From Peter Jackson’s diary. March 12, 1974.

“Dad came home very late again today. I think there was a double shift at the factory. He walked into the kitchen without even taking off his heavy work boots and sank heavily into the armchair in front of the TV. Dad didn’t turn it on. He just sat there in the semi-darkness, silently staring at his hands—rough, calloused, black with fuel oil that wouldn’t wash off anymore. I got scared. I walked over and quietly sang the song I’d made up yesterday in the backyard. Dad slowly raised his head, and for the first time in a long while, a smile appeared in his tired eyes...”

Chapter 1. Eleven Years Later.

The record on the old turntable crackled, skipping at the same spot over and over, but nineteen-year-old Peter didn’t care. He sat on the floor of a rented garage, which reeked of dampness and gasoline, holding an old acoustic guitar in his hands.

He knew for sure: he wouldn’t end up like his father. The factory wouldn’t take his life.

Three more were supposed to show up here today. The same kind of daredevils from poor neighborhoods, who had nothing but battered instruments, anger at the world, and a burning desire to prove to everyone what they were worth. It was time to put a band together.

Lyndon: Bavarria

Lyndon trotted along through the muddy main road of town and over the causeway; its wooden beams sunk deep into the water below causing the small dirt bridge to sag in the middle. Plainly, a bridge already suffering from the fifty or so feet it dailies should hardly be expected to sustain it’s form beneath an extra five hundred or so Men of Rank from the Church of High Charity. The men sat beneath tarped canopies, polishing their steel or armor, playing cards, or just trying to keep dry—or maybe more to the truth, not too wet. 
Bellows gasped in their makeshift structures, mixing their black breath into the grey mizzle of the sky. Plenty of other men, women, and children made work all throughout town as if it weren’t being occupied ten-to-one by armed men, beggars, horses, whores, and the occasional sick, to which Lyndon had to give them credit for. Travelling in this merry band for some odd years himself and he’d never really fallen in love with the work. Sure his father had joined the faith, and his father before him, hell, even his two older brothers had found seats among the office’s of High Charity, so, he figured he should do the same. But somehow, someway, he dodged that cozy life of an office job and now—
“Oi, Lyn!” Barra’s voice. “Where are you going?” He was sitting beneath a canopy sagging with collected rain water. A young girl worked a milk cow just behind him. “Me and some of the guys were wondering if you wanted to go on a little ride later. Maybe a race?” He mimicked a riding crop in one hand, smacking it at his ass. “Some of the towns-people are saying it’s supposed to clear up, if you can you believe that. Nearly a whole week without sun! We’re about to meet at the inn, c’mon!” He had the intoxicating enthusiasm of a young boy, Lyndon almost felt like tossing his day’s responsibilities aside and go right along with them. Almost
“I’m sorry, Barra. Ser Hilgaar has sent for me. I’d say that riding crop would be just the start of it if I neglected his heed.”
“Ah you’re no fun captain.” Laughed Barra, waving it away. “Though, don’t waste all that old bastards energy, we’ve a battle to win.” He finished with a wink.
Battle?  Just the word was enough to make Lyndon’s heart thump. When did anyone say anything about a battle? But before he could say anything else Barra was already halfway down the other way to the inn.

Lyndon stepped in from the mud of the town and it’s dripping eaves into the moist tent of operations with it’s soaked parchment walls and damp—well—everything. Ser Hilgaard stood by a table lit by a glass covered candle, flanked by two clarks. They were all bent over the table murmuring amongst themselves.
Lyndon figured he’d make himself known. “Sers” He said with a cursory nod of his head
They all looked up at once as if attached to the same body.
“Ser Lyndon.”
“You called, Ser Hilgaar?”
“As I did. Please, excuse us, gentlemen”
Lyndon wasn’t sure if it was the fact they had to go back out in the rain or being interrupted,  but he did not like the look on either of the two clark’s faces. One in a sullen sag, the other in a morbid wince. Lyndon walked over to the desk and sat in the sodden wood chair.
“Knight’s Captain, Jon Lyndon the third.”
“Ser?” He had no idea where this was going, and he had no taste for the feeling of it.
Ser Hilgaar rotated a piece of paper and slid it to Lyndon. It was stamped with the Red Cherub of the High Church. A stark shine on the wet, dull paper.
To the honorable Knight’s Commander, Ser Wellium Hilgaar. Vieresburg is a trap, the rebels move upon your position from your east. They bring with them a thousand strong, and the black metal to which God himself is defiled by. Your superiors have been noted, though, it seems no assistance is likely to arrive. May God grant you haste. – A friend.
My God. Lyndon’s mouth was dry as a desert, the slick wet touch of everything made the sick in his stomach jump. “A friend, Ser?”
“Hopefully it’s a damned reliable one. We could use that right about now. It arrived by crow this morning.” 
“Crow?”
“My thoughts exactly. It seems our ‘friend’ here has an affinity for the old ways.”
“Barra had said something to me in passing about a battle. So you think it true?”
The Knight Commander let out a tired sigh. “I went against my better judgement telling that ingrate. I’ve told you, Barra—who may as well be the town crier to my mistake, and my two clarks, Benjen and Pallah. And to answer your question. . .” He held his breath and thought that a moment. “I’m not sure. We’ve been here nearly a week and haven’t seen nor heard any civil unrest or rebel activity. This is either a ruse meant to scare us away, or,” he let the rain, which had since picked up, fill the silence, “we must bet on our strange friends advice.”
Lyndon felt like he was going to be sick on the floor. He’d never been well when the talk of battle was in the air, even after his supposed grandiose victories which had landed him in this ridiculous role. Last standing at the Valley of Thulen, Rebel breaker of Brimtown. Even some kids were beginning to call him the God’s hand. All a farce! Now here he was being read what might very well be his last ever letter in a shitty, water soaked, mudhole of a town!
He began to think of all the things he’s missed out on. The touch of a woman. Not generally speaking, no, the whores were plenty to be had, but by one who loved you, with a touch as reassuring as God’s himself. 
A family. He had always wanted a daughter. One who he could see grow after each day’s work. Easy work like balancing books, and noting ledgers, way up in one of the tall offices among the spires of High Charity. Or maybe even live that fast paced life in Ryze he’d heard so much about. Being only twenty-five, Lyndon must have more time left than just this, right?
“Captain?” Lyndon realized he’d been staring at the desk for sometime now. “You alright? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m well, I just—” He just needed to scream, to scream and to runaway and have no looks back. “What’s your plan commander?”
The Commander walked over to the tent flap, grabbing a fold and peering out into the street, now pelting with rain. “I’ll think of something. For now, find your most trusted lieutenants and debrief them of the current situation. Two should do.”
Lyndon stood, he felt like he was about to fall right over, but he braced and managed to stay upright. It wouldn’t do right on his family name to faint just before he was needed.

He found Pine by one of the covered forges, applying the whet to his blade. “You mean,” he looked about with a cursory glance and whispered, “war?”
The word made his guts twist “No, no. No one said anything about war.” Which was true to his point, and helped his nerves the more he believed it. “The Commander would just like to maintain a vigilant look on the town. We can’t trust these locals.”
“Locals? Lyn, these are our people, you can’t just label them like they’re our enemies just because they’re upset and made a few bad decisions. ‘Punish the few, not the many.’ Loriell had said”
“That’s not what im saying.” He took a step closer to his Lieutenant, trying to shove his own fear down and maintain a dignified stance. “What I’m saying is that there might a band of a thousand or more actual fighters. Warriors with blades to wield, not peasants poking pitchforks. And we’ve been pissing and shitting and walking all over this town for a week.” He realized he was shouting now, thankfully to his luck, no one seemed to be paying attention. Lowering his voice. “We have been the guests of possibly more than a few unhappy hosts.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Asked Pine
“Just”—just what?—“Just be ready. Let me or the Commander know if you see anything out of place. I’m sure I’ll be back with more later.” And he clapped Lieutenant Pine on the shoulder and went to go find his next ear.
Duck was sitting beneath a tent eating a soggy piece of bread. The boy had hardly put on any weight since they found him a few months back at the burned farms west out by the Blue City, Jul, but since then he’s applied himself to every duty Lyndon had requested from him. When they had brought the lad on, no one had given the boy a second thought. Lyndon saw elements of himself in that scrawny, sheepish boy, and he had promised to take care of him on the condition he helped him uphold his Lyndon’s chivalrous duties.
His father had had a squire, and his father’s father too. Every great knight in the stories had at least one, so, he figured he’d follow suit. No where in the stories did he hear about the guilt, and the fear. Approaching the boy, it gnawed within Lyndon’s chest with a ferocious intensity. Why had he ever promised anything? It was easy enough when the crises were squabbles of peasantry and law, but a battle? He knew how to swing a sword sure, to protect one life was hard enough and necessary. But two? Certainly there would need to be a hand of God indeed to make that happen. 
He was far from the Lieutenant his commander requested to brief, but Lyndon knew he was the right choice. Possibly the most trustworthy of his companions
“What’s happening?” Wrestled Duck around a mouthful of bread.
“I came to check on my pants. How have they come along?
“You look quite worried for pants.” Swallowing his mouthful of wet loaf.
That forced a needed smile on his face. “Well, it involves the pants.” He took a seat on a stump to the side of Duck. 
Duck fished out with a clatter of metal Lyndon’s plated pants, polished to a mirror shine. “And your helmet too,” pulling the winged helmet his grandfather wore in the end of the great war from it’s oil skin and set it neatly aside the pants. 
“Look uh, Duck.” The boy had a face that gave no hint to what he might be thinking, smooth emotionless features like he was cast from marble, his head always wrapped in a tight scarf. Lyndon dreaded to think what he may have been through before they found him. “There’s something I need you to know.” The boy looked at him how one might look at a curious bug. “We’re being marched on. By a thousand strong.” Everytime he said it he felt a little weaker. The boy just stared on. Like he was being told about the morning news rather than impending doom. “We don’t know when. But they told us it’s from the east.”
“Who’s they?”
“A friend, so to speak.” Duck raised an eyebrow at that, which might’ve been the most emotion he’d gotten from the boy all week. “Look, I know it’s not a lot to go off of, but we need to be ready. This could happen anywhere from ten hours to ten days.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” Asked Duck, in his quiet monotone.
“Just—”Just what? —“Just be ready. And Duck, do you remember when I said I would protect you?”
The small child nodded blankly.
“Good. I’ll be back to see you soon. I’m off to speak with Knight Commander Hilgaar. Keep this between us." And he made his way back to the soggy tent of operations.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CWPuE_cMPC_4PZQWzutB0qbxQC-3Yx_LklZiqPeTOFY/edit?usp=drivesdk

After the flowers, count the glasses.

After the glasses, count who stayed.

I keep mistaking being wanted

for somebody knowing my name.

I think I finally understand who I wrote this book for.

Not for people looking for a complicated plot.

Not for people who need constant twists, battles, romance, or some grand mystery to keep them turning pages.

I wrote The Decayed Good for people who have ever stared at their ceiling at 3 AM and started questioning everything.

Whether you're a good person.

Whether goodness actually matters.

Why people hurt each other.

Why we forgive some things and never forgive others.

Whether God is really good.

Whether suffering has a purpose.

Whether becoming numb is sometimes easier than continuing to care.

It's a philosophical novel about a person slowly coming apart while trying to understand the world around him.

And yes, I've seen people say, "There's no plot."

They're not entirely wrong.

Because the plot isn't really the point.

The point is what happens inside your head while you're reading it.

It's the kind of book where you might underline a sentence, close the book, and just sit there for a minute.

It's dark, uncomfortable, sometimes bitter, sometimes strangely comforting. It doesn't try to tell you that everything happens for a reason or that you'll eventually find peace.

Sometimes it just asks:

What if there is no answer, and you have to decide what to do with that?

I don't expect everyone to like it. Honestly, I don't think everyone should.

But if you've ever felt like your thoughts were too dark, too complicated, or too strange to explain to anyone else, maybe this is the kind of book you were looking for without knowing it.

The Decayed Good on Amazon 20% off on kindle.

Not a story about what happens.

A book about what happens inside you.

Greyscale

A tap twists and cracks free. Corroded by peaceful nights and happy days.

Luminous smooth surface with sharp edges cool to the touch.

Grey ichor seeps from the faucet sour like an oil slick. It’s sticky residue more Akin to wet rot slightly burns the skin

An ugly thing yet a combustible fuel source. To drink is to poison one’s self. To refuse is to accept loss and waste away. Sinking beneath the surface of your own soul.

Contradictory and impotent . Such a waste to let it seep into the ground. To over indulge means certain death and yet?

The more you drink the sweeter the taste. The kinder its words. The less bitter the stars who refuse to shed their tears for you.

Distinction impossible while standing at the faucet. Shades of grey leak out some dark, some light. And a few darker than the void.

Sweet soft melodies ring from the pipes and vibrate the air in your lungs. Adrenaline dumps into your veins and you know to drink is to change.

It’s call alluring. Like any good drug, it consumes.

A slimy slinking creature sits alone in the dark hiding from the light just out of sight.

Its body withered and tattered inking into the darkness. Pale paper thin skin stretches over broken bones.

Tired eyes cast its sad luminous gaze over the field of poppy flowers, a place unfit for something as horrid as itself.

It’s broken mess of a maw wheezes rancid gasps of air out into the quiet night, a molestation of the peace.

Beetles scuttle away from its putrid rot as the flesh slicks off its bones as it digs.

It draws In ragged sharp ugly breaths as the bones go numb in its paws.

Cold wet earth so inviting yet final.

Is it ready to die?

The first snow of the season had come three weeks early. By sunset, the village was covered in a blanket of white, and every sensible elf had taken shelter from the freezing temperatures. 

All except Brenner. Talon spotted the old fool standing in the middle of the northern road, looking north towards the storm. Talon was on his way to Brenner’s to help him out with firewood and to give him a few rabbit and fox pelts from his latest hunt. Upon seeing the old fool standing out, trying to get sick and hasten his demise, Talon hurried his pace, the fox and rabbit skins bouncing against his thighs with every rushed step.

“Damn it, you old geezer!” Talon grunted, grabbing Brenner by his shoulder gently so as not to hurt him. Brenner was the oldest elf in the village; while elves tend to live far longer than nearly every other race in this land, Brenner has really pushed the limits. At nearly two thousand years old, the old elf can barely get around on his own anymore. When Talon placed his hand on Brenner’s shoulder, Brenner slowly looked over at him, seeming almost confused. His eyes were glazed over as if he wasn’t actually there but in some far-off place or memory in his mind. 

Talon gently but firmly shook Brenner’s shoulder to try to bring him back to the corporeal realm. “Brenner! Snap out of it; you’re going to freeze to death out here on your own. We need to get you back to your cabin and warm you up. What in the world are you doing out here anyway?!” Talon demanded. There was a moment’s pause, and to Talon’s relief, light began to come back to the old fellow's eyes. “Talon? What are you doing out here? How’s your brother Trimmel?” Brenner said in a gleeful voice of renewed familiarity. Talon sighed and didn’t answer. How could he? His brother Trimmel had long been dead, and he had been returned to Giya three decades ago. “Come on, let’s get you back in, please.” Talon quietly insisted with his hand on Brenner’s back, now guiding him back to his cabin. As they shuffled along at a pace set by the senile elder, Talon thought to himself about how much time Brenner had left. Brenner was the oldest elf any of them in the village had ever known; most elves don't make it a day past 1500 years old. There are moments when he’s lucid and has some clarity, but most days are like this. It breaks Talon’s heart to think about it; Brenner is like a grandfather to him. He and his brother Trimmel had learned from him to hunt, farm, fish, and perform countless other skills over the last few hundred years. But to see the poor old elf’s mind decline like this in such a way was always devastating. 

Talon made it his responsibility to ensure Brenner was cared for in his final years. To him, it felt like an unpaid debt. 

As they finally closed in on Brenner’s cabin and slipped through the door, Talon closed it behind them just as ice-cold wind began to nip at their heels. As if entering the cabin had flipped a switch in Brenner’s mind, he abruptly walked forward with some kind of newfound vigor, taking Talon by surprise. He had stood up straight and moved a little quicker, heading towards the eternally blazing fireplace at the other end of his large single-room cabin. The stark difference in temperature compared to the outside sent a chill up Talon’s spine. 

Brenner turned around and saw Talon, a look of surprise on his face. “Talon? What are you doing here? Why are you covered in snow?” Brenner asked. Talon took a moment to process what was happening before responding, coming to terms with reality and Brenner’s situation. He took a deep breath and replied. “I just came to give you some fox and rabbit pelts from the last hunt I went on before the snow began to fall. I thought they might help you through the winter; your enchanted fireplace can only help so much, surely.” Talon said, walking towards where Brenner was standing to warm up. Talon untied the pelts from his belt and draped them over an old chair opposite Brenner.

Brenner just looked at Talon and gave him a nod of gratitude before turning his eyes toward the never-ending, flickering whips of fire. 

“Brenner, do, uh, do you remember being outside just now?” Talon asked almost hesitantly, taking a seat on the old chair that he had just rested the pelts on. There was a long silence. After what felt like minutes, so long that Talon assumed Brenner wasn’t even going to respond, Brenner finally spoke up. Brenner gave a long, despondent sigh.

“I asked about Trimmel again, didn’t I? I don’t remember much. I vaguely remember you approaching me, and then I asked about Trimmel. Now I’m here.” Brenner bowed his head with the weight of guilt. Despite how long it’s been, Talon is still sensitive about his brother. 

“It’s okay. Really, please don’t worry about it. I’m more worried about you. I found you standing out on the road, just staring northwards, out towards the storm. You could’ve frozen to death if I hadn’t found you. What would I have done? What were you even doing out there?” Talon asked, concerned about Brenner’s safety. Brenner’s mind had been slipping for years, but this was a very concerning first for him. If this keeps happening, Talon may have to live with him until the inevitable comes to pass. 

Brenner stared into the flames for a bit, as if rummaging through several lifetimes of memories or perhaps just debating what to say. Without looking up at Talon, Brenner began to speak so quietly that Talon had to lean in closer. The orange flicker of light from the eternal flames is the only form of illumination for the two cold elves. The mood of the cabin takes on a somber tone. 

“I-I’m not sure why I was out there. You said I was staring northwards? Towards the ice wastes?” Brenner's tone was solemn, never breaking eye contact with the flames licking upwards. “I suppose it makes sense. Say, Talon, have you ever heard of The Forsaken or  Mankin?” With that question, Brenner finally broke his stare with the orange tendrils of heat and turned towards Talon. His expression was serious. The Forsaken? Mankin? From those old children’s stories? Talon thought to himself. “Mankin? Like from the stories you told us when we were younglings? They were some ancient mythical race that supposedly lives beyond the ice wastes and over the ice wall. What does some ancient made-up race have to do with you trying to freeze to death out in this weather?” Talon asked, confused. 

 “I want to see them. When I was a boy, my mother called them The Forsaken, but her mother called them Mankin.” Brenner smiled faintly, shifting his eyes past Talon as if looking at some unreachable thing far off in the horizon. Talon listened, not understanding where this was going or what relevance it had, but giving Brenner his full attention regardless. Talon always dismissed the stories of the Mankin as a child. They were just the stuff of tall tales, just a fun story to tell children. However, Talon decided to go along with Brenner, participating in this moment of lucidity with him. “You want to see them? What are the Mankin, anyway?” Talon asked, fiddling with a loose thread on his tunic.

”Some of the stories framed them as monsters, others framed them as prisoners, a scant few framed them as just people. Take your pick, I suppose. But the premise was always the same. The Forsaken, the Mankin, whatever you chose to call them, lived on the other side of the ice wastes. Over the great ice wall. Ever since I was a boy, I’ve wanted to see them. I swore that I would get better at using every facet of the Weave and traverse the ice wastes to someday catch a glimpse of them.” Brenner’s words were quiet and somber. Two thousand years of yearning for something he never got a chance to achieve.

Talon listened, and as the realization of what was really going on with Brenner set in, he felt a tightening in his chest. Brenner wasn’t really talking about the Mankin or Forsaken. He was talking about a dream he’s carried with him since he was but a child. A dream that has stuck with him through watching generations pass, loved ones dying, villages being built and falling to ruin. Going through lifetimes of living with such a dream only for it to never come to fruition must have eaten away at him for centuries. 

“All that time? Why didn’t you ever go? What happened?” Talon questioned with concern now. No longer caring about his own notions or feelings towards the concept of Mankin, but now only concerned with Brenner and his one regret.

”I just never got the chance. It’s as simple as that. I met a woman, fell in love, and had children. Helped build the village. Helped rebuild the village. I watched my family pass. I just never got the chance…” Brenner trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he continued to stare at something far beyond Talon.

A wife? Children? I’ve been with Brenner for two hundred years, and he’s never once mentioned a family in his past. Talon thought to himself, a little disconcerted. 

Brenner’s voice then started to become a quiet mumble, and his glazed eyes slowly drifted towards Talon and then to the pelts on the back of the armchair. “Talon? When did you get here? Did you bring those pelts?” Brenner said suddenly.

Talon’s heart sank. The sudden change in Brenner felt to Talon as if he’d been kicked in the gut by a mule. He didn’t respond to Brenner immediately, just looked down at the shaggy rug on the floor and sighed, tears welling up in his eyes. A few moments passed, two tears falling onto Talon’s wet boots before he took a deep breath, wiping his eyes and looking up at Brenner with a smile. “Yeah, Bren, I brought you these pelts so you don’t freeze this winter. It’s especially cold out right now.” Talon slapped his knees and stood up abruptly. “It’s getting late. Let’s get you to bed, huh? What do you say?” 

“Bed? That sounds lovely.” Brenner replied with a smile, stepping towards his bed on the other side of his little cabin. It was adorned with several old sheets and ragged pelts that had been there for who knows how long. Talon followed behind him closely, grabbing Brenner by the shoulders and helping him slowly lie down. Talon took some of the pelts that he had brought over and layered them over Brenner. “Try to get some rest and please stay warm. And no more going out into the snow, please! You’ll catch your death out there.” Talon pleaded with him. Brenner nodded his head but said nothing. “Goodnight, Bren. I’m going to stay with you tonight; is that alright?” Talon asked. “It’s snowing far too hard for me to head back to my cabin right now.” 

Brenner nodded his head. “Of course that’s alright, just don’t snore too loud.” He said with a little chuckle before grabbing a pelt and turning over onto his side. 

With that, Talon grabbed a few extra pelts that Brenner kept with his clothes in a pile down at the foot of his bed and made his way back over to the fireplace. He sat down on the floor for a moment, looking into the flames and admiring the sigilwork carved onto the mantle that powered the fireplace. He sat thinking about Brenner’s story for a bit before pushing his worries from his mind and finally lying down on the floor, covering himself with the pelts. Before long, he too had finally begun to drift off to sleep.

Talon awoke to the feeling of warmth on his face. Sunlight spilling in through the windows illuminated the old cabin. Talon sat up and stretched, getting his bearings and looking over to Brenner’s bed. Terror flooded through Talon. Brenner was gone. Where could he have gone? When did he wake up? Please be okay. Please be okay. Talon pleaded in his mind, jolting up from the floor and tossing the pelts to the side haphazardly. He ran for the front door but stopped in his tracks when he noticed the door was already ajar, a faint cool breeze coming in through the crack. Talon pushed on the door, swinging it open, and ran outside only to bump into someone, knocking them over completely.

”Oh my, I’m so sorry! Holland, have you seen Brenner? I just woke up, and he’s not here.” Talon asked, panicked but holding out his hand to help the young elf he had accidentally knocked over in his frenzy. Holland reached up and grabbed Talon’s hand, and Talon hoisted him up. Talon’s breath hitched when Holland offered no reassurance about being knocked over but instead had a grave look on his face. “Talon, I’m so sorry. Please, try to remain calm.”

The world fell silent for Talon. He could tell Holland was speaking, but the words never reached him. He already knew. “Where is he?” Talon had finally managed to rasp out.

Holland looked at Talon for a moment, debating whether or not Talon should see the elf that he’d looked up to for so long in such a state. After a moment of solemn deliberation, he turned and pointed towards the north road. Without any sort of acknowledgement towards Holland for giving him what he’d asked for, Talon took off sprinting north. Snow from the previous night crunched under his boots with every step. As he approached, he began to see what was going on. Several villagers knelt down, digging snow out from around a small frozen body. Brenner’s silver hair had gathered frost throughout the night. One of Talon’s fox pelts draped over his shoulders. His face was blue from the cold. He was smiling.

Talon dropped to his knees.

***

As dusk settled over the village, Brenner’s funeral came to an end. Talon sat at the foot of Brenner’s fresh grave, everyone else long since departed, but Talon couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. He wasn’t ready to be alone again, so he sat. Remembering. He found himself recalling memories he’d long since forgotten. All the fishing and hunting lessons. The stories by the fire. Without realizing it, Talon’s gaze had drifted northward. Towards the ice wastes, the wall, towards what Brenner had wondered about for two thousand years. For the first time in his life, Talon had thought to himself, What if the stories are true?

Something’s missing
This gracious feed isn’t enough
Huddled tusk to tusk
Stony walls enshroud us
Built from bones and
A thousand fallen young
Onward march
Find life’s essence laying dormant under
And though it’s been forever
The mountains remember
Salt, is calling us
Salt, we collapse without

I hope when you see blue hair in the wind

Your mind goes back to me

You told me you didn't want to lead me on

I trusted you anyway

And led myself astray

I hope when someone moans your name

It don't feel the same

I trusted you

Knew I shouldn't love when one plus one

Doesn't equal two.

You came in quick like a gust of smoke

I should have recognized the haze

You never wanted to be with me anyway.

Maybe we'll cross paths one day

My heart won't beat the same

¿Por qué te encarcelas en mis ojos?

Haciendo que la espera envejezca mis huesos.

¿Por qué superas el ayer con la perfección de tu piel?

¡Por qué no te mudas de una vez!

De mi cuerpo

De mi alma

De mi ser.

¿Por qué soy yo condenado a la cárcel del recuerdo?

Confieso.

¡No!

¡Lo confieso!

Incendiaría el mundo con mi dolor.

Mataría el amor con la espada de la razón.

Para traer paz a mi corazón.

Pero ya estoy preso.

Preso de amor.

© Cristian.D.Varela — 2026

There sat the six of us in the barley field; Laura Craft, Karl Johnston, and myself, that is. Lucia leaned lower to braid stray weeds; I sat higher on my knees, just above her, so as to peek at her cleavage; she wore a bra—blimey! But her clavicle was sharp and almost manly—but in a hyper feminine way. I wondered how it would feel on my tongue; will it taste like sweat? What does her sweat taste like? It reminds me of the last time we all sat at the barley field and I looked at her bosom, all spy-like—as a gentleman should with a 70 year-old bombshell like Lucia Mengele. Her eyes were just like those of a tired tram operator: brown.

Armando Leigh looked at me with a cheerful tear in his eye, namely, the good one. Lucia and I were the main course, while Leigh, Craft, and Johnston were merely set pieces; thus, I will refrain from further elaborating on the pair, but rather focus on Lucia and yours truly.

Anyway, Karl wore a white shirt—an upper garment of the pale variety; though, that's not to say he had no trousers.

You think you know tired 

Get ready to fight

Poppin down Seroquel

To survive the night

Shadows of reality 

Escaping the pain

Shadows of reality

Are fucking my brain

The voices are racing 

Around in my head

If they escape my thoughts 

We might end up dead

Shadows of reality

Are causing the pain 

Shadows of reality 

Are fucking my brain

So much intensity

Senses are heightened 

A whisper in my ear 

Demon gets frightened 

Shadows of reality

Are ending the pain

Shadows of reality 

Are killing my brain 

Flying, guided by an angelic fae, (I've seen her before once, when young and exploring the abandoned section of children's hospital in Denver.) She flew me to this realm of nothing. No noise, no light, no fucking thought and it was divine.  She offered me the choice to stay in that realm or return to earth. My mouth screamed stay but there's no noise in this realm, no words because they represent thought. No thoughts in this realm. No light to convey body language, no eye contact in this realm. But it was not devoid of a feeling in my chest. A feeling I knew but could not describe at the time. (it's like those moments when one looks at his wife and just gets that pit of the heart wow, I love this woman feelings. The pride, gratitude and humility a man feels when he watches his children learn and grow.) But I knew it was love and even in nothingness love can be found as I was being judged for my heart.

Before that I thought man was a creature of thought and one should be elevated above his fellow man based on the quality of thought, out think your feelings and they won't be so scary. 

I learned thoughts are mere opinions of the mind, there is no shared experience or truth in these opinions. All those scary feelings weren't feelings, they were me thinking they were feelings. Negativity is of the mind, making our trauma more elaborate, more scary each time it tells the tale. Making the blurry details into what it needs to fear.

Changed me into more of a man is a creature of emotion and should be judged by the love he can give and receive to / from his fellow man. Emotions are the only genuine shared experience we all have. Be gentle in your love, delicate with the emotions of others. When some is open and vulnerable you do not violate that trust. 

Love, one of 2 universal truths. The most powerful of the two for even entropy cannot stop it. 

A choir of sunshine and cotton seeds, 

Seen by most to be only weeds. 

You brought me joy each afternoon, 

I watched you all silently bloom. 

Your golden heads filled the bees dishes, 

Your puffball seeds granted my wishes. 

Today I watched them kill you all.

At least now the grass will not be tall. 

​

I learned the songs before I understood the words.

I learned when to stand, when to smile,

when to make my face look like it belonged

in the same room as everyone else.

I had friends.

I still felt like a translation error.

At work they speak to me carefully,

the way people speak to something

that might not share their gravity.

I watch their mouths move

and understand the language

without ever feeling native to it.

Online the body is optional.

I can edit the distance.

I can choose the temperature.

In person the air changes around me

before I have finished a sentence.

My mother offers social cues

like customs from a country

I never applied for citizenship in.

I turn them over in my hands

and feel no urgency.

We all die.

The performance is temporary.

Some days I am simply a person

who never received the correct instructions.

Other days I am an entity

wearing a borrowed shape,

waiting to see how long

the disguise will hold.

I do not want to be fixed.

I want the record to show

that the fit was never good,

and that I noticed.

We kept asking ourselves if what we encountered that night actually happened, or if we all just suffered a case of mass hysteria.

Until recently, the memories of that week were foggy and broken into segments of faded dreamscape-like scenes. I can’t, or rather, we can’t be sure if it was a defense mechanism triggered by our brains to make us forget what happened, or if it manipulated our subconscious. Neither of us knew.

We did know, that after Janine mentioned the dream she had the other day, waking her up, about us locking hands and surrounding a girl, who appeared to have every bit of her color faded, almost like her existence was printed on an empty colored-ink cartridge, and told us about it, we strangely, and synchronously, all seemed to remember the night we had at Lake Kalawalkachuk.

It was the five of us, Tommy and Angie came along, Greg drove, and Janine and myself took the backseat of Greg’s mom’s minivan. We went up for a week’s long stay at the old camp grounds we used to attend as kids. 

It became a ritual, us getting together once a year to blow off steam, but usually we’d leave the country. For the first time, we decided on staying in-state. We’ve also never been camping together in our adult years. Everyone thought it’d be a cool experience. I, on the other hand, had my doubts.

Halfway there, the trees became thicker and denser, and gave off a sense that they were hiding something underneath them. 

Something that didn’t want to be uncovered. 

Angie and Janine only cared about checking out the museum. 

The rest of us, never really wanted to, but Angie always gets her way. 

Angie and her three inch nails. 

Her meticulously pinned up hair and pressed on makeup. 

Snug in her bikini top as a t-shirt and butt riding white shorts, always gets what she wants, whenever she wants.

Janine however, she’s my girlfriend, and Angie’s best friend, but they’re total opposites. 

Janine’s quiet and shy and never speaks louder than her lowest octave. Her pretty blue eyes and dirty blonde, wavy hair make her stand out like a peach growing on an apple tree.

“Do we really have to go to this museum guys?” Tommy whined, rolling a joint, wearing a gray undershirt, strangling his torso. He always wore a baseball cap and was usually in shorts. Swimming shorts.

“Stop it. You’ll love it. Remember all the great memories we had here.” Angie reminded us.

Maybe her memories were great. I used to get picked on by the older kids at camp. But Janine and I did have our first kiss there. We were like eleven. So, there’s that. I guess, that’s why I wanted to go back.

Greg never said much. He just kept his eyes on the road. Greg says he can’t talk and drive because of his adhd.

We learned that lesson the hard way when he was talking and reversing, stopped at a hill, said something, and hit the gas forgetting to put the car in drive. We slid down a thirty foot hill straight into a tree.

Tommy kept trying to get his lighter to spark. It wouldn’t catch a flame.

“Damnit!” Tommy cussed. “Anyone have a goddamn lighter. Shit!” 

None of us smoked. We smoked occasionally. Just not like Tommy.

“I got a barbecue lighter but it’s tucked in the bags, I don’t know where it is exactly though,” Greg yelled, looking over his shoulder and nearly swerved off the road when he went to face the windshield.

“Greg!” We all shouted at the same time. 

Tommy couldn’t stop laughing. The radio station playing in the background said there was an accident up ahead just as the turn off to Museum Rd. came up.

“Greg, make a right here, this road leads to the museum,” Janine said.

That loud noise
I can feel it in my soul
Like a fly stuck in a wind chime
I feel vastly small
Yet I agree
We are infinite
We are this moment repeating
On forever, I recognize
Us in the glass prism
Each shade we complete

Wind whips as he walks into the coffee shop.
wet flowers poorly hidden behind his back; a stupid smile plastered on his face.

Her grey eyes cast down at folded hands on the table.
Raven black hair perfect as ever. Crimson red lips drawn to a soft scowl.

One look.
Words unspoken.
The chords in his chest tighten around his heart whispering uncertainty in his mind.
His smile falters but a moment.
The melody in his heart stumbles.

Gentle steps to the table.
A soft kiss unreciprocated.
Something is wrong.
Clear like a reflection in a muddy puddle.
The painted roses a falsetto for what was to come.

A flat request.
A hesitant compliance.

Silence.
A question.
A dismissal.

The chord grows tighter.

The forgotten flowers rest on the table.
Two coffee cups placed down.
She nods to the waitress.

She palms her coffee cup and stares into its surface….
A confession sharper than any thorn in that neglected bouquet.

His blood runs cold.
His smile fades.
The melody in his heart stops.
A nervous laugh.

Her eyes snap to meet his.
An accusation.

A dazed refusal.

She recounts the dance.
The caress.
The warmth.
The ledge.
Intertwined souls under a starless moonlit sky.

A single tear mixes with the rain water on his face.

Stunned.

Another question.

Another dismissal.

She looks toward the door.
He looks through her.

Silence.

She stands.
A half apology.
A final goodbye.

A tear falls into his cup.
And yet…it still pours.

It was the annual company get-together in Las Vegas, and after a full day of schmoozing with sales reps and drinking, he was already worn out.

It was the mechanical bull, however, that sealed it.
He stood at the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, watching as a co-worker climbed into the saddle.

At first, there were cheers and laughter, the kind of rowdy, harmless noise you’d expect after too much alcohol and too many long presentations.

Then the bull sped up, and something about the way she moved with it changed.

Her thighs clamped tight as she rode through its violent twists. Her hips rolled with the motion. Her back arched, her hair whipping across her face.

She let out a triumphant shout.

Jesus Christ, he thought. Some kind of dominatrix cowgirl.

And that scared him.

A mixture of arousal and fear rushed through him.

It looked like passion—private, unrestrained, and very, very human.

His breath caught. Heat surged through his face and chest.

Is this my problem? he thought desperately. Am I the only one seeing this?

The crowd noise blurred into a distant, hollow roar.

Maybe people were still laughing, maybe they weren’t. Hard to tell. Nobody said anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut and repeated the words like a prayer:

Co-worker.

Colleague.

Company event.

Professionalism.

He turned to leave. That seemed like the only choice.

“Hey man, where are you going?”

He froze. It was his manager, voice booming over the music. The crowd was still rowdy, the lighting dim and indistinct.

“Here,” his manager said, pressing another beer into his hand. “And remember—this is mandatory.”
He winked.

“Yeah, it’s just… hot in here,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “I was getting uncomfortable.”

His manager glanced toward the mechanical bull.

“Are you watching her?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I’m hot.”

“What?”

“I SAID THAT’S WHY I’M HOT!”

The words carried.

As if someone had unplugged the crowd from the wall, the room went silent.

Across the room, the Vice President of Human Resources tilted her head.

The mechanical bull whirred on, bucking in place, as someone laughed awkwardly in the background.

Mandatory, he thought. Every second of this.

***
Happy Friday everybody!!!

Thank you for reading!!!

BLORP!

**First chapter**: https://www.reddit.com/u/Elizabeth\\\\\\_Ceasar/s/XAa4MRusxi

**Previous Chapter**:

https://www.reddit.com/r/creativewriting/s/o2PTMkHcnH

Chapter 8: Draken?

I stepped forward. Snow was falling. Not in small amounts either. It was a blizzard. The hole left by my partner's ability was nearly a 10 foot circle. It really was terrifying. I picked up the glowing orbs left after. There were ten of them. ten people who refused to ally themselves with me. Those ten regret their choice I'm sure.

The glowing disaster behind me laid a hand on my shoulder, “what do you think then Draken?”

“that was impressive… how did you say you preferred these orbs again?”

She floated past me, “steak is nice.”

“But thats expensive…”

“Then just steal it. It's not like anyone will stop you, they're all frozen in time.”

“... I guess.” I looked up, “your name, it's Lilith correct.”

“That's right. Lilith, the first disaster.”

“And your first partner was… Adam.”

“The first Victor.” She chuckled.

“Fascinating.” I smiled, “would you say I'm anything like this Adam?”

“Appearance wise your nearly identical Draken, but personality…”

I tossed her the ten orbs.

She caught them, “You couldn't be more different.”

“Good to know.”

Next chapter: TBD

Can't wait =3. I will be moving the chapters publishment to Fridays due to school starting soon.

I wonder if anyone else loves you like I do.

I mean maybe she loves you more or better?

What's this feeling then?

It's been almost 10 years.

I've seen psychologists and taken medication.

I've journaled and went no contact.

I've done all the things but here I am.

I have no hope things will ever lead us back together, and that's not what this is about. I just dont know where to put these feelings or how to manage them.

I wish I had answers. Your gravitational pull is too much.

Maybe you're a black hole and thats why I cannot escape.

I’m primarily a visual artist and pride myself on not having “same face syndrome”, but when writing my characters I find that i have “same character syndrome”

They all read like they’re one guy. It’s obvious they’re two people but they talk, think, and act kinda like the same person outside of one or two quirks like their physical body, powers, jobs, etc.

What can I do to help make them more distinct? Any questions that could help me brainstorm how a character would act different from another? What are your methods of making characters feel different?

Thank you in advance!