I began out here at Sal's in ... the third of June, in the year of 2006. If memory serves me right, I immediately dug into The Story Mat, submitting very short and rough pieces and expecting what any beginning writer expects, great reviews and ratings! I wanted to see my stories given ten out of ten ratings and two thumbs up - but instead I received the ever low score of threes and twos. Sad and down, I almost gave up and left The Story Mat, if not for my stubbornness and determination to show everyone how great I really was. And so months passed with me continuing to submit and submit, each time, my score growing a bit higher until it wavered on the meek five or six. I had improved obviously, but there was still room for improvement, as there is even today. How did I improve you ask? Well it's simple, I gazed and examined other people's work, poring over them in the dim room at night, bloodshot eyes and all. I even took ideas and aspects from their stories and placed it in my own, although now I know a bit better. But even today, I am inspired by other people's works and take certain ideas, conforming them to my own vision. Soon I took up the seemingly tiring task of reviewing and analyzing other people's works. It began with simple ratings and it advanced to small paragraphs with explanations of where they went wrong. Of course this was the time when there was Fruityfed and Emanick's Review Thread along with Master Neverdead's Bookcase - back then, reviews were galore, and most wanted reviews from the specified instead of lonely, beginning writers who didn't finish their stories. That was exactly who I was. I usually started a story and got to the second chapter before giving up. A nasty habit I tell you. That was when my break came. I took a leave for a year or so before returning and resuming my writing career here. And I had improved dramatically! My ratings had gone up and I had took to devouring the reviews given and help. That year had nothing major happen to me, with me writing more stories, participating in more role-plays, happy that I had advanced in my writing skills. Then came another break, leaving for several months to a year until I returned but a few months ago. And here I am. In the least arrogant way as possible, I know I've improved an extreme amount from when I began here. My stories are structured, my plots are organized and well thought out and my reviews longer and clearer.

My origin, as perhaps boring and dull as it may be is one of any regular writer. You begin out with few skills, seen as some primitive writer by others. But you advance. You learn, you adapt, you take advice and, whenpossible, you give some. Evolution then comes and does it's job, and you end up, a better writer, reviewer and person than you were all those months or years ago. You can never really master writing, but you certainly can improve. Time won't do it for you, you have to do it yourself.







Barking Dog - by SlashingUK



GRB - by SlashingUK



Medic! - by SlashingUK



The Last Scribe - by Master Neverdead // Hexias



Must Withstand - by Master Neverdead // Hexias



Fingers of Death - by chaoserver



Dreams of Death and Chocolate - by GIR



Hide and Seek - by Sporkenstein



Will - by Fruityfed



•° Kogemur's Call °• - by I Jarlaxle I



The Black Swan - ImTheMonk



City 17 - by WeePee



Unstuck From Time - by Evin290



Seclusion - by Adam?








Well this may be the end of my life as aspiring author here on Sal's or not. With everything in life, you never really know. However words of advice and encouragement to my fellow authors out there whether experienced or not, young or not, new or old. Never, let anyone stop you from writing. Never ever let another order you to stop writing or strip this wonderous art away from you. If you love writing, you tell them that, you meet them face to face and you express of your love for writing. And you tell them that no matter what they do or say, they can never stop you from writing. Because my dear friends, writing is everywhere and it will live on forever. If they take away your computer, get a typewriter. If they take away your typewriter get a pen. If they take away your pen, get a pencil. If they take away your paper, write on any surface! Cardboard, cereal boxes, wrappers, plastic bags, tables, chairs, bins, walls, floors, anywhere! Your love for writing can never die if you fuel and feed it. Read and learn. Practice does make perfect. Experience is the very best teacher when it comes to writing. Read other people's stories, read books and newspapers, read magazines! And don't just write stories, you can write reviews as well, analyze other pieces for both yours and their benefits.

My dear friends, writing - is forever.







This untitled piece was a rather poor stone in my career as aspiring author. Certainly not my best work of writing I admit. However all writers must start somewhere, and I do see this piece as being the fuel to spur me on - further away from my 'dark ages' of writing I do say. When I reflect on this piece, I see a beginner. Today, well I do beg to differ. The original idea of this came from a series of pictures, being a stressed babysitter and...well two babies. I was actually confused as to what I should do with that concept and eventually, my mind had strained out a very poorly thought out, flimsy plot, riddled with holes. My reviewer had given me negative feedback on the piece - to which I agree and am content with.



Silence. Something that, in this household, lasts for nothing above five or so minutes. Right now, I'm cherishing every second. Babysitting isn't something I relish, nor is it something I choose to do. The reward, however, is worth the trouble. My trophy for looking after these crap-makers, is a thirty-year old blonde. My type. And this is coming from a twice divorced, single thirty-one year old guy, what I do is reasonable...at least to me it is. From my chair in the corner of the lounge room, I'm staring into space. Ignoring the two brats make conversation with their very own language, ignoring their hands wave frantically for something to grasp and ultimately ruin. I'm in my very own world.

My fingers spreading slightly, I curl them inwards, exercising them from a long days work of changing diapers and the sort. Once again, noise takes over. Break's finished it seems. Pain hits me as I turn my head, every bone in my body, every muscle aches. Maybe it wasn't worth it. Standing up, I stumble across to the wailing infants hands wrapper around their waists, lifting them up and eying them irritably. Mentally, I tell them how much they annoy me. How much they make my life a bloody hell. But then I tell them how gorgeous their mother is. From there, I drag my feet towards their bedroom, mindlessly dropping them onto the pile of blankets with the odd pillow or two. Lucky love-childs. My job didn't have time for sleep. All work, no play they said. I can't be bothered to indulge in the peace and quiet that's taken over the small apartment room. I can't be bothered to do anything in fact. Making the decision to get off me lazy arse, I stumble over to the middle of the place, eyes darting across the walls, examining my environment. One room caught my gaze, stealing my immediate attention.

A bedroom.

Centered in it, a queen-sized bed, crimson blankets with the edge of a velvety pillow escaping the blankets grasp. In my current condition, it's heaven. Kids are asleep, no-one's left here, the bed simply beckons me. I cannot deny the call.

I cannot deny it.





This piece, entitled 'Lesson Learned', was written in my very early days, where the topic of which you needed to base such pieces on were very personal and...simple to say. In my opinion, I do believe this is a good starting point in my career as aspiring author. The topic of this piece was the famous quote, "don't judge a book by its cover" and how it applied to a personal event in your life. I extracted such a memory from my school days, and even now, I do chuckle at the old times. My former teacher's comments are below.



The term 'don't judge a book by its cover' has been applied to similar events where one has misjudged another due to their religion, background, appearance etc. True to say, I have misjudged some.

The orientation into a new class can make you do exactly that. I knew the majority of my class, but I had yet to acquaint myself with others. Amongst the others was one who went by the name of Michael. Nothing strange about that. However, he was a rather tall teenager who liked a bit of a joke. I took him as the mature, respected and respecting bloke.

However as days, weeks & months went by, it came to my notice, and much to my surprise that he was a tad immature and a mocking fellow. The total opposite to what I had believed him to be earlier on. Yet now that we had made great friends with each other, I got to see how wrong I was, just because I misjudged him on his appearance and stature.

I have clearly learned my lesson and now look deeper into one and take the time to learn about them now. How right the saying is to not judge a book nor person by its cover.







...



Silence.

Somewhat unsurprising in a place like this. In a clear opening, flanked by bare and dead trees, you would expect all the sounds of the night to come haunting you. The peculiar lack of noise seems to be more haunting. Surely this place defines the genre of horror so ever ... stereotypically. The following abrupt sizzle of lightning confirms my thoughts. How I stumbled upon this god-forsaken place comes as a mystery to me. I can only suspect that I have escaped from somewhere ... or someone. The white van besides me explains that.

It truly is the odd thing out in this environment. The white paint, now peeling, glows in the light of the moon, perched in the sky. It illuminates even the darkest corners here, rendering me capable of glimpsing at what strange manner of beast lurks behind me. My mind has just processed how cold it is. No. Cold is but an understatement. Try, freezing. It has been brought on by the chilly wind that heralds faint puffs and pants that barely evade the breeze, whispering into my ear. As much as I hate to admit it: I am not alone. Perhaps it is someone else like me, lost and alone. Blind in the dark and searching feebly. I refuse to acknowledge the fact that it also might be a hunter. A predator, that feeds on my fear, my nightmares. My feet carry me to the porch of a small shack, curiously placed here. I run, or more of, stumble inside, my rash and clumsy actions provoked by the mere snapping of what seems to be a combination of leaves and twigs. So much for silence.

Even safety, the sense of being safe, is something that cannot reach me here. My clawing towards it seems futile. My pupils seem to dance in the white of my eyeballs. They scatter, up, down, left, right, absorbing my new environment and what it seems to be: my last. Suddenly I become the one who puffs and pants, raising the question as to whether it had been me all along, and that all this was paranoia. That I was torturing myself with this sight of darkness. Or maybe not. Sifting into the shadows I shudder, fixing my attention and gaze to the door, now closed, trapping me in here. I seem to freeze as the door creaks open, left ajar by an invisible hand. My eyes seem to latch onto a mirror, showing another pair of eyes, red in colour. They speak to me. They seem to silently tell me something.

That they are watching me.





...



I've got a secret.

Isolated from the likes of gossip and rumors. Tucked away in the corners of my mind, only to be contemplated and thought of. To be reminisced in times of doubt:

...it's personal.

I find few as with whom I can share said secret to. But then again, sharing it would not make it a secret no more. However how can I keep it locked inside of me? I have not the strength nor willpower to do such a thing. My mind becomes a puddle of images, situations in which might happen. Each scenario is dependent on my decision.

I need only moments now, to decide upon a choice. My mind has been made. There is but one who I feel safe to share such knowledge with - a girl, bright and beaming. Yet gentle and caressing. I know full well that after everything is said and done, one thing will be certain...

...a secret it will be no more.





...



Jason gazed in awe at the sight before him. A wide countryside under a swift sunrise. To the side of him sat the Guide, the one man who painted the picture of the paradise before them. But his description was a mere fraction of the colossal haven of lush plains and golden beasts.

Yet the two, as well as Jason's two friends who accompanied him from the Twilight Room forth, were not here to examine the wonders of this new land, they would leave that to the latter years. No. They had travelled far and wide on a quest to the Horizons Drop, miles in front of them, wherest they would digest the information of the World, in the form of a milk-coloured cube.

The cart lurched to a stop and its inhabitants dawdled out of it. "Yonder the horizon, rest not for we depart immediately, the Cube waits for none," rushed the Guide, taking off. The three jaunted after him. It would take them a minimum of three sunrises to reach the Cube. And already the yellow planet set, the World illuminated by a gray moon and its golden partners.

And in the distance, a pair of eyes followed them. On the night, a long scar creeping down. Scarecrow.







...



The repetitive sound of dripping water echoed in the darkness, bouncing off the cold, stone wall. Light once shone into the cavern, yet now portions of it were clouded by the five shadows of five people. And deep in the cave, a pair of dark eyes stared straight into the five's eyes.

Jeremy peered into the darkness, cautiously avoiding placing his foot and body deeper in. He could hear his heart beat once, twice, continuing. He looked to the side, both sides. He was flanked by two others on each side. They all held a side arm, with their central, primary weapon being a H & K MP-10. They could put three or so quick aimed rounds in a head at a range of forty meters as fast as the mind could form a thought. They were students. Himself being twenty-four, his friend on his right twenty-three, the woman next to him (who preferred her pistol), twenty two, and on his left, the gun loving twenty three year old and the tom boyish woman next to him, at twenty one. All attender Harvard, ceasing their schooling to work for America's NSA, which had recently begun recruiting people their ages. Gale, the tom-boy female broke the eerie silence. "Ain't got no place like this 'ere back in Texas," she commented in her Texan drawl, looked at the cavern ceiling. Paul, the gun lover chuckled. The woman next to Jeremiah's friend cocked an eyebrow. "Think we should give a holler to NSA?" Naomi suggested in her Australian accent. Jeremiah's bud and one of the finest brains on the team, Curtis, shook his head rashly. "Let's find out what we're going to report first, eh Jeremy?"

A simple nod from Jeremiah ended the offer to report back. He always had the final say. Period.







...



I feel stiff, rigid.

My hands close around each other behind my back, fingers brushing up against my smooth apparel. My scalp is tickled by the blades of brown hair under my centered hat. Face cold and eyes deep in contemplation, I ignore the drops of rain which shower us so. We are soldiers: disciplined, valiant, loyal. In any weather, rain or snow, blazing deserts to mystic islands, shrouded in fog and littered with vegetation.

I allow my eyes to wander for but a moment. Around me I see my peers of fellow stature and honour, some seeing too few summers. Yet all are willing to die, to fulfill what some call a sacrifice. Whether for honour or selfish gain is beyond my knowledge's grasp. All I can do is sincerely hope it is not the latter. We are focused on one thought for now:

War.

An event that fills the unfortunate absence of peace. Moments later I find myself wielding my weapon, fingers clasped around the handle supporting it so. For what is a war without weapons, physical or abstract? The rain has passed like the wind, leaving us soldiers, perched upon the cliff before an endless plain. We are the colossal titans, speaking of the suns rays with our artillery, painted in the monotonous colours of the desert along with our uniform.

And we are waiting for war.

I only ponder whether if, after the epic dance to death, we shall wait for the Reaper and our graves. Such is war - it can only end in death and a finished friendship. A fiery heatwave smashes against us, heralding a cold fear that slowly tugs at us, as if trying to waver our bravery - foolish as it may be.

Unsuccessful in its task, our strength returns, my fingers closing on the gun a tad more tightly. There is no other word to tell of what we are. Not guerrillas, mercenaries, pirates, terrorists, invaders. No...

...We are Soldiers.





...



It's the sheer terror that takes you is what it is. When the chill of the plastic chair crawls up your back. When eyes, wide open in horror, squint at the luminous light, hovering bare centimeters from your face. When mouth, agape in fear gives way and access to white gloved hands wielding metal tools.

It's the dentist.

His prowess rivaling that of a torturer, with a white mask hiding from view what teeth that lays, ironically, rotting and yellow. In his chambers you're muffled your muffled screams and pleas fall on deaf ears, as he continues on, inspecting and doing what he pleases to. In there, you are helpless. Yet before you take the steps into the forbidding room to meet with the ravenous beast who stalks inside, you first begin your doomed journey in what has become known as: the 'Waiting Room'. It is rather self explanatory, being simply the open area with the odd chair encircling a wooden table that supports what literary items with a futile attempt to ward off the fear that you stir up inside you. But before your clouded mind can comprehend such a scheme, it is far too late, for it only takes moments for your figure, rigid and pale to be beckoned into the black dungeon by a cold voice. Hypnotism I call it. And it only takes mere moments for this foul doctor of death to feast on your fear and begin his daunting process upon you.

I'm dumbstruck to understand how one can take on such an occupation. What bewilders me further is how one can push a child into hands that have committed such heinous deeds. And so that is why I am thankful it's my brother going to the dentist:

...not me.







...



It's cold.

Colder than usual actually. There's something about the way the chilling breeze flows. Something uncanny...unnatural, but then again everything about the Island is like that. I peer upwards towards the windmills. I lock my gaze onto the turning blades, entranced by the slow and carefully orchestrated movements.

I shouldn't be here really.

It's not safe they say, there's nothing out there. Dead end. Even so I find myself doubting their words and laws. Both curiosity and courage hold me down - fill me. The sky turns a grungy red as the sun says its goodbyes. Night is nearly upon us and so the many laboring tasks set to the slaves shall begin. That's what night is for us - a touchstone on which everything is conducted by. It also signals when the other people come, when the march in their dozens with one mind. One mind and one community. My confidence and courage wavers at the sight of them - the others. So I admit myself to be wrong, it really isn't safe. Quick feet carry me beyond the windmills towards the border, however they are quicker. They run like cheetahs almost hopping on the ground.

They are not human.

My legs soon fail me, knees crashing on themselves. I lose. They do not know haste as I lay, crumpled on the forest floor. Soon they uplift me with my arms wrapped around their shoulders. I am going to die. Carried through an unfamiliar path, we trek past forbidding trees with the odd animal or two scampering to its safe nest - something I am all without. I muffle a cry for help, but dry lips and a parched throat render me a mute. It's useless. They will carry me homeward to their residence, and there, I shall meet the dead end of my life.

They say that when the moment before you die, that short section, your life flashes before your eyes. However too slow will it come, for I will lay dead before I can catch but a glimpse of it.

It's cold.





...



The stern and humorless man kept his gaze on me, with mine on the ground, two fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. No part of being a captain, beneficial or not, could overpower and overtake the problem of making a decision. One that could change the course of a thousand lives too. They call it reliance, I call it hard, others call it the human mind.

As captain of a starship, I am tasked to spread peace throughout the galaxy, and if need be, provide backup to any fleet in distress. To this I follow a strict oath as well to which I am held.

How I came to be a captain and why is beyond my memories. No doubt a consistent nagging, blackmailing and persuasion to the uttermost end had forced my hand and enlisted me into the Star Fleet. And so years have passed, with me never facing such a problem, complex it be, until now. And my decision could effect the live of thousands, tens of thousands.

How did it come to this?

The power that I now hold in my hand is one that belongs to God and God only. I flash back to reality, back to the staring eyes and steady hands, all to people whom I have their allegiance. At my slightest command they would obey, with some hesitation, yes but carrying out nevertheless. To kill, or not to kill. To slaughter a hundred in return for a thousand or not. The decision isn't easy. But one has to be made...







This piece, entitled 'Freedom' displays my attempt to spin a short story that somehow incorporates said theme into it. With that in mind, I took to putting a slight spin on it if you will, by writing the story through the perspective of a blind girl whom some would consider trapped or confined to the lack of vision. However I do my best to exhibit how freedom can be obtained and achieved by anyone no matter what race, gender or disability. Although brief, I'm proud of what I've accomplished and created. Comments meant for this piece are below.



Freedom.

Defined as being the condition of being free and unrestrained. It's something I haven't experienced in an age. The school is silent. A surprising factor in such a stereotypical place. But then again, 4:09pm explains it all. I'm behind...not so much left, but choosing to be behind. I call it: freedom.

My feet take slow steps down the stairs. With every footfall my hand tightens its grip across the railing flanking my sides. Eyes drifting to the wall on my left, I marvel at the art printed there. It's the outcome of imagination. Stumbling at the bottom of the stairs, I regain my balance, taking heavy and painful breaths. Then again, I can't hear my breaths. Nor the chirps of birds or the gossip of teens. What I lack in hearing, I gain in insight and imagination. Through my amazed eyes, my mind paints the stadium of all colours. I first learned of the colour spectrum at the age of five. Now, I can finally grasp its true potential. Tramping to the cluster of seats, I shuffle into an empty row, seating myself dead centre. A sigh escapes my lips, my eyes squint shut.

I'm in an alternative world, entered through my imagination.

It seems so real to me as the more tangible one of relationships and work, cars and taxes In this world, I'm its historian, its geographer, its sociologist, its storyteller. I preserve it in my mind, ready for use on another day. In my world, all doors to all the rooms, the lands, are open. In these circumstances, if you come upon a closed door, however miserable you may be, however distracted, natural human curiosity will impel you to open it. And you'll find yourself lost in my world's many rides.

The abrupt touch of a hand shocked me, catapulting me back into reality. My eyes blink several times before processing the identity of the man before me, to my brain. He wore a jacket, made of navy silk, wrinkled and littered with creases. His pants were short, the jacket clinched into his waist with a navy, patent belt. His hands moved to trace lines in the air, mouth opening and closing. I gesture him to sit.

The two of us once were asked what we'd like to do, when we grew up. If I had the chance to richochet into the past and answer, I know what I'd say:

"I want to imagine..."









...



I stumbled through the empty streets, the Manhattan wind screaming in the night. I was lost. Confused. Alone. Winetr had come to New York, along with the common cold. Being an Australian who lived on the streets, with no trace of an education, I scarcely knew about it. But what I did know, was that the cold was not as harmless as it seemed to be. It had been reported that the cold had mixed with the polluted atmosphere, mutating and conforming into a deadly virus which, once inhaled into a body or host, spread, degrading the liver and slowly poisoning its victim. Safeguards were made and put in place to counter the posed biological threat. But, being the street rat I was, purchasing and having knowledge of those defenses was not within my capability.

Now, I was running from an invisible cold and enemy. Trees withered around me, the leaves buried in snow leaving barren grayscale branches. Oblivious to the small rocks before me, I tripped, rolling down the snowy hill like a mindless ragdoll. My fall ceased and I picked myself up, my brown gloves rubbing against my sore neck. The will to live spurred me on in my ever long goal to escape, a goal that everyone wants accomplished in one stage of their life. Apparently, my stage was yet to come.

I shifted from a run to an easy pace, hastily glancing around my environment for a haven. No. A heaven. My ears perked at the opening of a nearby door. I snapped my neck sideways, only to be flooded with the tempting, warm glow of a fire. There was a silhouette of a man at the door. Breaking the moment, he gestured me in with a caring hand. I slowly traversed inside, falling on a couch. The cold had caught me. But I had no worry for that. My savior would take care of me, heal me and protect me, all the while warding off the sly enemy that had gotten me in its web. And then we would wait. For the crimson sunrise to break the icy, shrill night. For the chirps of birds to replace the banshee like scream of a mourning wind. For a new dawn to commence. The two of us would wait...

...for the kingdom of heaven.

They once said what you don't know won't hurt you. I guess I'm damn real living proof of how wrong they were.

'Nuff said.







...



Balloons...

...are bright and colourful, riding the whispers of the wind in all shades of colour. Blue, red, orange, yellow, green. They are floating lollipops, paper balls attached to string, rising up into the sky, going to a place that no-one has every seen, heard of or been to. Heaven perhaps. Or maybe a Balloon Heaven. Yet before they go there, they must die.



Pieces of rainbow, floating down, falling to the earth; souvenirs of secluded and outer lands.

They remind us of a youth we once had, of a younger time. They fought back the unnerving thoughts of fictitious monsters whose lairs lie in their closet or under the bed. They followed us, tagging along whilst being tugged at by a fierce gale determined to rob us of our joy and mischief, leaving us devoid of any happiness, where we would drown in a pool of sorrow and sadness.

Balloons - a memorabilia of a better place.







...



I feel like an idiot. Not because, in all truthfullness, I am one, but because of what just happened. What I just experienced was one of those moments when your face goes bright red and your nails dig into your skin. Along with that are the giggles and murmurs your 'friends' attempt to conceal, and this just exacerbates the situation. It's called an embarrassing moment, when you make a complete fool of yourself.

I hate those moments.

I hate myself more for getting into those moments in the first place. You can't blame me really, well it's more that I don't want you to blame me. The way I see it, its a mere mistake. Unfortunately for me, everyone else doesn't see it that way. Once you hear my side of the incident, you'll see things eye to eye with me.

The whole situation took place in the not-so-innocent setting that was the classroom. Of course the usual activities of shouting, throwing paper balls, flirtin and whatnot had defined the day as normal. Surely enough the teacher (an art teacher to be precise) had arrived and did her best to neutralize us, leaving the odd pairs gossiping silently, untouched. She wasted no time pushing us straight into working, giving us our own tool set composed of a brush, board and paint.

Enough to make a 'recipe for disaster' as they say.

Kudos to my 'friend' for my misfortune. His evident, puerile behaviour contributed greatly to my spilling of red paint. Without him the floor wouldn't have been stained with the bright shade of red, that could easily be mistaken for blood. It's safe to say that my cheeks brightened up so much that it rivaled the paint.

The spill would serve as the touchstone for the many teasing jokes to come in the future. Learning from that incident is something I tasked myself on, however I can't speak for my misguided friend over here...







...



I am against the wind, racing across a sun swept plain. I am, living my dream, my destiny. A humble sight halts my run, my paws skidding in the golden dust. I look back, noticing the dust storm created from my run. Swiftly I camouflage myself in the Savannah bushes and trees. Behold, before me, a strange figure. A creature, alien to me. Pale in complexion yet tall and strong looking. His skin is strange, coloured in gold with darker patches on him. And with him he carries a stick, long and ... glistening. He holds the stick like it is his treasure. And slowly, he creeps onto two paws towards nothing and no-one. He hunts strangely. My eyes catch on a second creature - my feast. The alien creature swoops towards my dinner. I growl, hesitant to strike out at the creature who is stealing my own treasure. He raises his stick, pointing it at my food. And in a flash, he juts back. A deafening noise echoes in the watering hole, my dinner falling to the strange alone beast. I am startled by the noise, my paws snapping a twig. The beast has fine ears, catching this noise and pointing his death stick at me this time. Instinct takes over. I spin around, my paws barely touching the ground as I retreat away. The strange creatures gives chase with speed rivaling a cheetah. His other, upper legs do not touch the ground, instead he uses only his lower legs to run I pant, my tongue flapping wildly with saliva drooling out. Survival spurs me on and soon enough, I outrun my predator.

I make my journey back to my pack, pictures of the alien beast flashing in my mind. My mate welcomes me with a lick, and simultaneously, night falls. My eyes droop down and I lay still and silent. Tomorrow, I shall investigate and hopefully...

...curiosity won't kill this cat...





...



I can see you mommy.

You're lying on your bed, head in your arms and hair flung back behind you. I see tissues that litter the carpet floor, and the bin lies beside the bed, empty and hollow. There's a photo on the bed, it's blurry and I can barely make it out from here. It's a picture of me. That's right, of your baby Lucy. I sure did look small then didn't I? Oh.

I think you're crying mommy.

But why mommy? Why are you crying? I remember when you used to talk to me all the time, and you said that life was a happy thing, and that it was worth experiencing every single bit of it. But now I see: you were wrong. Life doesn't look like a happy thing. I don't think happiness is crying. No. That's sadness isn't it?

I remember one time, you told me that you would love me so much, that nobody would ever be good enough for me. You said that you would hold me in your arms and watch everything with me. You even planned for what school I would go to, and what I would become in the future. You said I would become a doctor.

But I don't want to become a doctor now. I see what they do, and not all of it is good. They kill don't they mommy? They kill lots of babies all the time. At first I couldn't see why no-one was stopping them. But now I can see. It's because they want it to happen. The other mommies and daddies. They wanted the doctors to kill their babies. But why? I thought babies were the best thing to happen to a boy and girl. I thought that everyone wanted one, or even two. Or three! Or four!

So why'd you do it mommy?

Why'd you let the doctors hurt me? Why'd you let them kill me? You told me lots of stories when I was safe and sound in you. But now I don't know if you were lying or not. Now I know why you're crying mommy. Because you didn't really want me to go. But you had no chance didn't you?

I forgive you mommy. You know why?

Because - I love you.







...




There's a boy in my class, a special boy.

This boy sits in the far back of the classroom, shoulders hunched to a point where they nearly touch the desk and head bent down. His hand, as I've noticed, is always moving, and his fingers seem to be clasped around a pencil at any time of the day. Whenever I do get the chance, I watch him, arm moving along with his hand, which guides the pencil as it scribbles furiously on the paper he hordes to himself. There was no doubt about it: this boy loved to draw. And as much as he loved to draw, he loved to write. It was quite the opposite really, the way his hand moved when he did those two separate things. Whens drawing, his hand moves like a blur, and from a distance it just seems that he's irritably scratching into the paper. However when writing, the action seems more graceful and orchestrated, pencil moving up the page and down. In both tasks though, he always pauses for a minute, bringing the pencil up to his mouth and moving his lips onto the tip. His eyes seem to stare upwards, at the ceiling and his brows furrow in deep thought. That only lasts for a minute or so, and before you know it, he's back at it again. I'm guessing this is what every artist or writer does: think.

I find myself shedding pity on him. No one really cares about this boy, they wouldn't give a dollah' to save his life. Shame that. The way I see it, the rest of the class doesn't seem to care about him because they can't find a reason as to why they should. He's quiet and very harmless looking. His physique is that of a skinny boy, yet tall and lanky. He has dark brown hair and hazel eyes that sits on a slightly tanned skin. To everyone, this boy doesn't make an affect on their lives. He don't hurt nobody or speak to nobody, giving them nothing of a good reason to care. But I'm different yessir. To me, this boy is just caught up in his own world. I'd give my whole house to be in my own world.

Lucky kid.

Already, I've given him a rank in my mind, donning him interesting and peculiar. However I'll have to keep an eye or two on him. Don't want him stumbling into the path of those nasty bullies them. 'cos as I said...

...this boy's special.





...



In a city of gold stone and weathered canals, where the sun manages to venture down, escaping through the holes that it so luckily finds. Where the rays of the fire in the heavens touch the heads of the many buildings, blinding all who look upon it, illuminating the city in the black thicket of night. In this heated desert of beauty and yet ugliness, a colossus watches. A titan giant of stone, strong and solid, surviving the fierce gale of the cold night, headstrong through the barrage pf rain and hail, maintaining itself in the deadly heat. It is a sentinel of the morn and night, watching the sky and foul, eying the suspicious and mysterious, protecting the good and just. It sees all, a restless watcher. A judge of what is good and evil, if there are such things. A cautious god, a silent guardian, a majestic deity.

Un.

The sun is cruel. The flame, alight in the sky, beats down on me, spying in my grief, peeking through the many gaps and cracks in the sandstone buildings that flank my sides. It mocks me, laughing from above, knowing full well that I cannot reach it, silence it. Up there in the snowy white clouds the sun is safe. And I despise it for having that knowledge, I am jealous of it, of its purpose in the sky that is ablaze in a fire of light that radiates from the sun so. What my purpose is, I refuse to acknowledge. For it has brought upon me a sack of despair and sorrow, molding me into a beast of burden, racked and tormented. My eyes drift downwards to the water on which my boat floats lazily upon. I wish now that I could drown in the sapphire waters, to plunge my head in and finally embrace the sweet release that is death. But I know I cannot. For I already drown in regret and shame. Because I found a man's memory - and never gave it back.

The silhouette of this man of sorrow and or shame is no longer seen, with my shadow overtaken by an ever greater one: one of the towering doors that stand, tempting and alluring. The city of Au de Sáir holds many a secret. And there is not one in the city whose ears have not engulfed the whispers and rumors they find that feeds their thirst for a stained knowledge. For me, I am only interested in one particular fable of mystery, which shrouds itself in a blanket of secrecy in my mind. For I heard of two doors, great and tall, made from the finest of wood a chuck may find, with handles of pure gold, embellished with quartz and diamonds. And as much as that piqued my curiosity, I was even more amazed at the long winded tales of what lay inside and beyond. The people foretold of a great plain of green, lush and filled with good tilled earth. It lay, quiet and tranquil under a swift sunrise of crimson, where no storm clouds nor ravel of night filled could harm. They spoke of a nameless presence that filled one with a new purpose and life. It was a mighty and genderless deity who had roamed the far edges of the world, spreading its word and gift. Yet it soon disappeared they said. Retreating into this ever bountiful land. When I had queried as to why it did such a thing, they replied: "because of war." And so now, it waits in slumber, behind great doors that can only be opened with a key. A key that I now possess. I asked them what they believed the god's name to be. Each had the same response, and they sounded like a chorus...

Hope...

The Invisible Man was a piece that came to me quite easily. The idea for this piece was basically formed from the concept of The Bucket List (starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman), and then I had built upon it, conforming it to suit the theme of this piece. It's meant to be quite comedic and satirical with the slight touch of a serious tone, with it having no such view on any real life matters nor is it meant to be something to sway readers to one side of a matter or my view on something. A writing exercise if you will.



My name is John Michaels. At forty four years of age, I'm as fit as ever, despite my current status in a bed for the recent majority of my life. Snowy white eyebrows and grey eyes have me as wise and experienced through many a thing. And for all that, no-one knows that I exist. This sees me as nothing of a haunting phantom nor ghost, nor a mutated being, granted the 'gift' of invisibility by what freak accident had affected me. I am simply an old man, stripped of any family or friends and devoid of the acknowledgement that I so rightfully deserve. Jealous and greedy as I might be, I have un-rightfully been abandoned in the top most floor or this godforsaken hospital, tucked in the corner of a room for a reason that my mind is lacking knowledge of at the moment. Left to wither and succumb to age or sickness as a tired and old man whose fitness level is left waning and futile.

And so now I await the end of my time, I lay, patient until I 'kick the bucket' as many so fondly say.

If only my stubborn old self allowed me so. My age and face of wisdom and experience in this irritable thing called life, demands that I receive attention. To ignore or be ignored is something I find myself not content with. The old and restless are often seen as meek aged things who should, and are, be stepped on, treated for the obsolete garbage we are. A rather unfair assumption and command to the young and arrogant if I do say. For equality is a factor that the old world use to despise, and it is no fair play that the new world might not revel and delight in it. Broken bone, heart or mind does not render any particular person one for a prejudicial act to be based on. Blasphemy I call it.

Alas, my profound thoughts and thinking come to me as nothing of a pivotal argument in this modern age social epidemic. I'm afraid my seeing of many winters has caused that. If I were something of a proud and head-strong man whose words echoed of an efficacious description, I could be out there preaching of my beliefs. Yet I am not.

So I shall spend the last of my days in a creaking bed with sheets long overdue of its need to be cleansed. And so still I remain, to all extents and purposes: an invisible man.

Hello, it's Magic My Mom, your first visitor. Thank you for showing me around, I'll never forget the brilliant stories and mysteries you have stored in this vast place.

From the tone of this, I had thought you were departing from both "The Library" and Sal's.

Good to see that is not the case.

I have not read all the stories so far, but I can see all of this took a long time. So, good job.

~John

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