Yes, this is a blog

He wears a baseball cap with a Redsox insignia on it though he doesn't like baseball and has no special affinity for Boston. He keeps it tucked in his back pocket in class because most of the teachers don't let him wear it. A few do. He spends most of his time in school sitting in the back corner writing profanities on the desks and cracking abhorrent jokes with his friends. Those closest to him know that he lives only with his father and that his mother either died or abandoned him years prior. But he doesn't talk about that, nor does he talk about his old man who works as an auto-mechanic and always smells like motor oil and comes home every night to drink a six pack and fall asleep on his recliner. Mostly he talks about how much he hates school and its rigidity and the illicit substances he procures. His favorite topic, however, are the girls he sees every day. Each and every one of them do not escape his judgment, silent or otherwise, and to the ones he deems wor...

They stopped by a dwindling stream to get their bearings. Ahead of them was the way out of the canyon. The boy waited around for his companion to lead the way. He looked back to see the opening they came out of but saw only the uniform, stalwart rock. Disturbed, he went to inspect it. It was smoothed over and bald without any evidence of a breach, let alone a home to a sentient artifact within. Cale got up and started upon the exit, not giving a glance or a word of notification. The boy ran his fingers along the grooves in the stone and said nothing as he left it inexplicable and followed Cale uphill. Rocks encumbered the harsh path they drudged. At times it inclined nearly vertically with stone shelves like discordant steps leading out from the canyon walls. Cale made the climb with grace but the boy struggled behind him. He never turned to help even as the child fell to reclaim his breath and dampen the pain in his legs, keeping on until eventually disappearing onto the ch...

With his hand upraised and his arm cascading down the hills he led the multitude swaddled in majesty with the fleeting orange blush rising from the other end of time behind him to the blank fields where anguish lived and there he brought the victory that he carried with and inside him. ***** He arose to the glare of the morning light and the sound of birds. Doves twitched and bounced and crowded above him. With his blanket still wrapped around him he wandered out of the broken sanctuary, passed the charred remnants of the bonfire, and toward the familiar voice of his new friend. Cale stood with his back against him, addressing a curious assembly. He looked a bit taller than the rest of them, who all brought their gaze on the boy as he came closer. Some appeared as children with rounded faces and a brightness in their look while others as old men, bearded and jacketed in tweed. The boy tried waving at them but they would not respond. "Up so early?", Cale said as he turned...

Author's note: This crap gets dark. So jus-um... just watch out for that. He put his hand in the bathroom sink and let the water heat and redden it. Water scalding as his blood. Their faces and words ran around track fields in his head. His hand begun to shake. Without warning the mirror filled with a depraved alien visage. Its fists knotted and shaking. Temples pulsating in lunatic aggression. Hate in its core like a beating lump of obsidian. Suddenly, the memories faded and the creature disappeared. His muscles slacked and he breathed in deeply and cooled the water to splash his face and push the anger away. He spared a moment to dry himself before stepping out of the fluorescent refuge and into the pitch blackness. With outstretched hands and shuffling feet he made his way blind to his bed and collapsed on it. He was tired. It was late and already the weighted sunshine of tomorrow had begun to press on him. He wanted peace there in the quiet, but coveted rest...

The smell of fresh brewed coffee and sausages frying in the pan drew him up out of bed and into the kitchen. It was arrayed much in the same way it always was with floral place-mats and silverware exhibited on the table as though the morning bore no uniqueness or significance to any other. The only unfamiliar mark was the collection of flowers in a banded vase on the sill, giving him a reminder of the thorny reality. She hardly saw him sit down against the golden windowpane through the grease smoke from the stove and her own pivoting labor. She said nothing to him, instead going over and giving an embrace that was close and still and prolonged. She took a seat at the table and wiped her eyes. "Did you sleep good?", she asked him. "Not really", he said. "Where'd those flowers come from?" "Oh, those." She looked up from her mug. "The Williamson family dropped them off earlier. They came with a sympathy card and they apologized for not ...

Pieces of ornately carved rock dotted the banks of the worn and the dusted road. Their number increased as he went along it further and further, each bigger than the last. He could see them rising on either side of him when he looked ahead and squinted. Parallel rows of small broken towers. They escalated toward a square ruin of what once was a secluded sanctuary. It was swaddled with the decaying boughs of the surrounding pines, almost hidden. Its four walls and roofing had long since collapsed but fragments of it remained, standing incomplete and disassociated. Only the door frame remained untouched. A flat marble pedestal sat in the middle of the desolate chamber flanked with a water basin on one side of it and on the other a fire pit, both long arid. He stood upon it and saw the moon's amplifying glow through the opened roof.  He set his pack down with the sword and walked toward two looming statues standing in opposition to each other as guardians bordering the ent...

He kept on the path, looking down with measured, punctuated steps. His feet tread on ingrown roots and a carpet of moist leaves and pine needles. A breeze passed through the woodland and tapped his face. When the thicket started to encroach him he picked up a spare, sturdy branch and began hacking away at the firth. As he laid waste to foliage clad with spiderwebs and berries a fevered determination rose in him, something deep rendered long dormant that was beginning to make its way into his tendons. In his mind he pictured a rolling pasture with a tall farmhouse standing on it just past the forest. Children were at play. A loving family lived there and when he staggered out of the wilderness they would call him out and embrace him. They had to be there, he thought. Salvation was out there, for the only other alternative was death. This place would deliver or devour him. He continued to cut away.  He came out through the thickening bush and into a small clearing. It was bathed in...