining the sand swirling in the whistling wind.

“You need not fear it any longer.”

Meta turned away, facing the oncoming sandstorm. His Navigator crawled into place on his shoulder, assuming the same position as Law’s.

“Meta…”

The being turned one last time.

“For what it’s worth… I’m sorry. About us, about mankind. We may seem awful to you, but you wait and see. We’ll get better. Just… give us time.”

The ghost of a smile played across Meta’s face.

“I know.”

Nav’s voice rose above the wind, its close proximity rattling Law’s eardrums. “Chronometric energy at 100%. Start point; Saharan desert, prehistoric era, year twenty thousand before B.C. End point; Boulder City, Nevada, 1840 A.D.” It paused, and opened its eyes. “Launch.”

Time stretched and deformed, folding over slowly until two points touched. The Sheriff became a pattern of energy, swirling through the juncture in the time plates. The soup pot, saddle bag, and the two used bowls whirled after him, following in his wake.

The samurai affixed his blessed swords to his side as he was drawn through a similar aperture, separating him from Meta in the process.

Meta stayed behind for several minutes, watching as the sandstorm rolled over the campsite, blanketing the dying coals, partially burying the rocks the two men had sat upon. Meta did not need a Navigator to pass through time; It was one with time, all-seeing, anchored in one place but able to move though the stream at will.

It could already hear the war, hundreds of thousands of years ahead. It could feel the men dying, feel children turning to ash, animals burning, trees stripped to nothingness by mankind’s death machines.

And there as well, a single tiny voice, calling out for peace. And others listened.

Meta had no face, but in its own way, it smiled.

“Looks like you may be right, cowboy. Only time will tell.”

The empty sands settled, and silence ruled once more.

Ave, peoples,

I wrote more poem.

What were you called,

How did they know you?

All that is behind, whitewashed from time

A mental block in the mind, or perhaps it never was…

Perception blurred, the past is barely heard

Only Whisper’s remnant, saves from self-abandonment

Damaged cries resonate at night, though why you scream, they cannot see

Split in two, these worlds askew

Running in your sleep, resting in the day

Lungs burning, heart turning

When REM stage comes, fermenting memories you’d rather not stay

You can’t recall a peaceful lay

Yet they reside, harming you astride

Scars will always remind

Threshold of dull agony,

Remembrance triggers inner dissonance

Spikes and sparks ignite flares

Esoteric uproar tears at the fabric of your reality

Feelings enigmatic, walls bleeding static

Breezes through void and veil of uncertain status

Cling to a hope between both

Some things remain the same

Endured the journey

Someone left behind—do you even want to go back the way you came?

…

~ TEW