Critical Film: A Review of Session 9

Session 9

Starring:

* David Caruso
* Stephen Gevedon
* Peter Mullan
* Josh Lucas
* Paul Guilfoyle

Director:

* Brad Anderson

When you work at an insane asylum, you gotta be… crazy. YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! Sorry, that will be the only CSI: Miami joke in this. The movie is a wonderfully slow romp through psychosis, in which you develop little feeling for the characters because they aren’t well fleshed out and little emotional ties to when they die. The story takes place at at an abandoned insane asylum that a crew wins the bid to restore. Enter Phil, Gordy, and their crew, which only has 1 week to complete the repairs. The place seems to have been left almost completely in tact, with files, folders, patient interviews available to anyone who was to stroll in or casually do some B and E.

The acting is very wooden and stiff, Caruso does a decent job of shedding his CSI police-ness and does a great job of throwing the creepy at you. The rest of the actors were not very attachable. I felt no qualms when one of them died because the story never gives the opportunity to form any type of bond before they are murdered off. The camera work is done well, as is the atmosphere. Any movie that takes place in a real abandoned insane asylum is going to get top rating in the field of atmosphere. The angles used for shots was done well, which speaks more to the location design than anything else. The special effects are almost nonexistent, but there are a few, blood/flashbacks/etc. With the acting being sub-par, the camera work and atmosphere being excellent, but the lack of any significant special effects, Session 9 earns a 3 out of 5.

Writing: Moment in Time - The Right Moment

As the last drops fall from the cup, trailing the course through his cracked lips to slide in fiery trails down his throat, he felt a light touch on his arm and a voice next to his ear telling him that it was time to leave. He pushed his chair back from the table and tossed his faded leather jacket over his shoulder. With a quick wave to his friends, he took her hand and they stepped out the door, feeling the wave of cold strike their hot skin. He pauses, pulls the pack of menthol's from his inner pocket and strikes his lighter, sending a small heat to battle the chill. He takes a deep breath and her hand in the same instant as they walk down the sidewalk which was dimly lit behind the hazy snow obscuring the globes above them.

They talked of little things, the words almost meaningless, the only thing mattering is that their were together. They laughed at an off-color joke she made and he felt her body tense, as if the act of enjoying herself was something to be frightened of. They passed restaurants and bars, gas stations and office buildings, totally engrossed in each other and lost in the moment. The trail of smoke from his cigarette could have been the chill losing the battle from the warmth in each of their hearts, but they never noticed.

They walked to her door and he flicked his cigarette into a snowbank, watching the cherry red tip flare in its death throws and die. She slide her hands into both of his, her heart in both those warm pools of brown. He smiled at her and told her that they would have to do this again, adding, as he looked into the swirling snow above them, during better weather. She agreed and told him so, watching the emotions flick across his face, but she could have been seeing the heat of the moment and the cold fiercely fighting on his face. She turned to walk in her door, but heard her name called just as her small hand touched the bronze door handle. She turned to see him on one knee, reaching deeply into one pocket all the while never taking his eyes from the reason he was happiest in life. Her breath caught as he pulled out a small box. Her eyes watered as he opened it. She never forgot that cold, snowy night, where the lights in the snow reflected in a rainbow starburst on the small diamond he placed on her finger.

Poetry: Pretty Girl on The Mountain

Pretty girl on the mountain,
caught somewhere 'tween heaven and hell,
you have no idea
where you are.

We can watch and point
and laugh and curse
knowing we will never reach that high,
but you're on every station
all across the nation,
psychobabble coursing from your lips.

I want to turn you off because you turn me on
and leave me running in the cold,
but every time I try I feel the hand of death.

Pretty girl on the mountain,
you ride the airwaves through the sky
and course into our collective veins,
careless to the cries in pleasures and pains.

I want to drop the remote, unplug the computer, lose the cell, hide the keys, mute the volume, turn off the lights, but I cant,
oh I knew I never could.

So I'll sit in mindless servitude to you
brains leaking to the floor along with self determination.
Staring at the pixels that make you that pretty girl on the mountain of consumerism.

Wring: Moment in Time - The Rush

He brought the car down hard. The entire chassy shook with the impact, but he no longer cared. He was too busy singing along to his radio as it blared into the cool October air. His hands firmly held the wheel, much like it used to hold her. As he regained a straight path, he took a sip from the liter of vodka he bought and sped through a red light. The red lights flashing behind him never registered in his mind. Faster and faster he went until he struck the break so hard that the car seemed to cry as he flew into the turn. The car behind him drew closer then swerved to dodge a possible collision. His pulse was racing as he hit 100 miles per hour; pounding by the time he hit 130. He drove for hours, but it must have been only minutes - until he hit the road block. The shots fired and he pressed harder on the gas. The pistons pumped faster and faster as each bullet tore through his body. Each flip the car made no longer mattered. When they finally ended and the police surrounded his car, he was still awake, taking a sip from his half-broken bottle. He smiled, said something which was filed away in a police case labeled Drunk Driver, and forgotten.

Poetry: Sometimes (Wishful Thinking)

Sometimes I wish I was first,
rather than waiting in a queue.
Spending life in second gear,
wheels turning but moving nowhere.

Sometimes I wish I felt attractive,
wiping away social norms with a coarse cloth.
Feeling wanted and desired,
the first move not mine but anothers'.

Sometimes I wish you would believe me,
forgetting the lies of others and listening.
Words of truth are seldom spoken,
a world coated in lies. . . save my words.

Sometimes I wish these things,
though I know they will rarely happen.
Though I wish, I'll work to make them true,
hanging hope upon the hook of Sometimes.

Writing: Burning Ember (Chapters 1-3)

The sun slides lower down on the horizon, bathing the land in a blood red light. An errant breeze strikes through the evergreen, shaking loose needles that whip around in the air before falling to the ground. On and on he ran. Time meant nothing to him as he ran through the crimson forest. All he knew is that someone had to be warned about what was coming. His warning would never be heard. A howl pierced the air. Then another. The pack was closing in on their prey. They could taste his flesh; his blood. With keen, golden eyes they spotted him. They could hear the whimpering of terror coming from his lips at fifty feet. The pounding of his heart at thirty feet. The beads of sweat hitting the ground at five feet. All became quiet soon after. The hunters approached his corpse and watched their hounds feed, a horrid smile lighting their darkened faces. The hunters turned and melded into the faded light of the forest and with an unspoken command, the hounds left what was left of the man to rot in the darkness...a bloodstained letter still in his clutched fist.

Serrin did not like mornings. They always seemed to bring cheer and good fortune to everyone else but him. Of course, Serrins' occupation kept him from seeing morning most of the time. Professional killers have a certain disdain about working in the daylight, always seeming to prefer the velvet twilight. This morning was unlike most for Serrin. Hidden in an alleyway, he watched his contract. He noted his movements to the last detail. He studied his house from one end to the other. He was methodical about every last bit information. "Everything in its place and time" he would always say. In his profession, a rushed job, is a sloppy job. It was always better to plan everything out in advance so there would be no surprises or pitfalls when the duty was done. He scratched vigorously at his fledgling beard. Serrin was still young and growing, but thought that by growing a beard he would be treated more like a man. He shifted on the crutch he carried as he watched his contract do business. Using a disguise was one of his favorite parts of the job. He could flaunt in his creativity as much or as little as he wished. The target walked off and toward his house, with Serrin not far behind. Tonight would be the night. Tonight his man would die for reasons that Serrin didn't worry about. He is not paid to know the reasons, he is paid to kill. As he watched the poor man close his door, Serrin smiled. This would be his last contract. Then he could leave this dust choked city and finally see his brother again. He only hoped his note reached him.

"Serrin? You there?", a low voice from somewhere below him in the inky darkness. He jumped slightly, cursing his own inattention. He glanced down into the deep azure eyes of Alliana. "Yes, I am up here. Try to be a little quieter, I am working.", he said. "Wait here", and with that he slide through the window and landed with cat like feet on the deeply carpeted floor. He glanced around at the ornate furniture lining the walls and the expensive oil paintings hanging. Serrin did not have an eye for art, but they looked rather lovely in the moonlight. He chuckled soundlessly as he slowly crept down the hall to the room where his target slept. On the way to do something horrid, you come across beauty. He shook off that thought and coldly turned his mind to the matter at hand. He reached the door and stopped, listening for any sign of movement. Satisfied by the thunderous silence coming from the chamber, he slowly drew his long silver dagger. Gleaming in the pale moonlight, the dagger was one of his most prized possessions. A gift from his father when he was young, in case he ever ran into trouble. With a deep breath, Serrin turned the bronze door handle. If he had been half an inch closer, the cross-bow bolt would have hit him square in the temple. With a heavy thud, the bolt tore into the solid oak door. Without missing a step, Serrin dove to the ground as another bolt flew over his head. Apparently the target was tipped off and that upset Serrin more then anything. Only a shadow of the bowman could be seen as Serrin scrambled up, dagger in one hand and sword in the other. He swiftly jumped over a deeply cushioned couch toward the shooter, rolling as he hit the ground to dodge another bolt. As he came out of the roll he skillfully threw the dagger end over end to land with the solid sound of metal striking bone in the neck of the unknown assailant. Serrin rose to his feet and looked around the room for anyone else that may want to discuss the finer points of combat with him. His eyes stopped when he reached the four post bed. The person he was sent to kill was gutted like a freshly killed boar. It was all Serrin could do to keep from gagging as he looked at the dissected corpse of his would be target. No human would have done this. No human could have done this. Could it have been one of the Darkness? Certainly they could have sent a hunter for him, but why? Slightly light-headed from the obscene violence on the bed, Serrin walked over to his would be killer only to find no body, only his dagger broken in two. He looked around the room quickly to make sure no one was in the room and saw that the window was wide open, the curtains billowing in the night air. No sounds accept the sounds of crickets singing their mating tunes. Sooner or later someone would come to investigate the noise from earlier, some house servant or bodyguard most likely. Serrin did not feel up to trying to talk, or persuade other ways, his way out of the house. With a deft swipe of his hand, he grabbed his dagger pieces and slowly lowered himself down out the window and back to Alliana.

To say he was angry would have been an understatement. Serrin did not like being robbed, even though there would have been nothing he could have done to stop a hunter from getting to his prey. As he walked down the road, avoiding open areas where someone from the house could have seen him, he thought about the hunter he faced. Hunters, as they are called, were once men. Heroes of ages forever gone. The Magus Circle of Fire dabbled in necromancy a few hundred years back and were able to resurrect one warrior of the Silver Age. Wargiss, Warlord of Blackrend Peak. The Magi's hoped to resurrect him as a mindless slave, only alive again to do their bidding, unfortunately that is not what happened. Wargiss rose from the alter and raised his hand in the air, a sword of crystal formed in his hand. Not much is known about what happened after that as the tower of the Magus Circle of Fire was sealed so that none may enter. Or escape. When the doors opened again, the Magi's were changed. They no longer wore the robes of flame, but of deep crimson. They wandered the tombs and catacombs of the land, retrieving long dead warriors and returning them to the tower. So were born the Hunters. Sallis, Warlock of Ferrn Isle. Qiller, Bowman of Salesa. Nornn, Warrior Prince of Galisha. Pellris, Queen of Torn Vale. Lastly, Borne, Beast-master of Jallina Valley. All heroes in life, but relentless hunters in death. Serrin was in a foul mood when he reached the tree that Alliana was to stay at. He looked around, but could not see a sign of her."Must have headed home", he muttered under his breath. "Good. I am too tired to be chasing her half way around the city.". He turned to walk away, but turned into the cowled face of Qiller, Dark Bowman of Wargiss.

The burning eyes of Quillar seared into the mind of Serrin. A scream frozen at his lips, unable to escape. For a dreadfully long time they stayed locked, staring at each other, until Quillar rasped the statement that would stay with Serrin to the day he died."You will die before the coming of the new year, young human", the hunter said in his hollow voice. A sneer crossing his blood covered lips. Fresh blood, which spoke louder then words that he feasted on his last kill before leaving. "You belong to Master. Do not fight it, it will only end in doom.", the threat that the statement made was tinged with pity and sympathy. Serrin was not entirely sure the noble souls of the hunters have been washed away totally. Looking into the eyes of Quillar dismissed that possibility. The eyes, burning green with unholy flame, were filled with malice. The dark robed hunter drew in close and ran his bloody finger across Serrin's forehead. "Leave here and never return," with that, Quillar burst into flames and was gone. No ash or scorch marks marked the combustion, he just vanished. Frozen in shock, Serrin did not hear the footsteps approaching from behind him until a hand touched his shoulder. Without thinking, he drew his sword and swung with a wide arc only to find Alliana wide eyed, with the blade of his sword not one inch from her temple. The madness of Quillar was still in his mind as he looked at her, all he could see was horrors. With a blood chilling scream he scrambled away from her and ran down an alley. Blindly he ran, wanting only to escape, until a sharp rap to the back of his head brought lights to his eyes. He turned unsteadily, the world seen through a foggy haze, seeing only two burly shapes coming closer to him. Feebly he raised his sword and one of the dark assailants slapped it out of his hand."Oh no, 'Lil man!", the big man laughed. "You be commin' wit us!", with that he raised his arm again and then Serrin sank deeper into unconsciousness.

Serrin awoke with a start, only to immediately regret it. The sharp rap to the head he took set his head to pounding. His eyes stung when he tried to open them, his dried blood gave mute evidence into how long he was unconscious. Groping around futility for the sword he dropped however long ago, the solid ground he was on gave a sudden jolt and knocked the young man down onto his stomach. Straining to open his eyes through the blinding pain, Serrin slowly looked up and saw the dark outline of the large man who knocked him silly in the first place. Scurrying back wards as fast as he could, slamming hard into a wooden wall."Ho ho, Little man! Planning to leave us so soon?", the big man said. "Da' Boss no like us having chase you like little rabbit again!"With his vision clearing, Serrin looked closer at the figure only to freeze in fright. The giant man wasn't even a man at all, but a full sized Ogre. His hair caught in a leather thong at the top of his large head, streamed down his large shoulder and down his mailed chest. Two gleaming eyes burned under his heavy brow, and two yellowed tusks protruded from his mouth. If all that wasn't enough for Serrin, he also saw a rather large spiked mace sitting in the Ogre's lap with his hand laid gently on the hilt, ready to use the mace to dispense mighty blows on whoever got in his way. Looking to the opening in the front, of the now noticed, wagon, Serrin saw the second, smaller man, smirking back at him. Before he could say anything, the wagoner turned back to the front and said, with contempt in his voice, "Sit back and enjoy the ride, bucko. This might be the last one you ever take." The Ogre grinned at Serrin, showing yellowed, broken teeth, and laughed a laugh devoid of any humor. The wagon rolled on to who knows where.

For 3 days the wagon rolled on across the green-grey expanse of the Wellkin Marsh. Serrin never traveled outside the city limits so he had no real idea where his captors were taking him. Serrin could only see out through a small hole the Ogre cut in the flap for him, so for three days his only view was a sliver of ground or a giant Ogre, needless to say, he watched the ground. Late in the evening the wagon hit cobblestone and rumbled up a dark and uninviting street. The Ogre laid his hand on Serrin and gave him a light shove to wake him up. His eyes opened to the Ogre's crooked smile."Da boss is waiting," he said as he opened the flap. Serrin rolled out of the wagon and was grabbed by the smaller man who was leading the wagon. The Ogre lumbered out of the wagon and up to the door of a substantial looking house. Three heavy knocks, then two, then three and the door slowly opened. A Scarlet robed person stepped out and looked at the three of them, nodded and stepped aside to let them in."Move along, boyo", the small man said. Serrin noticed that the Ogre and the driver were nervously looking at the house, almost seeming reluctant to enter. He would soon find out why. Walking through the door, Serrin entered a world of pain. His mind felt as if it was going to burst out from his skull. His blood boiled within his body and his skin felt as if it was going to rip off into tattered remains onto the floor. With a cry of inhuman pain, Serrin sunk to the floor, curling up into a ball when with a faintly heard snap, the pain was gone. Struggling to get into a kneeling position, Serrin's burning eyes saw a man sitting at the end of a the marble hall he entered. The man was slim, but not all bones. His eyes had a mischievous look about them as they met with Serrin's. His clothes were made of the finest silks dyed into a rich blue color. He had nothing in his hands save a small gem that sat hovering over his open palm."Amazing isn't it, Serrin?", the enthroned man said in a deep baritone. "A simple little gem can cause so much pain. Yet... the pain is not real." Seeing the confusion on Serrin's face, the man stood up and walked toward him. Two guards came hurrying out of hidden alcoves to flank him as he walked down the suddenly torch lit hall. Serrin stood up as the torch next to him burst into flame and tried to take in everything he could before anyone could notice. The Ogre and the driver stood nervously in front of the door. The guards that flanked the man were heavily armed and armored. The man himself on the other hand, had no weapons visible except that gem, which is a weapon unto itself."What does that.. thing have to do with me? Why am I here?" Serrin said as the man reached him."Problems arise from time to time that require the services of a certain sect of people that were.. how can I say.. bred for this type of situation.", the man said quietly. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a small, blood stained envelope. "You, my young friend, are one of these people now." he sighed slowly as he gave Serrin the letter, "Your brother is dead, Serrin. It is your turn to take up where he left off. I am Lord Tallonvice, Serrin. I require your assistance, try not to mess up like your dearly departed brother. I would hate to have to end your families bloodline personally."

The house, full of wonders, confused Serrin as he was led deep within to the study of Tallonvice. His mind though, rang with those hated words, "Your brother is dead". They echoed deep in his soul, searing at him. Dashing away tears with the back of his hand, he realized the guards that escorted him were no longer with him. He soon saw why.
On both sides of the door to the study stood granite dragons. Each turned to look at the person approaching and kept a close eye as Serrin walked by them. He had no doubt they would rip him asunder if he tried to do anything to their master. Turning his attention away from the guardians, Serrin took in the room. Stacks of books stood in cluttered piles all over the place, plates and glasses were stacked messily to the side of a large table that was covered with maps and more books. Great statues stood in the four corners, staring down at Serrin with lifeless eyes.
"Amazing, are'nt they?", said Tallonvice from the doorway. Serrin turned quickly to him, still unsure what he had in store with him. Tallonvice looked around the room and smiled gently, "These are my greatest achievements. I have spent my life collecting one of the worlds largest libraries." Looking askew at Serrin he asked, "Do you read much, boy? I would guess your profession does not leave a lot of time to read. Sit, sit. I am sure you are... dying to know what I want you to do." Serrin did not like that statement, or the dark smile that lit up Tallonvice's face. Taking a seat at the table, Serrin thought it was time he got some answers.
"How did you know my brother? What did he do for you? What do you want from me? Why di-"
"Let me answer those for you before you rattle on and waste more time," Tallonvice said with a slightly angry expression. "Your brother was what you are. An assassin. He was one of the best I had ever seen. He was also a... thief, in some ways. His prey though, was not ordinary prey. He killed those that could not die. Those that had a penalty worse then death for those that killed them." The light in the room dimmed as the flames from the candles seemed to wain with his words. Serrin sat there, unwilling to believe what he was just told. His brother... a man who killed the The Crimson.

The Crimson, as everyone knew since the Circle of Fire fell, were touched by Wargiss himself. The return from the grave imbued his hand with power. One gift he bestowed upon all of the Magi and their followers was the Curse of the Crimson Blood. When a follower of Wargiss fell, he brought wrath down from the heavens and not only killed, but destroyed the soul of the murderer. Most heaped this story in with folklore, but people still stepped quietly around the followers of The Crimson.
"He got word to me that The Crimson finally caught up to him. He was to make his way to a safe house I know of in Corridon, but found the city in flames and," Tallonvice grimaced slightly, "and the people impaled on large bone spines coming from the ground. Men, women and children. All dead at Wargiss' hand. Anyway, He was on his way to Wellkin when he got ambushed in the forest. We found his body a few days later and the only thing that identified him was that letter and... a warning left there." Standing up, he went over to a cabinet and opened it up slowly. Serrin gasped and started from his chair when it opened. A flat, dark stone, the size of a man, stood inside of it. On the surface, an image played out the final moments of his brothers life as the beasts tore him apart. From the darkness behind where the body of his brother lay, a shape came out to look upon their meal. The hunter looked up and stared right at Serrin with burning green eyes. The Beast-master of Wargiss laughed and mouthed the word 'Serrin'. Turning slowly, Borne walked back into the darkness to vanish without a trace, followed soon after by his hounds.

Serrin sat down, fresh tears streaming down his face. His eyes burned but the voice that came from his lips had no sorrow. "I will be your hunter." Standing up and walked towards the stone, Serrin threw a punch straight at the replay, only to have the entire stone crumble to dust under his touch. Turning back to Tallonvice, Serrin no longer felt sorrow, but burning hatred. "Where do I start?"
Tallonvice looked at him with a slightly amused expression, "Why... your hometown, of course. A young girl known as Alliana, I am sure you know her, has a family with a dark secret. Go Serrin, her family is your target." Turning to leave Serrin, who stood with a slightly shocked expression, he looked over his shoulder with a smile and said, "Don't disappoint me, boy. I have a very long arm." and with that, he swept from the room.

Traveling east on the road to Wellkin, Joral was used to bandits and the like. He has lived through much worse in the years following the War of the Brothers, and during the war, he thought wryly. Giving up the sword years ago to take up a more normal life, he became a wagoneer. No dire straights for him anymore, just him, his horses and the road. Giving up his wagon for a small time to a pair of untrustworthy fellows a week back had put a sour taste in his gullet, yet the good blue tinged gold of Wellkin that they paid with quickly sweetened the taste. Take them to some manor house deep in the marshes and leave, that's all. A jolt from the horses brought Joral out of his musings and made him look up to see what spooked them. He would never have time to regret looking up.

The wagon had been searched from top to bottom by The Crimson and no sign. Only scent. Quillar knew his prey was near. A week. Maybe two. Where did this fool take him? Why would he have gone to Wellkin? He did'nt know the answers, but Wargiss did. Quillar knew his place and that place was one that was not to question Wargiss. Quillar failed him when he let the boy go back in the alley and Wargiss made it abuntantly clear the next time he failed, he would not be reborn after the torture. Living past your time was a writhing pain, but the silence of eternal slumber would drive him past the brink of insanity. Growling deep in his throat, he gave the flayed corpse of the driver a kick that snapped the spine in half. Not feeling much better then he did before he caught the wagon, Quillar knew he was close. Close enough to almost taste his prey, but something changed. The sent itself has changed. The boy was near something... old. Shrugging it off, Quillar turned and seemingly melted into the air along with the rest of The Crimson.

Borne sat for a little longer after Quillar left, to be sure he wouldn't turn back around and see him. Leaping from the tree he was perched in to land softly in the sun-dried grass, he strode up to the wagon to check on the blundering Quillar let The Crimson do. Quillar liked to put on airs and tell the others that he was beyond menial tasks. Borne never trusted anything but his own eyes. Between all of the others, Borne had Quillar on the top of the list to die if he ever got the opportunity. Searching the wagon revealed nothing accept a few trace hints that the boy was here. Shifting his attention to the drivers belongings, though, turned up Wellkin gold. Not many in Wellkin had much gold as the country itself was going broke, so who would have given a wagoneer this much of such a rare commodity? Picking through the remains of the clothes and skin revealed nothing more. Standing straight up, Borne looked up at the midday sun, burning wanly in the misty sky. There is not many places around, besides the city of Wellkin itself, only a few small towns not worth the land they sit upon. Ever the rational thinker, he decided to wait out the young man at Wellkin itself, reasoning that where ever he was to go, he would have to pass through to get there. Smiling at his cleverness, Borne went to fetch the horse he stole.

Alliana ran as fast as she could. Feeling the blade of Serrins short sword so close to her skin wasn't what made her run, but the look in his eyes. Fire burned in them as he swung the sword. Madness. Her father described that kind of fire before. He had seen it many times in his lifetime. Her father was a ex-member of The Crimson. Fighting for Wargiss for uncountable years, he finally turned on his former masters and struck a blow to Wargiss himself when he left. He never told her what he did that made him go into hiding, but the time for hiding was over. They had been found.

Scrambling over the wet stones on the road, she ran for the smithy, where her father toiled for hours on end to keep up appearances. Trust be told, they had no need for money, as before his fall from the eyes of Wargiss, her father was a wealthy captain of The Crimson. Composing herself before she rushed in, she took a few moments to collect her thoughts. The fire, the insanity, the smell. She stopped breathing altogether at that thought. The smell of blood, everywhere on that street. Even as she ran away, she could smell the blood. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she slowly walked into the smithy.

"Father?", she spoke quietly, the effort of running across the town rendering her near speechless. Looking over the line of anvils, she saw her father hammering a wagon tongue into shape. "Father!" Looking up sharply, he was about to yell at her for interrupting him at work when he stopped with the words still on his lips. Staring at her, seeing the look of fear standing in her deep blue eyes, he let the hammer fall slowly from his hand to land on the hard stone floor with a loud clang.
"They found me.”

“Run home child, pack what you can.”
“How did they find us, father?”, Alliana said quietly as they quickly left the smithy. Oddly, she was more worried for his safety than for hers. Suddenly it came to her. When they came, they would come for him, not her.
“Hush child, go home and pack. You must be quick about it.” Her father glanced around quickly, making sure no-one was near. “I am going to have to steal a wagon for us. I will meet you at the gate.” And with that, he disappeared around a corner.

Alliana was about to call out to him, but stopped quickly. Any outbursts could draw them to us. She swiftly walked down the road to the small house they lived in. Tossing a few sets of clothes and some food in a large canvas sack, she made her way out into the chill night.
Before she made it to the gate, she caught the scent of something rotten. Not wanting to stop, she tried to move along faster, but her legs would not move beyond a snails pace.

“He is coming, Alliana,” said a steely voice from behind her. “There is nothing you can do to stop him. He will kill your father then he will kill again and again until I want him to stop.” The voice let out a blood chilling laugh and continued, “Tallonvice thinks he has the boy under his control, but I have him under control. I would not go to the gate tonight, Alliana. Your safer just returning home and forgetting about your dearly departed father.” Alliana felt her legs buckle as she was let go from that mysterious grip. Quickly she turned only to find the street empty, save only a dog vigorously scratching his ears under a stoop. She trembled from head to toe, not wanting to go forward, but unable to go back.
“I love you father,” she said softly into the night air. Picking up her sack, she continued to the gate, but in her heart she knew what she would find.

She ran for hours in the darkness. She did not care where she was going anymore. Her mind numb with grief; her limbs trembling with fear. He followed her the entire time, watching her, tasting her sweat in the air. He could hear the sound of her heart pumping. Thump. He could almost see her sweet blood flowing through her. Thump. He could taste her sweat on his lips. He wanted to catch her, drain her, tasting and enjoying every last drop of her innocent blood.
“Nornn,” a harsh voice whispers inside his mind. “That is not the task I set for you.” Nornn pushes the thought of feasting from his mind at the silent command of his master. He had a job to do. This young worm will lead us to the boy Serrin. Once Wargiss had the boy, the girl would be fair game. He would have to speak to his sister, knowing that she will want to feast on her as well.
“I could always just kill her, then this young one would be all mine,”
The girl froze in her tracks, looking about fearfully. Slinking into the shadowy cover of the foliage, Nornn cursed himself for being so careless. If she sees him, she would have to die, and no matter how grateful he would be for the feast that would follow, Wargiss would be considerably less pleased and possibly feast on him. . .eternally.
She begins moving again, quicker. The blood pumping through her terrified heart faster and faster. Nornn had to keep his head, stay focused, as they made their way through the brush. Cloaked in darkness, he silently followed her as she slowly made her way to the small town of Wellkin.

**Work In Progress**

The blood tasted fresh, though he knew it had dried days ago. The taste had kept him sane, kept him in the moment. Each metallic swallow told him he was still alive, still alive and still in danger. His sword dripped crimson, pooling at his feet as a memento to his his survival. Each ambush, though taking more and more strength to get through, he survived. With each ambush, he moved close to the man who was hunting him. Every muscle in his body screamed for sleep, but he knew that stopping meant death, death he was not ready to accept. The darkness was his ally, it embraced him, keep him alive. If he knew which God had domain over it, he would offer a prayer of thanks. A scuffling of leather over stone and the jingle of chain causes his eyes to narrow. No time for idle thought now, more lambs have come to the slaughter.

The feel of a blade passing through the chest of a person at a high velocity feels much like sticking a branch into a pool of mud. His sword drove through the man before he was able to shout for help. Spinning around the impaled body, he caught the second man solidly on the chin with his elbow, sending him spinning to the ground. Another quick dart to the left, dodging a hasty sword stroke, feeling the sparks from the blade hitting stone strike hotly on his neck, he muttered a quick spell, sending a flash of green flame toward the third attacker, enveloping him, leaving nothing but a smoldering pile of bone and armor. He turned and drove his knee into the face of the man still alive, sending him sprawling to the ground once more. He retrieved his sword from the first man and cleaned the blade on the fallen mans cloak. With a face harsher than the deepest winter, he slowly walked back to where the unconscious man lay, ready to get some answers.

"Wake up".
A kick to the ribs caused the man to stir, his glazed eyes slowly attempting to refocus as he struggled against his bonds/ He watched his captive struggle against the spectral bonds and saw the look of animalistic fear in his wild eyes. A fear intensified by the blood of his friends that was splattered across his face, though not a little bit of it was his as well.
"What's your name?"
He wiped the spit from his cheek and began to speak a spell in a low voice which, once released, caused the man to scream as the skin from around his fingers began to stretch and peel back from the bone. He ended the spell early as he could see that the man was about to pass out again and he didn't have the time to wait until he woke up again. Right now, time was his enemy.
"Name. Now,"
"W-W-William. . . please stop, I don't know anything!"
He squatted next to the writhing man and absently tried to brush the dried blood from his forehead. "I would love to let you go, William, and I will once you tell me who sent you after me."
"I don't know, sir! Honest! We were told to find a man who looks like you through a letter!"
He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy, but then again, it's not like it's been a cake walk so far. "Alright, Will, you're free."
As he walked away from the charred corpse of William the Bandit, he allowed himself a moment to laugh. Freedom can have so many meanings.

Writing: Moment in Time - Picnic

The wind whipped while we drove down the road, you looking beautiful and me looking rumpled and tired. Our first trip together coming after a grueling five day stretch of work has left me drained, but you just smile that smile at me and push those hairs from your eyes that my fingers ache to do for you and say it's all fine. The sun shines bright off the rain slicked road, shining in your long hair, which waves to the blue sky as if it was a brown flag. It's hard for me to keep my eyes on the road and you at the same time, but I somehow get us to the park in one piece. You smile that smile that makes my heart skip a beat, adjust your tinted glasses, and kiss me softly as you reach for your bag. Every time you do that, you leave me speechless, and this time is no exception. I watch you walk away, barely hearing the door as you close it, watching the light bend around you like a halo, the tree's sway and bend as if bowing before you. As you glance back, a smile shyly coming across your lips, I feel my mouth form the words you're beautiful.

I can feel your hand in mine as we watch the birds dive and resurface in the lake, but the only thing that I can see is you. Your head resting on my shoulder, my arm around yours, hand in hand we sit on our patched blanket with our food still packed in the cooler. A cup of tea rests in your small hand, a coffee in mine, as I feel your chest rise and fall with each slow breath. I wish there were two of me, one to hold you and one to take a picture of the only person who has made me feel as complete as ever. You look up and smile, catching me looking at you again, and again you drown me in your smile, your lips touch mine as we lay back and watch the clouds, puffy and pure white, lazily make their way across the crisp blue sky. Your head on my chest, my arm across your waist, we watch the world move around us. Around us in this moment. This perfect moment.

Hiatus!

Hey all,

I am currently in the middle of moving (or will be very shortly) and have been packing and working my hours away instead of writing. I apologize for the delay between updates, though, and after I get all set up (probably around the beginning of July) I will resume with normal posting. I have a number of things written by hand I just need to move on here, so keep your eyes out and enjoy your summer!

Brian

Poetry: Night and Day

The night cloaks the world,
covering it as a blanket covers a sleeping child,
making everything seem so much closer,
in a world where everything seems farther away.

Velvet dreams shadow our eyes,
hiding the pain and sorrow that surrounds us,
coating our thoughts with hope,
only to snatch them away.

Though the darkness teases us,
playing Indian-giver with our hearts,
the night is darkest before the dawn,
when the sun shows your face next to mine.

Writing: Moment in Time - Checkmate

His drink tasted like liquid candy, gliding down his throat to mix with the several he already had tonight. His vision was tunneled, movements slow, thought process only reaching as far as his next order. This was becoming typical of late for him. His friends, conversing around him, let him be as he sipped his rum and coke, save one. She pestered him, bought him drinks when he should have stopped drinking, but he let her anyway. The attention was good, he thought. He was still able to put together enough brain power to realize she was hitting on him, and again, he didn't care. The attention was gratifying. The casual touches she gave him on his hand, arm, shoulder, and face, all stirred a side of him that hadn't been reached in a while. He let her flirt and he flirted right back, listening to their voices combine and come through crystal clear in the crowded, noisy bar.

She wanted to step outside and he agreed, following her as she led him by the hand. He couldn't help but notice the softness of her skin, the thin sheen of sweat glazing her exposed arm, neck, and chest. Stepping into the cool summer night, she asked for a light, one he was happy to oblige for her. Striking the flame, he watched it light the thin cigarette resting between her red lips. He had to shake himself out of it, he was staring too long, but she noticed. Her smile said a thousand words and each word he wasn't sure if he understood their meanings, but he was well aware of their intentions. She was moving closer to him, or at least he thought she was. He may have been moving closer to her, it may have been mutual moving, or he could just be stumbling forward, intoxicated by liquor and the moment. He listened to her talk and she listened to him. Her hand resting on his arm to emphasize points, staying just a moment longer than it should have if it did not have other motives behind it.

She moved a step forward, her eyes searching his, looking for some clue that this is what he wanted. He found himself letting her move forward, not saying the words he should, but enjoying the contact, the feeling of being wanted, even if it was only for this moment. He liked the fact that a woman took the reigns and showed her affection. He was the one who usually took the initiative, and it was beginning to get the best of him. He needed to be loved too, shown that he was loved, and she was willing to do that. She moved a step closer, smiling as he realized his hands were resting on her hips. She looked up at him, a warmth hiding in her blue eyes, a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, and an invitation to enjoy both of those all he wanted. He slowly pulled her towards him, her head turning slightly to the side, anxiously awaiting what was about to come.

Her eyes opened a moment later, wonder and shock replacing the lust in her eyes. He stopped, a sudden soberness enveloping his entire being. He apologized profusely and left, briskly walking to his car and driving off. His mind was in shambles, his heart beating faster than it ever had. He enjoyed the feeling of being loved out loud, but he knew that he almost did something he swore he would never do. He knew he was dangerously close to being swept away by the feeling, but was able to save himself and his girlfriend. He arrived back home and quietly crept into the bedroom, careful not to wake her from her dreams. He looked down at her, wondering why he felt the way he did tonight. It was her first time home in weeks, returning just this day from her trip to see her family. As he looked at her, he saw the woman he loved, and while she may not express it as he does, he knew she loved him, or at least hoped so. With a sarcastic smile on his face, he walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He knew he would be the more affectionate one, that's just who he is, he couldn't fight it anymore. Looking in the mirror for a long moment, he stared into his own being and said, "Checkmate".

Poetry: Walking

When the dust settles,
the streets are clear,
warm rain falls on my head,
tears from the sky.

My shadow is company,
companion and lover,
without a soul or judgment,
the hollow conversation echos.

Aimless walking in the dark,
each step leading somewhere and nowhere,
every footfall seems familiar,
your door stands open.

A cool rush of central air,
mixing in the warmth of a home,
My clammy skin and the heat of yours meet,
my destination reached forever.

Writing: Moment in Time - True Love

The call came at 12:01am, waking him from a dead sleep. He fumbled for the phone, knocking it off the end table and on the carpet below. He groaned and looked down at the number that was calling. Community Hospital. His blood froze as a million possibilities ran through his head. He scrambled for the phone, sleep the farthest thing from his mind, almost as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him. He answered and listened to the voice. His heart stopped. Of all those million possibilities that ran through his head, one near the top of the list was true. He said he would be right there and threw the phone at his bag. Scrambling into his clothes and fighting with his shoes, he tossed some extra clothes in the bag with his cell and was out the door in less than a minute.

He could barely remember the drive, not even to this day can he recall exactly how long he was on the road. It seemed like he got in his car and got out, already at the hospital. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him and pushed his way past the few people at the main desk that were there at this time of night. He asked, wanted, demanded, an update. The woman at the desk had seen this before and was ready for him. Her calm, soothing voice helped take some of the panicked edge away from his. He calmed down as she said that it was fine and he could go in now. He walked down the corridor, past an endless hallway of doors that all looked the same. Each doorway brought him closer to his destination. Each step made him tremble more than the last. Finally he was there, staring at the numbers on the door, hearing the light crying on the other side. He wanted to open the door and rush in, but his mind had frozen his body. He struggled to control the raging emotions of anger, fear, and happiness, each fighting to burst forth.

He opened the door and looked at her, his heart in his eyes, pushing the tears down his beard-covered cheeks. She looked up, fear in her eyes. Fearful that he was going to leave her. Fearful of what he was going to do, going to say, not going to say, not going to do. He took the scene in with a single glance and walked towards her bed. Each footfall taking an eternity to complete. She raised her bandaged wrists, covering her face with her hands as a torrent of fresh tears erupted from her. He gently lowered her hands, taking them in his own. He glanced at the bandages and looked back into her glistening eyes. Every word he was going to say was unneeded as she understood the deeper words that he was saying. I'm glad you didn't succeed. I don't want you to leave. I'm not leaving. I will always be here for you. All the words that his eyes spoke to her and all the words his lips could have said to her meant little, only the words his heart softly whispered into hers mattered. I'll always love you.

Writing: Moment in Time - Late Night

There was a flaw in the design, he was sure of it. He had gone over the notes and plans for weeks, trying to find out where the flaw was, but like a fly buzzing around his head, it kept avoiding him. He rubbed his sore temples and glanced at the clock.
1:45. . .great.
He shut down his computer and gathered up his notes, wondering if he will find some place open on the way home that sold aspirin. A voice command wearily spoken activates the rest of the office shut down as he leaves. He walks to the door, waving goodnight to an equally weary security guard. At least he was doing something productive, he thought. The night air was warm, sticky. A fine film of sweat had formed on his skin in the five seconds it took for him to leave the building to noticing. He sighed deeply, taking in the wilted flower stench that always seemed to be outside the door and headed to his car.

He was never sure where the man was hiding, and if he had to admit to himself something, he would have had to admit the man did a heck of a job hiding where there was no cover. The fight didn't last long, lasting about as long as a fifty-something scientist versus a twenty-something thug could last. He wasn't even sure if a single blow landed on his attacker, but he was damn sure that most landed on him. As he hit the pavement, his glasses flew off, skidding across the parking lot. He felt his body become almost weightless, though he was unable to move. He could feel his pockets being turned inside out and thought, with a smile, that the assailant better like the dollar menu at McDonald's. As he felt a warmth coat his face, he noticed the security guard watching from the door. He felt the warm, sticky air get even stickier and thicker. He watched the guard's face look at him, seeing the tears streaming down that poor old man's face. After that, he saw nothing.

Poetry: Bending (But Not Breaking)

Push,
push all you want to.
My smiles will coat your rancor,
but I am bending, not breaking.

Love,
love me like your honeyed words imply.
My kisses will soak in your tenderness,
but I am bending, not breaking.

Demand,
demand all I can give plus one.
My body will toil for you like it has for no other,
but I am bending, not breaking.

Smile,
smile at me and give the sweetest looks.
I will hand over my heart as well as my hand,
but I am bending, not breaking.

I will take all you give,
be it venom or honey.
I will give back adoration,
adoration by the bucket full.

Let loose your most heated temper
or your most passionate kisses.
I will take each in each measure,
giving back only kindness.

This is strange to you, I know,
this is not what you ever expected, I know.
Through all my giving I will always be me, I know,
change me if you can, I will bend, but not break,
this I know.

Writing: Moment in Time - Red (Part 3)

December 12th,

I saw him again today, just like yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before. He never see's me, but I always see him. I see him when the sun stains the sky red in the morning and when it stains the sky red at night. He is always guarded by me, unlike how he never guarded me. I took some me time last night and paid a young lady back for her years of being a whore. It felt good. It felt like mom. The red took me home again. It always takes me home. It's comforting. I left a note for her, written in red ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. It had his name on it. He will pay attention to me now. He will see that I am being a good boy and doing what he should be doing. What we all should be doing. I see another one right now. She looks like she wants to paint. She is looking at me as I write. Does she know that I am writing about her? Does she know that I will be writing about her in red tonight?

There were five more murders after the Detective and his family were slain, each one done in the same fashion as the one's before him. The Sargent was made Lead Detective on the case and was trying to find a clue hidden somewhere in the book that was left for him. The ravings of a madman, he thought. Each page went deeper into a psychosis that was terrifying to say the least. This man killed for reasons that he couldn't even start to comprehend. He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, trying to turn the tide on the pounding inside his head. He had been reading entry after entry for days now, and each day, the body count was growing. The killer was slick. Despite all the fingerprints around the area's, all were from the victims. He felt his body relaxing as sleep was pushing forward into his consciousness, but felt the shock of sudden alertness as the phone rang next to him. He picked it up and listened. Another murder. Another body. Another note. He froze, the blood solid and unmoving in his veins. This time it had his name on it.

Poetry: I Just Had To Mention You

I just had to mention,
in briefest of passing,
that of all the men worldwide,
I happen to be the luckiest.
I know she see’s this,
she knows I’m true,
all the words I say,
I just had to mention a few.

Writing: Moment in Time - Red (Part 2)

July 5th,

I can't live in this house any more. She is making things unbearable. I want to run, go where the red sun falls beneath the horizon and fades away for hours and hours. I want to face for hours and hours. She did it to me again. The dress. The fucking red dress. Again and again she puts it on me. Again and again she hits me. The bitch. I want to hurt her. Every time it happens, I imagine something else happening to her, worse than the time before.

The Sargent lowered the journal and took out his pen and pad, jotting down an few notes. He had found the small book tucked under the jacket of the Lead Detective of the Red Murders case. Each entry was getting progressively darker.

July 29th,

I surprised her today. She didn't know I saw my father after school. He always comes by and she never knows. He gave me $400 for clothes and food, but this time I didn't buy those. I was never going to. I hate lying to him, but he can't understand how much I hate him for leaving me here. With her. Always with her. His red car always driving away and never with me in it. Saving me. I came home with a bag and she demanded to know what was in it. I wouldn't tell her. I told her to fuck off. She hit me. Red stains on the carpet. New and old. The house was always coated in red these days. She told me to strip. I did. I was ready for her. The scars and cuts were still there from last time. She put the red dress on me, but I said nothing. I didn't scream or cry when she started hitting and cutting. I surprised her. I smiled. I kept on smiling. That bitch couldn't understand. She stopped. I stood there, reached in my bag. I showed her what I bought for her. Now the room is really red, but justifiably red. She deserved it. He deserves it too. All of them deserve it.

The Sargent put the book down and looked at the year it was written. Why hadn't he heard about a murder case like the ones happening now? He flipped the page and saw that the writer had taped pictures inside. The crimes were identical, then and today. He glanced at the clock and decided to call it a night. He was only forty pages into a two hundred page journal, but he would wait until tomorrow to try to get into the sick mind of this poor child.

Writing: Moment In Time - Red

Red. Red, red red. The walls were red. Why were the walls red? Why was the ground red? What is on my hands? Red. Red, red, red, red. I can't see anything but red. Honey? Why are you dressed in red? Come on, get up. Get up. Get the fuck up! I gotta wash the red away. Red. Red is bad. Bad. She was bad. She earned her red dress. Just like her and all the ones before her. I will make them all wear red. You think me crazy, Detective? You think me insane? You think I do what I do for no reason other than insanity? You couldn't be further wrong. I will decorate this world in red. Red hands spreading the red. I will cover your life in red, Detective. I will cover you in red until red is the only thing you will ever see again.

The detective lowered the letter and glanced back to the form of a man, slumped against a wall in a pool of his own blood. It took too long to catch this man before he made his mark in history, he thought. He had received ten letters just like the one that was delivered to him this morning, but now he knew that this was going to be the final letter. He was dead, those poor souls of the women and officers he killed in his insane quest to "coat the world in red" were finally able to rest. He walked closer to the body and knelt down, his trench coat scrapping along the trash strewn alley, and looked into the still open eyes of the man he chased for the past two years. The lights from the squad cars flashed across that blood covered face, illuminating the sadistic smirk he still had, even after death. The man was nondescript, An every day sort of man, he thought to himself. He wondered if he ever walked past this man on the streets, completely unaware that a madman like this was looking right into his eyes. He lightly chuckled, knowing that would be something that this sadistic bastard would do just because he knew he could.

He filed the paperwork and waved goodnight to his partner. As he drove home, he was full of mixed feelings. Happy that a serial killer was finally off the streets, but sad that he had to go through an astonishingly long list of people to tell them that they can finally find peace. As he pulled up to the house, he noticed the door open and every light in the house turned on. He stopped, stepped from the car, and called the station to get uniformed officers there fast. He drew his service pistol and stepped through the open door, a chill running through his soul at the thought of something happening to his family. As he stepped through the door, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head that drove him to his knees, his weapon skittering across the floor until it slowed and stopped in a pool of blood. He focused his eyes and saw his wife and children, covered in blood. . .red, just like the walls were. He felt cold steel touch the back of his neck and felt something slide across his shoulder. With shaking hands he took the letter and opened it.

Now you see the red. It will be the last color you ever see, Detective. The red. Red, red, red, all will be covered in red. I'm not finished painting. I'll never be finished.

He closed his eyes and felt breath against his ear. The voice told him that he was clever, but not clever enough. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he looked at his family lying there. The voice told him words he never expected to hear. The voice stopped and hesitantly said, . . .I love you, father. Father? He was in the act of turning around and looking into the face he had known since it was born, but as he turned, he heard the familiar sound of a bolt striking just before a bullet is fired.

Poetry: Cascading Dreamer

I could dream one
night alone again,
but I
awaken.

Writing: Moment In Time - Cool Spring Night

He waves goodbye to his co-workers and heads to his car, feeling the heat from the day wash off his body, thanks to the cool air outside. He glances to the cloudless sky, his eyes seeking the moon as they usually do when he is outside at night. Watching the pale ghost move ponderously across the cosmos, his thoughts fold inward. He made a mistake today. Not at work, though. His managers said he did a great job and thanked him for his hard work on a busy night. It was his personal life where he made the mistake. He unlocks his car, steps inside and turns the ignition, though not moving from the parking space. He opens the window and lets the cool spring air flow through the drivers window. He never meant to scare her, he silently tells himself. His head tilts back as the overhead light dims. He was thinking birthday gift, nothing more, when he was taking about getting her some jewelry. He winces as he see's how that could be misconstrued.

He finally, after a long five minutes, leaves the parking lot. He drives home, letting the cool air wash away his mistake. He won't make it a second time, he thinks. He turns on the radio and switches to his CD player. He sings along with the music until it reaches a song he can finally make him smile tonight. It's 3AM and I wanna go to bed, I got a lady runnin' through my hair. . . He loves her, he says out loud to the musician coming through the speakers. He won't scare her away. He won't let himself hurt her, because she means so much to him. He thought those words all the way home, even as he sat down to write a short story about this cool spring night.

Poetry: Twelve O'Clock

Twelve o'clock chimes,
the hour I lost you.
I want to hold you again,
but time has stolen
all that we were.

Commentary: Infection Creative Process Thanks

Well, Infection has finally finished and the long, grueling process of on-the-spot storytelling has come out quite well, I believe. All in all, it was an entertaining experience for me and I sincerely hope it was for all my readers as well. As not to be selfish and saying it was all because of me, I would like to give a small thanks to the people who have supported this (and myself):

• Miss T__. For all her support through the process and sharing my life <3. 
• Miss Destructo of Destructo Deviations For her support of my writing and her years of amazing friendship.
• Monicawesome of the youtube sensation The Basically Awesome Show for her friendship and time spent being a muse for my writings =)
• and especially my readers. Without you, I wouldn't have a way of spreading my work to the public. Because of you, I have seen a jump in traffic and I tip my hat to you.

As always, feel free to share my work (with due credit) with your friends and if there is anything you would like to see, let me know and I will do my best to provide! Again, I give the biggest thanks to you all! Enjoy the writings and best to you on your literary travels!

B

Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Conclusion)

She had done it, finally, after weeks of tests. Smiling at the party going on around her, she had to amend her thoughts. They had done it, all of them. The infection has ceased spreading and had gone into remission. There had been cases of early stage treatments actually curing the patient. The only unfortunate part was that those with a full blown infection couldn't be saved and that thought still pained her deeply. The thousands of people who were infected would be hunted down and killed, bodies burned, buried in a mass grave, and forgotten; nameless and unremembered. She watched her team pop champagne corks and laugh, envying them and the relief that poured from each and every near hysterical laugh. All of them were afraid, still. They were afraid that the vaccine wouldn't hold. Sooner or later the infection would come back, but right now, they had to hold onto whatever hope they could find. No country in the world was untouched by the infection. Everyone in the room had lost some loved one to the worst outbreak in human history. Each one of them worked for the whole time with unshed tears that were finally flowing.

Europe had been decimated, but the vaccine was holding, reports had told them. Asia was still burning from military air strikes. Africa was dark, no news coming out and no one brave enough to go in to find out why. Too many people still held to the Outbreak movie mentality and thought that the virus originated from there. She had found out early that the virus came from the west coast of the United States, but no exact point could be found. Central and South America were relatively unharmed as borders were closed early with a shoot-to-kill order issued. Canada sadly, had become a land of the dead. So many souls had been placed on her shoulders each day the virus raged across the world unchecked. Each day more died, but now that would stop. In fact, it had already begun to stop. Generals mingled with the scientists and their families at the party, but with all these thoughts moving through her head, she could only mumble her thanks for their comments and shake hands that were thrust at her. The world had lost too much and so had she. Husband, father to her only daughter. Daughter. She was the one who gave the soldiers the kill order for her only daughter and the man that she loved. She rationalized that they were dead already, or at the very least, wouldn't want to live in that state. She watched them fall and land in pools of their own blood, almost like he was cradling her. Her heart broke as she felt the desire to climb into that embrace and fall into sweet death with those she loved, but her duty is what she clung to.

She worked tirelessly for weeks, enduring failure after failure while watching the infection spread like wildfire. She watched the military do what they do best, kill. She watched videos found by soldiers made by a group of survivors in a school in horror, feeling the fear that each person showed. She heard the reports of those that were resistant to the infection, but hadn't seen any of them. Every failure cost thousands of lives. Every day, hundreds of thousands. It's over, she thought. No more need to die. She could almost convince herself that this was true, but every time she thought that, she saw the faces of her husband and daughter, eyes staring blankly to the sky as they died in each others arms. She walked away from the party and back to her office, glancing at the paperwork with her thoughts tossing around in her mind. She never heard the radio saying that the vaccine was failing. She never heard the president call for nuclear strikes. She never heard the base alarm go off, nor the doors breaking in from the outside. She only saw the faces of the happiest time of her life, with her family out camping. As hands closed around her neck, her eyes closed and a smile came to her lips. Mommy's coming, my loves.

Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Desperation)

He cradled his weapon, his friend, close to his body as he watched the others. His clothes torn and tattered, hanging from his body since the day he killed everyone he loved in this world. Now he sat in a college building, barricaded inside to escape the infected, with other refugee's. They hadn't gotten far from where he joined up with them before the infection spread beyond their speed. New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Cleavland, all had fallen as they made their way from Maine. They would have gone north, but the word was from the scattered radio signals they picked up that Canada had reached critical infection and nowhere was safe. He stared at them in turn and each of them stared at him, then to each other. No one was operating at full mental abilities anymore. Suspicion and fear was written clearly on every blood and mud smeared face.

He leaned up and looked out the barred window, watching infected run across the quad, moving in packs, reminding him of things he had seen on the Discovery Channel. Hunters. Gatherers. They regressed to primal, animalistic creatures. He brushed it aside, they wore clothes, had jobs, families. These were people, not animals. He squeezed his gun tighter to his body as he thought about the brutal way he killed his own mother. He can't even remember if she was infected or not. She wouldn't stop screaming, clawing. She had to have been infected, there was no doubt. She didn't say anything to him to stop him. . . or did she? No, she didn't. He was comforted by this knowledge. This knowledge would save him one day. A movement from the room brought his gun up and aimed at a child approaching to look out the window. He relaxed and beckoned her to the window. None of them have spoken in days, but used hand gestures to communicate. The infected had superb hearing, sounds attracted them in droves. He watched the child walk slowly to the window and watch the packs run through the lawn and looked out himself. A smear of blood was fresh in front of a building across the yard, someone who tried to get to safety but couldn't make it. He shook. It could have been him. It might have been him. What if he was dead, he thought. What if someone in here was infected and that would be him. He would be dead already since every exit was blocked in a way that it took more than one person to remove the items blocking it. He looked to the child to move her away from the window, and himself, but he froze, ice filling his veins.

The child was coated in blood, eyes red, and breathing hoarsely. He couldn't distinguish the infection from tears, all he was was her blood red eyes. He recoiled, desperately crawling away, taking aim with tremors running through his body and watched as the child fell to the ground, two rounds piercing her brain and blowing out the back of her head. Cries of alarm echoed through the building as people came rushing towards him. Jibbering in fear he sprayed shots through the room, never feeling the weapon recoil, just watching the infected die before they were able to kill him. He would survive, he thought with fevered thoughts. Women, children, men, teens, each fell. He thought that he should feel bad, because they were once people, but pushed that aside, knowing that he would die if they reached him. Rend his flesh and feast, or worse, turn him into one of them. Standing up, he screamed defiance and made his way through the building, sparing no mercy. His brain seethed with his fear and insanity. He searched for a way out of the building, but realized that he was too late in killing them, they alerted the infected from outside. They tore at every door and window. There was no way out. He sighed and felt a calmness come over him. He walked past the bodies around him and back to the window, glancing at the blue eyed girl laying face up in a pool of her own blood. I saved you, he softly said, now I save myself. With a smile on his face and glassy, insane eyes, he put the hot barrel under his chin and squeezed the trigger.

Poetry: The Girl I Adore

You are the girl I adore,
even though I am far from shore.
Moving the oceans to see
your holy ground once more.

Goodbye, my lovely girl,
I am sailing to another for more.
You gave me your body and heart,
but now I return to the girl I adore.

She lives in a land far away,
To Aldenland, I have no idea what's in store.
Leaving the land far behind,
I sail to the girl I adore.

I hope to see her face there,
the girl I adore.
I will beach my ship and
leave her nevermore.

Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Resistance)

The game was on now, he thought. The city was overrun with what he could best guess to be zombies, but not quite. Before the emergency broadcast cut out, they told everyone who was not infected should lock themselves indoors and wait for rescue squads to extract them. He had seen enough movies to know that never works. All the years of people laughing at his plans for a "zombocalype" were now justified. He glanced at the table before him and did a mental checklist of everything he would need to survive on the move. Flashlight, check. Dried rations, check. Water purification tablets, check. Firearms, check. Knives, check. First aid kit, check. He went down the list over and over, adding and subtracting items, until he was satisfied. He wrote a note and recorded a video for whoever comes to his apartment and headed for the door.

Slowly making his way out of the building, he saw that the city was in a total state of anarchy. The military hadn't gotten around to taking action inside, but they blocked off the city so no one could get in or out. He looked around to make sure that no infected were in sight and went to his bike and unchained it. His hands shook while removing the chain, adrenaline giving him the jitters, he thought, but he also knew that it was fear. He could say he was prepared all he wanted over the years, but now that it was finally happening. . . He took the bike path into the woods behind the dorm buildings and kept his ears and eyes open for any sounds. He remembered taking his girlfriend to these woods on their third date, but that felt like ages ago now. As always for the past week, thoughts of her start tears flowing down his cheeks. He can say that he loved her, but it wasn't love that put a bullet through her head, it was fear. He was afraid to turn into one of them and that fear drove him right now.

The farther he delved into the woods, the more memories cropped up. He remembered going to get tested after the incident with his girlfriend and being told that he had an immunity, a natural resistance to the infection. They took so much blood that it left him weak for days, but apparently they weren't able to come up with anything in time to save people. Now the infection was spreading beyond control. Two major cities in the United States have fallen, along with three cities overseas. The military was doing the only thing they knew how to do, they were destroying the cities and everything inside of them, but the infection continued. A sound snapped him back to the present, a crack of limbs from his right. He stopped his bike and ran behind a tree, readying his rifle with sweat soaked hands.

He heard voices, but couldn't make out words and wasn't sure if the infected had the ability to talk or not. When he saw a group of soldiers making their way to the clearing a few feet ahead of him, his heart soared. He would make it out, join in the struggle to contain this. He owed her that much. He ran for the clearing and yelled for the soldiers. They spun around and saw him moving towards them, but at that moment his joy turned to fear as three bullets passed through his body. The shock dropped him to the grass and with bewildered eyes he was the grass sprayed red with gems of crimson. A soldier walked towards him, weapon ready, and he tried to tell him he was immune, he had a resistance to the infection, but all that came out was a gush of frothy blood. Another shot rang out and the grass sparkled even more. The soldiers returned to base, one confirmed infected killed trying to make it to the safe zone.

Writing: Moment In Time - Infection (Quarantine)

He knew this was wrong, even as he gave his first Yes, Sir! to the command. As he walked toward the city border, he knew it was wrong even more. Each face beyond the fence shone a glow of horror and it tore at his soul. He checked his rifle, gear, and from beneath veiled eyes, the faces of his fellow soldiers. Each face was an echo of his own. No one wanted to be doing what they were told to do now. He approached his deployment point and waited. . . waited for the time when his morals took a backseat to his duty.

Caged animals, that's what they looked like to him. He couldn't place it as such as he was walking up, but he saw the unbridled form of human emotion taking place before him. If what was on the other side of the fence escaped nothing could stop it. It would go from city to city, country to country, devouring the entire race before a person could bat an eye. He wanted to believe this, but he knew that it might not be true. It could be stopped. It could be contained. A cure could be found. The lives already lost could be the only ones needed to be sacrificed. The images from inside the quarantine zone showed otherwise. He never knew, before going to the briefing two days ago that a person could be reduced to what he was seeing. He wasn't sure what he was seeing was real or some film directors imagination. He cradled his gun closer, safety off, and tried to block the sounds of the poor souls beyond the chain link fence from his mind.

There were shouts coming from all around him, both sides of the fence. There is a breach. There is a command to kill all suspected of infection. Negative, no breach. Someone escaped. Someone outside is infected. He couldn't tell what was the truth any more. He looked around for his commander, silently pleading, asking what he should do. He couldn't shoot his own countrymen. He couldn't shoot a mother cradling her baby. He saw the commander on the radio, yelling emphatically, demanding to know what the orders where. A hand gesture activated his training and before he even realized, his rifle was pointed towards the crowd. The roar of jet engines sounded above him. He glanced around at other soldiers and saw the weapons shaking in their hands. This is wrong. He kept telling himself he had to do it, but this was wrong. Who wasn't affected? We should be saving those that could be saved, he thought. His eyes glanced to the commander, watching in slow motion as his arm fell. His eyes moved slowly to the crowd before him, staring into the soul of a little girl, nose bleeding and eyes burning red. With hot tears streaking down his sweat chilled skin, he pulled the trigger as fire ignited the city before him, begging God to forgive him for what he is doing.

Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Isolation)

He wasn't sure how long he had been in here, seeing as how there was no clocks and no windows. His cough had gotten worse since he arrived, dragged from his house with his wife and daughter, thrown in a room by people in hazmat suits, and locked away to rot. The white walls were stained red with the blood from his fists from pounding on them for hours demanding his family, but never receiving an answer. He was tired, feverish, and wished that it was all some bad dream. Every so often, so sporaticaly that he thought it was his mind playing tricks, he would hear the sound of screaming nearby. The screams kept him awake when he tried to sleep on the drop down cot that was provided for him. He paced the room more times than he could count, searching for a way out, but every corner was sealed, even the door was set in a way that nothing could pry it open from the inside. He was beyond scared, to the point where he was calm, but the calmness was shattered by the pounding headaches that came closer and closer together.

In his mind, weeks had gone by, but he could never be sure. His cough had turned to hacking, spraying small clots of blood over the white padded floor. The screams became near constant, but he believed them now to be only in his head. No one could scream for that long. Hell, he thought, he hadn't talked for a long time, long ago given up on trying to reach whoever put him in this hole to die. He thought back, straining to remember what happened that would make someone destroy him and his family. The headache was intolerable, dashing thoughts against jagged rocks. He slammed his fists down in anger, wishing he could just pull one thought together. He sat in the corner, holding his nose from the bloody mess that was pouring from it, more than likely from the headaches he thought. He listened to his head pound, the screams, the silence between them. The screams. Closer, he thought. Was he alone in this hole? Did they have more people down here, torturing them? Killing them? Blasted headache, he yelled, and instantly grabbed his throat as if something tore inside from not using it for so long. He coughed again, more serious, gasping for air as he watched blood flow from his mouth and pool on the padding. The screams were closer, he could hear that, but he could no longer feel the blood coming from his mouth despite the growing size of the puddle near him.

He tried to stand, get near the door and use what was left of his voice to call for help, but his legs gave out under him with a sickening sound of bone ripping from muscle. He fell face first and braced for the pain which never came. Looking back he saw his shinbone sticking out from his skin, the blood on it dark and thick. Amazement went through his mind as he felt tears rolling down his cheek. Brushing them away and lowering his blood smeared hands to the floor, he dragged his limp body towards the door, leaving a trail of crimson from the corner. He wanted his wife, his daughter. He wanted to be out of this room and find them. His head ached, as if his brain was trying to be released from his skull. He wanted them as he reached the door, pounding on it with impotent rage. What he wanted them for now, he knew he would never forgive himself.

Writing: Moment in Time - Infection (Spread)

She saw the ambulance screaming towards her just in time to hit her breaks, sending her coffee flying from her hand and coating the windshield with the creamy brown mix of coffee and creamer. Her heart was beating like a drum and her breath was come quickly out of an already hoarse and sore throat. She took a moment to collect herself and wipe her nose, which ran almost constantly for the past two days, then began searching for something to wipe off her glazed windshield. This had been a hellish week for her already and this was just icing on the cake. Not that she minded the extra hours, living in the city was expensive, but for a week straight she has been covering his shifts, not to mention the mountains of paperwork he felt for her before he vanished. For a few days, she was able to reach him to get advice on the more serious decisions, but now she couldn't reach him at all. She thought about going to his apartment to ask him if he was ever going to return, but decided against it. If he was too sick to answer the phone or check his e-mail, he would be too sick to answer the door.

With the car cleaned to the best of her ability, she pulled back to the road and headed to the office, ignoring the migraine that was building behind her eye. Two more lights and she was there, thankful for finding a job so close to home. Pulling into a parking space, she began to get her belongings in order, but as she glanced at the mirror to check her makeup, she noticed her eyes were bloodshot. Must be from all the sneezing and headaches she has had, she thought. Brushing it off, she stepped from her car and stood up with a slight rush to the head, silently sighing and thinking that he better not have gotten her sick. She waited until the feeling passed and walked in the office, blessing the dim recessed lighting of the main atrium. Waving hello to the security officer, she went to the elevator and hit the button, adjusting her dress in the bronzed doors while she waited for it to make the slow trek down from the seventh floor. A small blemish on her face distracted her and she wiped it away, thinking that it must be from when the coffee decided to free itself and make a mad dash from her cup, but as she looked to see what it was, she saw it was a small amount of blood. Wonderful, she thought, a migraine, dizziness, runny nose, and now a bloody nose. She tilted her head back to try and stem the flow, but a wave of nausea overwhelmed her and she stumbled backwards, supporting herself on the far wall.

She wasn't sure how long it took for the bleeding to stop, but by the time the buzzer went off for the elevator, she had wretched into the trash bin next to her twice. Wiping her mouth and checking for more blood, she stepped in the elevator, cursing his name with each unsteady step. She pressed the button for the fifth floor and watched the doors close slowly, smiling a bit wickedly as she watched someone cover their mouths as they walked by where she vomited. Leaning against the elevator wall, she felt another wave of nausea come over her, but choked back the bile coming out of her, now empty, stomach. Her eyes burned and her nose was a constant runny faucet now, but she couldn't call in, not while he was still out. The doors slowly slide open and she took a few steps into the office, only to collapse, her body shaking and covered in a fine sheath of sweat. She couldn't get her arms to lift herself off the ground, instead she vomited once again, but this time there was blood mixed with the bile. She heard footsteps rushing towards her, along with cries of concern and alarm. Her body shaking and a small pool of blood forming under her from what she guessed was her nose again, she couldn't get the energy to tell them she was fine and to get her to her office. She heard someone yell for an ambulance, but all she was thinking was who was going to cover her work if they wouldn't let her do it herself.

Writing: Moment In Time - One Night (One Perfect Night)

Her heartbeat woke him. A soft rhythm drumming from the source of her lifeblood, steady and content. He closed his eyes and listened to the beat of that melodious tune. He rested his head on her breast and took in her essence, feeling for the first time a closeness in his life that filled a void that remained gaping in his soul for too many years. With each beat, the chasm closed, filling with a warmth that originated from her and settled with gossamer wings on his old wounds. He could feel each filling, become replenished, and finally vanish. A soft sigh escaped his lips, sending a tremor through her sleeping body as his warm breath danced across her night-cooled skin. He listened for hours, or minutes, or seconds, he would never be sure, but he knew that what he felt he had never felt before.

Opening his eyes, he gazed up her bosom, his sight adjusting to the almost pitch black of his room as it fell upon her sleeping face. Soft and serene, composed with the slightest smile, he noticed it was her light that was saving them from being engulfed in darkness tonight. He watched the dancing of her eyes under her eyelids, that thin veil of flesh that hid another beautiful sight from him. He would have cursed those curtains some other time, but the locked away treasures they held tonight added to her beauty tenfold. His eyes walked across every feature, every encore, every after show event that made up the symphony he saw in her countenance. His eyes drank deep, savoring every drip of beauty that fell into his heart. He resisted the urge to disturb the priceless portrait before him by brushing a stand of hair that lightly caressed her cheek, choosing instead to let it rest where he wished he could lay his hand and then lips. He smiled and glanced at the clock, noting that soon the sun will rise. The sun will rise outside, but his won't rise for many more hours yet. He breathed deeply and took her in his arms, feeling her body slide to a perfect fit beside his, closed his eyes, and dreamed.

Writing: Moment In Time - Infection (Patient Zero)

His cough was worse this morning, much worse than the day before. He couldn't understand why it was getting worse after dosing himself with medications for the last week, but still it persisted. He had to go into work today, there was no question about it, he had missed a week already since his fever got worse, but thankfully it finally broke this morning. He hauled himself out of bed and sat on the edge, hacking and coughing, rumpled, sweat soaked sheets covering the lower half of his body. He rested his head in his shaking hands, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass. He has had the flu and fever before, but this was nothing like he ever had. It made him wonder if he ended up catching that H1N1 that the news has been going crazy about for months, but he had his shot, so that shouldn't have been possible.

He pulled himself together enough to get to the bathroom and start the water running in the shower. Straightening back up, a wave of dizziness struck him, sending him stumbling to the sink where he vomited up the medicine he look last night along with a clot of blood. Wheezing and coughing, he looked at his reflection and barely recognized the man staring back at him. His eyes, circled in black, were turning red from burst capillaries from the coughing fits. His face was pale, glistening with sweat that has been gathering on his cheeks and forehead for the past week. His beard was caked in dried and stale vomit chunks and matted into a snarled rug. He steadied himself and stripped off his boxers and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water run over his clammy body.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but the sound of a plastic shampoo bottle striking the tiles woke him up. He straightened the best he could and looked around, trying to figure out where he was again. He noticed a streak of red running down the shower door where his head was resting against. He checked his forehead and found no blood, but his nose was running like a leaky faucet. He pinched his nose and tilted his head back, but the wave of nausea returned and he wisely decided he shouldn't do that for this nosebleed. He turned the shower off and opened the door, stepping in to the steam wafting around the bathroom. He turned the fan on and watched the tendrils of steam float lazily to the ceiling. Using his towel to wipe the water from the mirror, he had to wait a moment before the room cleared enough for him to see himself. He wished it didn't. His eyes were almost totally red, with small streams of blood pouring from his tear ducts. A small patch of skin looked like it was infected with a flesh eating bacteria on his cheek. He backed away from the mirror in horror, watching the monster in the mirror as if it wasn't him. His eyes went crazy, looking for something, anything, that could help him. He pushed his way out of the bathroom, tripping over objects he would never remember, but ended up falling in front of the television that has been on for a week straight with never changing the channel. He could do nothing but make a hoarse coughing laugh as he noticed it was playing Dawn of the Dead.

Commentary: The Unfriendly (To Some) Skies

In the wake of renowned film director and movie star Kevin Smith being ejected from his seat on a Southwest Airlines flight out of from Oakland, California due to "safety" issues, i.e. his weight, this shows that something is terribly amiss in the airlines today. With the airlines packing people like sardines in seats that would make an anorexic supermodel uncomfortable, the plus-sized American, and let's be honest, the country is overweight in all, airlines have fallen behind the times, but the people paying the price are the consumers who need to fly to reach their destinations.

With the policy that is currently in place on most, if not all, airlines, has the larger American paying the price in embarrassment, humiliation, and cold, hard cash. When an extremely popular persona like Kevin Smith, who was able to put his seat belt on without an extender and had both armrests down, is removed in one of the most humiliated ways from a plane in the manner he was, this shows how the airlines view people who don't fit in their ideal of who they want to fly. Apparently this is not about customer service anymore. This is about how the large people are viewed by people who have a position of power over them.

The same thing happened to yours truly a few years back, but this time it was on Delta. I was seated in my seat, which was in the aisle seat of the middle section (a 3-3-3 plane setup), belt on and arms down. A young man, who was a member of some traveling high school sports team sat in the middle seat, waited five minutes, then stood up and walked away. Moments later, a attendant came over and told me that the man next to me complained and they wished me to leave the plane. I sat there, stupified, the man sat down, he was fine, and it was not like I was flowing in his seat. The woman who was sitting on the other side of him complained, saying that he sat in there perfectly fine, but to no avail. I was told to get my bag, which was a few aisles away, and leave the plane. I stood up, my face flaming cause I was embarrassed to the nth degree. I left the plane and they rebooked me on another flight, but I was seriously livid with the airline. I sent them an e-mail because they would not talk to me in person, nor over the phone, and received a response saying that "sorry it happened, but it was policy" and the rest was more of a giant middle finger to me, treating me less like a paying customer and a human, and more like someone who deserved no type of respectful treatment.

The way the airlines treat people is horrendous and I hope that no one has to deal with what Kevin Smith, myself, and more than likely hundreds of other overweight people have dealt with from airlines who have a policy which, in this country, is obsolete. The sardine cans with wings need to be adjusted for the trending weight of the nation. I am not saying that being overweight is a good thing, but it is something that needs to treated with respect and dignity to the person. Not everyone is going to be a model, nor a prototypical tv show character. People come in all different shapes and sizes, each one needs to be treated with the same amount of respect. Personally? I currently fly Airtran business class. I have never flown Delta since their treatment of me, and I have added Southwestern to my list of airlines who span the unfriendly skies.

Poetry: Time Goes On

Once more the calendar flips,
days pass into oblivion.
Shared moments gone forever,
once more the calendar flips.

The grains of time strike loud,
echoing in the empty vaults of eternity.
No moment can ever be relived,
the grains of time strike loud.

Love today will not be tomorrows,
ever changing and ever evolving.
We can only hope to keep our hearts resolved,
love today will not be tomorrows.

Once more the calendar flips,
another year to right the wrongs.
I pray I can do better than he ever did,
once more the calendar flips.

Poetry: Faults

I wish I could kiss away the scars,
gentle lips like a healing salve.

I wish I could hold away the nightmares,
comforting arms around you until daybreak.

I wish I could caress away the tears,
rough hands wiping away those streams from alabaster skin.

I have my faults and they can annoy,
distract, upset, and infuriate.
Through all my faults I hope I can be enough,
to crack a beam of sunlight through the darkness.

Poetry: Worry

Worry can gnaw, gnashing teeth that bite in,
chewing a person from the inside out,
no matter what the real reasons are,
worry can devour the sinful and the devout.

Did one say the wrong thing, wrong time and wrong place,
causing a rift where once there was none,
or did one conjure up problems in ones own mind,
mixing worry and doubt in thoughts own cauldron?

Worry can carry one to places they never wished to be,
tossing and turning day and night, forcing one to think,
to another or the same, either possibility can occur,
but either choice can make ones heart sink.

Can it be that one can, in the silence of ones mind,
fix a rift that does not truly exist,
bringing one and their other together again,
one believes so and, despite it all, will persist.

Poetry: Silence the Doubts

They say we are foolish,
that it will never last,
we will give into our insecurities,
and become a thing of the past.

Proving them wrong wont be easy,
proving us right equally as hard.
We are up to the challenge though,
and will show them our resolve.

With care our love will flourish,
with time it will grow.
With us together anything is possible,
with love our critics will silence.

Writing: Moment In Time - Chance Encounters of the Caffeinated Kind

He was confused by her reaction to a simple question. In his mind, coffee was nothing more than coffee, but the way she responded made it seem like he asked her to go to his car for some afternoon delight. Her eyes, bright brown gems encased in a pillowy white, were wide and shocked, and he knew that would be the last time he saw them. He watched her walk away in the huffy air of disgust, confused and a little hurt. Turning back to the cafe, he walked inside under the scrutiny of wondering eyes and snickering jeers. Rushing to the line, he tried to bury himself in his jacket, tucking his head down as if he was a turtle ducking into its shell. He was never very lucky with women, always saying the wrong things at the wrong times, plans made going awry, either too forward or not enough. He cursed himself, knowing that this time he wasn't going to do anything but chat over two cups of coffee. He reached the front of the line, eyes still following him, eyes that watched the exchange from a distance and talked in unsubtle half-whispers behind veiled faces.

He wasn't sure how long he stood at the front of the line while those once humorous faces turned angry at being denied their addictions. He smiled in spite of himself, until the barista asked him what he wanted. He looked up and softly asked for a grande coffee with hazelnut, his eyes speaking louder than his words did. He had been served by her for almost four months straight and never noticed anything besides her apron and her branded visor, but today he noticed her name, the light reflecting off her eyes, the gentle smile on her lips, almost as if she knew what happened and found it cute in a way. He smiled as he waited, trying to make small talk, but the only conversation going on what the one in his head. He had no idea who this woman was, he only knew her name and that she made a wonderful cup of coffee. What was she interested in? What was her view on politics? The world? Everything? She handed him his drink and he handed her a crumpled five dollar bill and waked away. He was more upset now then he was before. He wanted to know about her. She woke a feeling in him that made him have to know more about her, but he couldn't place why. He took a seat by the window and pulled his notebook from his bag, pen from his pocket, and began to free-write. He had no idea how long her was there, the world looked as if it was moving in warp speed around him. Everything was moving fast, but her. She was the normal speed anchor amidst the trails of movement around them.

He felt a hand lightly touch his shoulder and his pen slid across the paper, marring his words with a quick dagger stroke. He looked up and fell into her smile, causing a smile to break out on his own face. She asked him if he was done with his drink so she could clean off the table. He shook his head no and thanked her, watching her smile and turn to walk away. Her name, say her name, he silently yelled to himself.
"Tara?"
She turned around quickly, giving him flashbacks as he cold almost see the movement lines whirl around her in a blazing robe of color. Her eyes were expectant, prompting him to ask her if she would like to join him. Her smile reached her eyes as she said she couldn't because she was working right now. His smile slowly slide from his face as he fumbled with the words to makes him seem less awkward. He wasn't sure exactly what he said, but she smiled again and turned to walk away. His eyes dropped like iron bars to the paper before him, looking at the words crawling across the page. He heard nothing for a moment, until he heard a light step next to his table and that gentle hand lay across his shoulder once again.
"I get off in thirty minutes, though, maybe you would like to go grab a cup of coffee or something?"
"That would be wonderful"
Their smiles connected as she turned to walk back to the counter. He shook his head like a dog coming out of the water. Things like this don't happen to him, he thought. He smiled and turned his eyes back to the paper in front of him, thinking that this story needs an ending. He pursed his lips and thought about it, but decided to end it the way he does many of his stories, with more to be told some other time. . .